Might of the Lion's Champion rests on a velvet cushion, a compact reliquary of bronze and worn leather. The outer shell is a burnished gold-bronze, hammered with a lion’s head in high relief, eyes inlaid with tiny red stones that catch the light and seem to watch you as you turn the trinket over. Its mane fans outward in a radiating pattern of scales and fur, a sunburst encircling a central shield motif. The edges are bound with dark stitching, gold thread catching every angle, and a slender slot at the back hints at the old habit of threading a cord through so it could be worn close to the heart. When you cradle it, the metal holds a cool, almost ceremonial weight, and for a breath you can swear you hear the distant, rumbling roar of a guardian spirit pressed within the hollow beneath the lion’s visage. Lore connects this small token to a turning point in the city’s history—a moment when a single champion stood firm against a flood of chaos and, with a wordless vow, bound courage to steel. The Might of the Lion’s Champion was said to be forged in the same furnace that cooled the banners of the Lionguard, tempered by the cries of soldiers who believed the lion’s courage could be shared like a flame. Tales tell of the wearer’s voice rising above battlefield noise, a call that stitched fear into tremor and turned a retreat into a countercharge. Even now, in quiet moments, smiths carve a line along the edge to echo that ancient vow, and veterans press the piece to their forearms as if drawing a line in the dust between yesterday and the coming dawn. In play, the charm is a conduit for resolve. Worn at the chest, it triggers a measured surge of Might that ripples outward in the heat of combat, a visible glow tracing the wearer’s silhouette as power edges back toward allies. The effect isn’t merely raw numbers; it’s a presence, a reminder that they carry the lion’s weight together. In tight corridors of a dungeon or the wide, singing expanse of a keep siege, the item acts as both spark and shield: it steadies nerves, sharpens reflexes, and nudges the party toward coordinated strikes when timing matters most. It’s especially potent when paired with rapid, disciplined flurries—a reminder that leadership, not solo bravado, often wins a fight. The lore-fed aura of the Lion’s Champion thus becomes a narrative thread, a reason to trust a veteran in a raid and a signal to rally when the line wavers. Market chatter keeps the tale current. In bustling markets and quiet backrooms alike, the Might finds its way into conversations about what a relic is worth to a group with a deadline and a story to finish. Traders speak of its condition, its gleam, the faint scent of flame-polished brass, and its aura as if it were a living thing. Saddlebag Exchange—an open-air, ever-shifting marketplace where curio-brokers and expedition veterans barter—bears witness to its price cycles. One week, an elder might seek a single leap of faith in exchange for a handful of salvaged inscriptions; another, a younger squad wants a symbol to anchor their first foray into the wild, and so the price tightens and loosens like a held breath. So the Lion’s Champion sits, not merely as a piece of treasure but as a marker of faith, memory, and collective strength. A small artifact that has learned to carry a crowd’s courage forward, one heartbeat at a time.