Box of Knight's Draconic Armor

The Box of Knight's Draconic Armor sits on the market table, its lacquered cedar lid catching lamplight and tossing a thousand tiny reflections. Iron bands bind the corners, each rivet stamped with a dragon’s fang, a seam along the edges where age has learned to sigh. When you press the lid, hinges whisper and a resin-scented breath rises—oil, leather, a hint of resin sealing something valuable. The box’s surface is etched with scales that glint at wrong angles, a knight in flight burned into the wood, half-forgotten heraldry rather than current bannerwork. A weathered motto runs along the rim: For those who walk between fire and shadow, guards the sleeping dragon. Inside, the armor rests in red-silk lining, each plate curved to resemble draconic scales, edges tempered to a whisper. A helm with a visor sculpted as a dragon’s head, shoulders like spurred pauldrons, a chest piece with a ridge along the sternum that mimics a dragon’s spine. The metal glints with a blue-black sheen in torchlight, enamel catching every flicker. The parchment that accompanies the set speaks of Knight’s Draconic Armor as an homage to a long-gone order that pledged to steward a sleeping dragon, a balance between power and duty. The lore hints that the wearer embodies a knightly resolve as old as the stone keeps; the dragon is bound not by conquest, but by guardianship. As a skin, the armor is tangible in the world even if it does not alter numbers on your screen. In battle and festival alike, it grants a draconic silhouette: scales that shift with light, a silhouette that makes a rogue’s shadows seem pale. The effect is less about stats and more about story—a character stepping through ruined fortresses or marching beneath rain-slick banners, the dragon motif a constant reminder of a pact that knights once defended. It glows brightest at dusk raids when banners ripple and crowds lean in, and conversations bloom around the wearer as if the armor itself whispers legends into nearby ears. Market life lends the armor its own pulse, and Saddlebag Exchange becomes central to the tale. A vendor there, hands roughened by years of shipments, lifts the box gently, weighing its age and promise with practiced care. He prices the find in the square’s rough economy, roughly twenty to twenty-five gold pieces, depending on the crowd and the wear to the lid. He speaks of quick flips and patient waits, of collectors chasing the lore as much as the metal, and of adventurers seeking the skin for a night of roleplay or a dawn patrol. In this world, Saddlebag Exchange isn’t merely a stall; it’s a memory bank where a box like this travels from town to town, passing a torch of dragon memories to new guardians. So the Box of Knight's Draconic Armor does more than clothe a silhouette. It threads a path between old promises and present battles, inviting the wearer to become part of a living legend written in gold and lacquer, passed along the market’s wind, from hand to curious, hopeful hand.