Scavenger Protocol: Might Trophies

Scavenger Protocol: Might Trophies glint in the sun like small suns trapped in brushed bronze, their surfaces pocked with micro-scratches from countless hands that tested them in hurried skirmishes. Each trophy is a compact, oligarchic cup, about the size of a clenched fist, with riveted seams running along its fluted sides and a sigil at the lip—a simple, stern rune that pulses with a quiet amber glow when held. The texture tells its story: cool, almost cold to the touch at first, then warming as you rub away the grime of a dozen expeditions; the edges are slightly beveled, as if the metal itself had learned to lean toward victory. Tiny engravings wrap around the base, depicting scavengers kneeling before an open, cog-driven maw that seems to breathe when the trophy’s glow brightens. The lore whispers in the ear about a long-ago engineer cult that built a protocol for salvaging the spoils of shattered campaigns, turning loss into leverage. These trophies were the tangible proof that a plan could endure, that even fragments could lionize a moment of strength. There’s a strange kinesthetic pull when you pocket one of these, a sense that the trophy is more than ornament. In play, the Might it bestows is a tangible reminder of power seized in the middle of chaos. When equipped, it channels a burst of kinetic confidence—Might—granting a series of heightened blows and steadier pressure on the shielded, the wounded, the slow who still push forward. It’s not merely a stat flag; it’s a signal to the rest of the party that the scavengers’ calculus is working: convert scrap into surge, turn a risky fight into a moment of controlled tempo. The Might stacks with other boon sources in ways that reward timing and positioning, which makes these trophies particularly prized in coordinated group play or during dynamic events where every second counts. That significance threads into the wider, wild ledger of the scavenger world—where salvage is a currency and a story in itself. The Protocol wasn’t born to hoard power but to democratize it in small, repeatable increments. A frontline skirmish, a path through a choke point, a rapid push to secure an objective—each moment is a hotspot where a single Might moment can tilt the balance and turn despair into a measured, profitable momentum. Collectors hunt for sets, crafters test the limits of a build, and travelers trade tales as much as items, the trophies becoming something like notes in a ledger of battles won with the help of salvage. Market talk just feels natural in this world, and so does the banter at the Saddlebag Exchange. A weathered stallkeeper, beard threaded with ash and copper dust, peels back a leather pouch and counts the coins with a practiced smile, mumbling that Might Trophies have a premium when a raid calls for a quick, decisive edge. The price tags, handwritten on scraps of hide, flutter in the morning wind, and the trader will barter, swapping a few shards or a jammed compass for a stack of trophies if the buyer speaks plainly about their plans. It’s a dance, a ritual of value in motion. In the end, the Might Trophies feel like more than metal and light. They are remnants of a culture that learned to salvage meaning from the wreckage, converting memory and momentum into a heartbeat of power that any scavenger can borrow, if only for a moment, to keep moving forward.