Light Island Shoulder Skin rests on the shoulder like a dawn-bright shell, a crescent of pale blue lacquered with a whisper of sea-glass green. The surface is smooth as a tide-washed pebble, cool to the touch, with a subtle opalescent sheen that catches the light and holds it, as if a small sun were tucked beneath the edge. Fine brass-like lattice threads trace along the hem, not stiff but resilient, braided kelp motifs running along the seam. When the fabric shifts with your movement, the imprint of an islet map glints along the plate—tiny crestlines, a ring of tide-washed sand, a lighthouse drawn in starlight. A faint hum rests at the edge, a micro-chorus of energy that only reveals itself when you tilt toward a horizon of water and wind. Old sailors tell a story of a drifting island that blinks in and out of fog, seen only by those who listen to their own compass. This shoulder skin, they say, was carved from the hide of a guardian who kept the beacon alive long after the lighthouse moths had gone silent. When worn, the skin seems to remember the ocean's memory—the way light travels across a cove at dawn, a traveler’s footstep on a quiet quay, the moment a storm-ridden coast finally exhales. It is less a fashion choice than a keepsake of a coastline that never truly sleeps. In actual play, it serves as a signal and a story hook. It is purely cosmetic, yes, but its glow—soft at dawn, bright on a moon-washed night—pulls eyes in a crowd, invites a whispered anecdote, a handshake with a fellow explorer who recognizes the island map etched in the edge. Worn with a light or medium set, it cloaks your character in an aura of cautious optimism, like you’ve kept a lantern in your pocket and learned to read the tides by feel. On excursions to wrecks and shorelines, the shoulder skin becomes a badge of memory: a reminder of bargains struck with tide-washed traders, fallen lanterns recovered from coves, and the quiet courage of setting course when the weather turns. That memory bleeds into the market, where the Saddlebag Exchange becomes a sort of harbor for such relics. Prices drift with the sea—sometimes the Light Island Shoulder Skin sits in the mid-range of gold, other days it climbs when a new crew seeks a signature piece for their captain's attire. A few coins here or there, perhaps a trade of rare fabric or a small artifact, and the skin slips from one adventurer to the next, like a tide-pulled token exchanged beneath a painted sky. To wear it is to carry a coastline on your shoulder—a whisper of salt air and a promise that somewhere beyond the next bend, a light still waits.