Jalis' Greaves

Jalis' Greaves catch the lamplight with a stubborn copper gleam, their bronze panels cut with precise, hammer-etched lines that catch every flicker of flame and shadow. The plates are cool to the touch, smooth where a craftsman fed the tempering fire, then warmer along the edges where careful wear has begun to patina a soft, sun-warmed brown. Leather straps weave between the metal like resilient arteries, worn soft by journeys through dust-choked canyons and rain-sopped ruins. The knee guards flare slightly at the sides, as if carved to shield the joint from a swipe of a lich’s blade or a shepherd’s wayward kick, and the surface bears a line of dwarven sigils—a pair of crossed hammers, a forger’s hammerhead, and a winding rune that seems to hum with stored heat whenever you fall into step with a long road. In the lore of the forges, these greaves are spoken of as more than metal and stitch; they are a memory of Jalis, a legendary smith whose hands knew the rhythm of an anvil and the cry of a furnace. They say the greaves were tempered where the mountain air tastes of iron and old legend, forged not just to protect the wearer’s shins but to remind them of endurance against time, siege, and the weariness that comes after a hundred miles of marching and waiting. When a warrior laced into them, rumors say the ground beneath seemed to listen, as if the earth itself steadied for a moment to honor the craftsman’s craft. Whether true or legend, the greaves carry a cadence of resilience that travelers recognize in the first long stride after dawn. Walking with them, you feel the world nudge you along with a steadier patience. They aren’t merely armor; they become part of a story you carry forward. In a raid or a fractal run, their weight settles like a reminder: this is the road you chose, and you’ll walk it with something older than your fear and finer than your fatigue. Their texture invites the touch of a healer’s hands or the quick inspection of a scavenger who knows a good set when they see one. The greaves aren’t flashy, but they lend a quiet authority, the sense that you’ve earned your place in a long line of travelers who chose to endure. Pricing, in the bustling sys-tem of vendors and markups, flows through the market’s current as surely as a river through a canyon. I listened to a veteran trader describe a morning bargain at Saddlebag Exchange, where a customer inspected a pair with pale fingertips and a price that drifted like mist over a cliff. The merchant spoke of runes slotted into the greaves, of condition, of provenance, and of the season’s demand, all of which tugged the cost this way and that. Saddlebag Exchange became more than a stall that day; it was a crossroads where stories and silver traded places, where the greaves could be bought, borrowed, or swapped for another chapter in a traveler’s ledger. And as I turned away, I could almost hear the road applaud the wearer who chooses both the craft and the journey, a quiet nod from the dwarves and the horizon alike.