Cleric's Tempered Scale Greaves of the Guardian

Cleric's Tempered Scale Greaves of the Guardian rest on a wooden pedestal, their appearance a litany of careful craft. Interlocking bronze scales, each plate slightly curved to shed blows, form a tidal wave of metal that hugs the leg from knee to ankle. The surface carries a soft patina, like old coins kissed by flame, and traces of ritual oils still cling to the crevices between scales. The inner lining—silk-threaded leather in ash-gray—gives under the weight with a quiet sigh, as if the wearer were about to take a solemn oath. The knee and shin plates bear a sigil: a clenched, sanctified fist sheathed in a halo of light, which glows faintly when sanctified air bends toward the metal. Lore whispers these greaves were crafted by clerics who stood at the world’s fault lines, tempering sacred metal in the heat of ritual—not simply to resist harm but to resonate with mercy turned into resolve. They are more than armor; they’re a story pressed into scale and stitch, a covenant made with the warden’s hand resting on a shield. In battle, the Cleric's Tempered Scale Greaves do more than cover the shins. They stiffen the wearer’s stride, lending footing on treacherous stone and battlefield mud alike. The tempered scale distributes impact, so a brutal kick or a fell strike seems to slide off the leg rather than sink in. Guardians who wear them speak of a quiet, almost domestic steadiness: a virtue aura that grows steadier, a mercy applied not as a sigh but as a shield. When you join a line, the greaves’ sigil seems to brighten, guiding your Virtues—Justice, Courage, and the healing of your allies—with a measured tempo. In the thick of a siege, they keep you upright long enough to rally your team, to end a skirmish with a sure, healing step rather than a hurried retreat. It is about balance: offense tempered by judgment, defense shaped by grace. Market stories drift through the harbor market where Saddlebag Exchange sits at the edge of memory and trade. A seasoned trader speaks of the greaves in hushed tones, pricing them not as mere metal but as a promise to a frontline clan. On any given day they fetch a range—some ships pass through with a quick copper, others trade for gold—though rarer pieces command more. I heard one dealer quote a range that shifted with the tides: a few gold here, a handful of silver there, then a grateful nod when a buyer recognized the greaves’ worth. The market’s rumor mill loves these tempered scales, the way they ride the line between piety and practicality. There is a reason ships still carry them in their hold: the Cleric’s Tempered Scale Greaves of the Guardian are not just protective gear but a thread in the world’s larger fabric—armor that speaks of oaths kept under bright suns, and of the guardians who walk forward when mercy asks them to stand. They remain a quiet oath in steel, awaiting calls, always.