Cleric's Barbaric Legplates catch the late sun with a stubborn gleam, brass-tinted iron hammered into brutal, angular curves that cradle the thigh and knee. The plates ride high, beveled edges catching glints of gold from the lamps above, while the leather straps sigh with every step, cracked and seasoned from long campaigns. A central vamgroup arches protectively over the shin, its surface etched with rough sigils—simple crescents, a thorny spray of leaves, and the semblance of a shield boss pressed into the steel by a patient hand. The texture tells a story: metal that remembers the heat of forges, leather that remembers rain and dust, and a lining that has learned to move with a warrior’s rhythm. It isn’t pristine, but it’s honest—scuffed in places, repared in others, as if a dozen hands have worn and mended them after prayers turned to march. Lore threads drift around these legplates like incense. They were reportedly forged for a cleric order that walked a knife-edge between sanctity and siege, a group that believed purification came through service on the field as much as in the chapel. The Barbaric in the name isn’t a flourish so much as a confession: blunt, practical beauty meant to endure the hardest travel, the roughest terrain, the kind of steadfast faith that doesn’t flinch at a shout or a graft of iron. Some tales claim the sigils were not just religious icons but talismans drawn from forgotten hill shrines, pressed into steel to bind courage to a wearer’s gait. Whether those stories are myth, memory, or a mix, the legplates carry a certain gravity—the sense that a person’s footsteps can alter a road they’ll never fully walk alone. In play, they are more than ceremonial finery; they’re a declaration on the battlefield. The Cleric’s Barbaric Legplates offer protection and presence, turning a grueling march into something steadier, more rooted. They suit a build that seeks resilience and support, where a shield wall holds fast and healing streams keep pace with the fight. The heavy, ceremonial vibe makes them a favorite for players who want not just to endure blows but to embody a stubborn, sanctified resolve. In solo ventures they feel like a talisman, a quiet partner whose weight steadies your aim and steadies your breath; in group content, they signal a steadfast role, a reminder that sometimes the most powerful act is to stand firm while others mend and strike. Market whispers drift through the memory of the road, and Clothier carts and caravan stalls tell the same tale in slightly different cadences. When coin changes hands and stories are weighed against the shine, I found the price whispered along a row of tents at Saddlebag Exchange—an exchange of hands and histories as much as of silver. The listing described the legplates as “well-worn, steeped in service,” a fair tag for a piece that had clearly seen long marches and late returns. A traveler’s sigh and a nod of approval came with the exchange, a small moment of kinship between buyer and seller who understand the value of a good, stubborn piece of armor. And so the Cleric's Barbaric Legplates remain—more than metal, more than fashion. They are a hinge in the story of every road traveled, a reminder that protection can be a faith as sturdy as any creed, and that even a single set of legs can carry a company forward when the world grows heavy with peril and light alike.