Cleric's Scallywag Greaves of Rage

Cleric's Scallywag Greaves of Rage catch the light with a dull bronze glow, the plates lacquered with patina and salt, leather straps slick with sea spray. The knee guards curve like weathered hulls, etched with curling waves that seem to ripple when you move. The texture is a tactile story: cool metal meeting worn leather, a faint grit in the creases where weathered fingers once buckled them tight. Inside, a crackle of red velvet lining hints at a secret warmth, as if the wearer carries a storm within their step. Lore threads its way through the design—these greaves were forged in the hold of a ship that learned mercy and mutiny in equal measure. A cleric who prayed to calm seas and a scallywag who knew the bite of a knife shared a single, reckless bequest: armor that could turn mercy into momentum. The result is more than metal and thread; it is a symbol of vows twisted by fate, a pair of greaves that tangle piety with piracy in a way that makes every stride feel like a bet with the wind. In the heat of battle, they don’t just clack along your shins; they sing a quiet, dangerous tune. The Rage aspect feels less like a stat and more like a weather pattern—once you tilt into combat, the greaves seem to draw the air into your lungs and spit it back as speed and fervor. Movement becomes a tide you ride, while the wearer’s healing prayers sharpen, drawn into the frenzy and redirected as bursts of vitality. It is easy to underestimate the combo of a cleric’s healing touch and a pirate’s roguish grit, but these greaves make that fusion tangible: you shield allies with one hand, then surge forward with the other. In longer engagements, they encourage a kind of frontline improvisation—tethering the sacred with the reckless, letting a healer back a sprinting scout or a bruiser peel off from a slowing, storm-wracked line. The greaves thrive in multi-layered fights—dynamic events, escort duties, and skirmishes where the tide of numbers can be turned by a single, well-timed dash. The world around them has its own economics, of course, and this is where the soft clink of coins becomes a story all its own. A vendor at Saddlebag Exchange—a busy reach of weathered crates and rope yarns strung between masts—will tell you the market is as fluid as the sea: a coveted relic like Cleric's Scallywag Greaves of Rage can pull a premium, shifting with rumor and patch notes as if the ocean itself dictates the price. I watched a young trader haggle over a set of these greaves, the price ballooning and deflating with each passing tide of talk. The exchange floor hummed with lore and laughter, the kind of place where a sailor’s tale, a healer’s gospel, and a mercantile whisper all collide. In that moment, the greaves ceased to be a mere piece of gear; they became a passport—into battles, into storms, into a world where mercy and menace walk in lockstep and where every stride might rewrite the next verse of the crew’s long, reckless voyage.