Caustic Cuisses of the Cavalier

Caustic Cuisses of the Cavalier catch the lamplight with a slow, deliberate gleam, like bronze that has learned to endure heat without bending. The plates are broad and rounded, etched with caustic-green veins that run in braided rivers along the knee and thigh. The surface bears a patina of age—grainy pits where acid ghosts might have gnawed their way through softer metal—and the edges are beveled to a cruel, practical sharpness. Inside, a lining of ash-leather is pressed with runes that glow faintly when the wearer breathes hard, a sign that the magic remains active even in rain and mud. A leather strap system snakes around the calf, heavy buckles clamping a harness where spurs can anchor, and at the top there is a small crest in the shape of a riding horn, a nod to the Cavalier whose legend travels with the gear. Legends say the cuisses were forged in the echoing forges beneath the Salt Marsh, tempered by acid rain from the Crystalline Wastes, and tied to a rider known only as the Cavalier, who rode into storms and outsmarted raiders with a patient step. The caustic runes weren’t just decoration; they warned blades to think twice before tasting this armor and invited the wearer to turn a pursuit into a controlled, rolling assault. Some say the plates carry the memory of a single chase: horse hooves beating a rhythm that shattered a canyon of skirmishers, and the armor absorbing heat and wind so that the rider could lean into the moment and emerge unscathed. Whether true or legend, the cuisses travel with a reputation for turning single skirmishes into prolonged, strategic engagements. In actual play, the Cuisses of the Cavalier are prized for how they change the rhythm of a fight. They offer protection that meshes with a cavalier’s tempo—a stance that invites close engagement, a leap forward, and a measured recoil that keeps the rider in command of a battlefield orbit. For those who favor poison and percussion, the textures of the metal seem to breathe with a threat; when conditions stack, the armor can trigger a brief acid bloom that corrodes enemy defenses and makes room for a follow-up strike. It is the kind of gear that tells a story on the map—the tale of a lone rider who turned a chase into a turning point, and then into legend. On market days, a seasoned trader from Saddlebag Exchange lays the cuisses out under a corner awning, the lantern light catching the etched lines and turning them into a map of possible routes. The price is never fixed, and the ledger breathes with ink—three gold and thirty silver this morning, perhaps a notch higher if the buyer wears the same confident grin as the Cavalier. Tales gather around the stall, and somewhere a caravan’s bell tolls in the distance, as if the armor itself is counting the miles between past victories and future ones. The road ahead remains uncertain, but the armor keeps faith alive.