Berserker's Privateer Shoulders

Crimped brass buckles press into weathered red leather across the shoulders, and the Berserker's Privateer Shoulders catch the light with a stubborn, seaworn gleam. The foam of the ocean dwells in the texture, as if salt had hammered every rivet into a memory. Leather threads braid into knotwork that resembles a shipman's compass, while a ragged edge of canvas peels along the seam like sails left catching the last breeze of a chase. Small brass spikes march along the collarbone line, and the seams are reinforced with darkened steel that bears the mark of a privateer's commendation. The colors are a storm-tossed blend of crimson and iron, not flashy but ready to strike when the moment demands it. The shoulder plates curve inward just enough to sit flush with a climber's shoulder, yet they jut outward with a hint of aggression, as if the armor themselves are leaning in to listen for the next fight. In lore, these pieces were forged for those who rode with shore raiders who traded in secrets and steel, the berserker's fury tempered by the sea's cold discipline. They tell a tale of rations snatched from a merchant's cart and a captain who turned a raid into a lasting vow to protect his crew. It is the kind of artifact that becomes whispered in taverns, traded in dark alleys, and hung on the wall of a ship's captain as a trophy and a reminder. Wearers swear to hear the hiss of chalk on the deck when they move—like lapping waves along a hull—each gesture a note in a larger chorus of violence and courage. Gameplay-wise, the shoulders feel like a hinge between reckless assault and disciplined endurance. They align with a build that seeks high precision and ferocity, supporting critical hits as a steady drumbeat rather than a sudden storm. They are the kind of armor that invites skirmishers and captains alike to push forward, knowing the weight of the shoulders will shield them as they close with the enemy, and the world seems to slow when a well-timed burst of power lands. It is not merely about numbers; it is about a mindset—one that believes that anger, when tempered by craft, can steer a fleet through a fog of arrows and into the breach. I walked the quay with a merchant who raves about price and provenance, the pitch of their voice rising as they spoke of value. Saddlebag Exchange, with its weathered map pinned to a wooden counter, offered a rough barometer for what this piece might fetch in a market that thrives on stories as much as steel. The tag swung between them—competent leather, old gold, stories in every inch—until the line finally settled on a price that felt fair: a few gold, depending on the stat line and the whisper of what the current season brings. And so the shoulders passed into a new life, a new captain, a new sea to sail, and the old sea kept whispering, forever nearby.