Brittle Legguards

Brittle Legguards rest on a weather-worn table, their metal plates catching the lamp glow with a dull, pewter sheen. Cracks spider their surface, fine lines that radiate from rivets and from the edges where leather straps have worn thin. A sigil, almost erased by time, threads its way along the thigh plate, and the lining carries the faint scent of oil and smoke from a dozen campfires. They feel cold to the touch, as if they remember every road traveled and every fall endured, and one jagged edge bites your finger if you grip them too hard. They are not battle-worn relics of glory, but a stubborn reminder of a world where gear was pressed into service long past its prime. I found them tucked beneath a fallen arch in a long-forgotten caravan waystation, where crates of spices sat beside dust like a late harvest. The guards who wore them did not survive the last raid, but the legguards did, or at least what remained of them. The lore whispers that these were forged in a forge where heat and frost wrestled, tempered by a smith who trusted durability only to circumstance. The courier who wore them carried maps and messages, and some say a courier’s oath was braided into the stitching, binding the legguards to a duty that outlived the wearer. Whether truth or rumor, the shards of memory stitched themselves into the legguards' flaking glaze, so that every pitted buckle carries a story. In gameplay terms, they are a humble piece, a stepping-stone rather than a crown jewel. Equipping the Brittle Legguards offers modest protection and a light, rattling clink that betrays their age, but they invite clever use: a quick salvage to refine them into scrap metal, or a quest-requirement that asks you to reunite them with a long-lost map. Their brittleness also becomes a narrative device—a warning that haste or brute force will splinter the plates, leaving you exposed at the worst moment. Adventurers often barter them to reclaimers, both for the metal and for the tale they tell, and some keep a pair on hand as a reminder that resilience can be fragile. Market winds drift through town even on a dry afternoon, and Saddlebag Exchange—a row of weathered stalls and murmuring traders—becomes the place where their price is tested. A seasoned buyer might offer a handful of copper if the sigil is unreadable, or a gold coin if the leather is still intact and the runes faint but legible. The buddy of a caravan master haggles over the sum, calculating the margin between memory and metal, and the seller watches the coins flash in the lamplight, counting stories as much as sums. When the sun sinks behind hills, the Brittle Legguards settle in a corner of the market stall, a fragile relic that has outlived its usefulness in battle but not its voice. They remind me that gear is less a shield than a map—pointing to routes, vows kept, and prices we pay.