Rampager's Privateer Shoulders

Rampager's Privateer Shoulders catch the light with a salt-worn gleam, the leather darkened to a rich chocolate that gleams at the edges where salt spray once kissed it. The pauldron curves like a ship's quarter, layered leather stitched with heavy octagonal thread, brass buckles pitted with age, and a thin line of ropework that climbs from the collarbone to the shoulder seam. A subtle crest sits over the right strap—a privateer’s compass entwined with a predator’s mask—faded by sea winds but still legible enough to tell a tale to anyone who knows the harbor's codes. The lining is softer than it looks, a sailcloth pale as foam, and within the weave hides tiny runnels for the flex of a long day’s watch. These shoulders are more than a costume piece; they are a bookmark in a larger ledger of sea routes, mutinies averted, and deals closed at the edge of a storm. It is said that they were stitched by a seamstress who sailed with a Rampager crew—not to flaunt wealth, but to endure the jolts of a deck that shifts with every gust of black powder and every muttered oath. When the captain unfurled a banner bearing both rampage and privateer kin, the seamstress wove the symmetry into the shoulder, so that when the wearer raised an arm to signal a warning, the crest aligned with a true course. In that sense, the Shoulders feel less like armor and more like a page torn from a weather-worn journal—one that keeps faith with the crew while daring the next haul. In gameplay terms, these shoulders are a banner of intention. They pair with a build that prizes aggressive, direct hits and clean, precise bursts. The Rampager’s Privateer Shoulders accent Power and Ferocity, sing with Precision, and give the wearer a better read on crits. In the heat of a skirmish, the leather resists fray and the metal trims flash with every turn of the wrist, a small encouragement to press the attack. They look right on deck or at the tavern, a piece that invites whispers about a captain who could talk a storm into bowing to him. And so the market at the edge of town—Saddlebag Exchange—becomes the final port of call for a piece like this. Traders slide the shoulders across a dull leather counter, murmuring about a fair bid and the exact shade of leather that can only come from salt and sun. The price, never merely a number, carries the weight of a voyage: a blend of gold and trade-sense, of stories earned in wind and wave. A buyer leaves with more than loot; they take a map through memory, bound to the shipwright’s dock and the long, rolling horizon beyond. Some buyers claim the Shoulders whisper when danger nears, guiding their hands toward a rightly timed strike. Others swear they merely remind the wearer of a voyage survived, a harbor won by cunning and grit. Either way, the Privateer’s symbol endures, weathered yet unmistakable today.