Firework Shield gleams in my palm, a round face of lacquered copper and ember-bronze that catches the light with a stubborn, sun-warmed glow. Its surface is a map of tiny hammer marks, each one a remembered strike from a craftsman who clearly believed in spectacle as defense. Along the rim run a row of short, slender tubes—like breathless fireflies cased in brass—promising a bloom of color rather than merely a guard. The center bears a constellation of etched runes, a festival-ready pattern that seems to hum with absent fireworks, as though the shield itself keeps a spark waiting for the moment it will leap into the air. When you tilt it just so, you can swear you glimpse faint ash-gray traces of smoke threading through the enamel, remnants of a night where the skies themselves seemed to explode in celebration. Lore says this shield was born from the artisans of a guild that never slept during the Festival of Fire. They forged steel meant to endure a frontline skirmish and, at the same time, to release a story into the air whenever danger pressed close. The Firework Shield supposedly carries the memory of the first time a banner soaked in lanternlight—held aloft by a brave few—was saved from ruin by a sudden, brilliant discharge that turned pursuers into silhouettes against a thousand bursts. In the old tales, a sentinel would lift the shield at a crucial moment, and the air itself would brighten, a signal to allies and a dare to enemies. It’s not merely a tool of defense; it’s a portable flare, a memory you can carry from one engagement to the next. In actual play, the shield never forgets that sense of showmanship. When raised, the front blossoms into a ring of light that ripples outward, a brief fireworks choreography that buys you a heartbeat longer to reposition, dodge, or shield someone else from a flanking strike. It’s as much about psychology as protection: enemies pause at the glow, unsure whether to press forward or scatter like startled moths. For healers and guardians alike, the shield becomes a canvas for timing—the moment the bloom peaks, a shielded ally can exploit the distraction; the moment the bloom fades, you’re back to the armor and the edge of your blade. In tight corridors or during chaotic escort missions, that flash can nudge the battle’s tempo. Market chatter fills the air around the Saddlebag Exchange, where a frequent rumor says the Firework Shield is prized not just for its function but for its story. A buyer might trade a handful of festival trinkets or an old ledger of commissions for it, the kind of exchange that feels less transactional and more like passing along a legend. Prices rise and fall with the season, with shortages during festival weeks and a soft lull when the sky stays stubbornly quiet. Yet even in quieter times, a shield like this travels with a certain gravity, a reminder that protection can glow, even if only for a moment, and that a single burst of color can turn a battle into a memory worth recounting.