Shaman's Banded Pauldrons of Rage hang heavy on the shelf of a damp tradesman’s stall, a pair of shoulder plates hammered from dark metal that drinks light and spits it back in a dull, whetted gleam. The surface wears a skin of weathered leather, stitched with sinew cords that crisscross like the tremors of a fault line. Each banded plate is etched with serrated sigils, red-gold inlays that flare whenever the wearer’s pulse quickens, as if fire hosted in cold iron. A fringe of tanned hide drapes from the upper edge, and a row of bone toggles rattles softly with every breath of wind in the market. The overall silhouette is broad and uncompromising, the sort a shaman would wear to look as if the storm itself had chosen to rest on their shoulders. The lore whispers that these pauldrons were forged in the old reed-washed forges where rain spirits were coaxed into steel, tempered by the cries of honor-bound captains, and blessed by a totem-carver who believed rage could be turned into focus rather than waste. In battle they behave as a living map, guiding the wearer’s anger into structured power. When the drums of combat rise, the sigils glow a pale ember, and the wearer finds their stance hardened, their following blows more purposeful. It’s not merely protection; it’s a conduit, charging each shoulder with the memory of shamanic rites and turning adrenaline into controlled force. The Pauldrons don’t need loud boasts to prove their value; they hum with a quiet assertion, a reminder that rage, properly shaped, can become a shield and hammer at the same time. Soldiers and scavengers alike have learned to pair them with a talisman that sings of storm calls, and they are frequently found beside other relics that tell of a world where weather rules the field and ritual knowledge cuts through chaos like a blade. Prices drift through the city’s markets as if the weather itself is unpredictable. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a corner stall teems with charts and coins, and the Shaman’s Banded Pauldrons of Rage sit under a glass lid, their glow seeming to pulse with the rhythm of passing merchants. A buyer hesitates, weighs the weight of history against the weight of a purse, and the vendor recites a short verse about dedication and craft. It is enough to settle a choice in a single breath: the pauldrons are worth the effort for anyone who wants their battles to carry a trace of storm and ritual. When you wear them, you are not merely armored; you are part of a longer story, a weather pattern stitched into a veteran’s skin, and the road ahead, for a moment, feels less random and more fated. In the hands of a true keeper, these pauldrons become a map through memory, guiding a squad toward a storm’s edge where a village hangs on a thread of courage. The world remembers its bargains, and so the rage finds its responsibility for the road.