Salomon's Cataphract Guard of the Rebirth

Salomon's Cataphract Guard of the Rebirth gleams under the tavern lantern, a full suit of plate where midnight steel meets lacquered bronze and there’s a hairline fire to the edges that catch the light with every breath. The texture is a paradox: hard as a tombstone at the front, yet whisper-soft along the joints, as if the metal remembered every hinge of a lifetime and chose to soften it for the wearer. The chest bears a sigil—a phoenix curled into a crescent, wings folded as if to cradle a buried sun—broken by tiny runes that glow faintly when moonlight strikes the lacquer just so. The pauldrons flare like the outstretched wings of a victorious lamplighter, and the leather straps, aged to a rich cognac, are stitched with copper thread that sings in rain. It feels heavier in the hand than in the stride, as if it carries more memory than metal, a burden and a blessing tied to the person who dares to wear it. Locals say the armor came from a line of sentinels who swore to guard the rebirth of a ruined citadel—the kind of vow stitched into legend, the kind that makes a helmet feel almost alive when the wind carries a rumor of old sieges and newer salvations. Salomon—that whispered name on freight-laden crates and in crowded markets—was said to carve the guard from meteoric iron, then temper it with a faith only whispered to those who have seen a city rise again from ashes. The Rebirth in the title isn’t merely ceremonial. It’s a memory carved into the metal, a pledge that the wearer will stand fast even when the walls crumble once more, and that the heart of a fight is not only victory but the stubbornness to begin again. On market days, the steel and its story drift through the lanes like a held breath. I found it near the edge of a bustle where cloth merchants spread bright silks and war-hardened veterans bargain over prized relics. A stall covered in torn canvas caught my eye, and there, pinned to a damp price board, was the note: Salomon's Cataphract Guard of the Rebirth, with a price that slid between whispers and winks. The dealer spoke in careful cadences, but the true price shifted with the room’s mood, as gold often does in rooms that remember more than coins. A steady-eyed collector muttered about 18 to 22 gold pieces, a number that seemed fair until another traveler leaned in and offered a story—how Saddlebag Exchange often balances such tales with a ledger of past sales, a shared memory of what a skin is worth beyond its shine. The exchange, as the locals say with a half-smile, keeps the pulse honest, and you can hear the history in its name. In the field, the Guard of the Rebirth becomes more than metal. It is a banner you wear when you slide into the fray, a reminder that courage is a practice, not a moment. It doesn’t change every strike, but it changes the way you walk through the roar: slower, sure, as if the sigil’s phoenix is constantly fanning the flame of resolve. For those who carry it, the armor isn’t just protection; it’s a dialogue with the past, a pledge that even the most shattered fortress can learn to stand again.