Cleric's Barbaric Coat

Cleric's Barbaric Coat hangs heavy on a rack of iron hooks, its exterior a quilt of tawny hide and weathered leather, interlaced with riveted brass plates that catch the light with a stubborn gleam. The collar stands high, a carved ridge along the shoulders, and the hem bears a frayed trim stamped with a faded monastic sigil. Texture-wise, the leather is oiled and slightly tacky to the touch, soft where the wearer flexes and stiff where rain clings to the weave. The lining is a coarse wool, warm and striped with wear, shifting from sandy to olive as sun and wind carve the day. Lore says the coat was forged for healers who rode between besieged sanctuaries, a cloak of protection stitched with oaths. The barbaric accents—broad shoulders, brutal seams—remember the wild borders they crossed, where mercy met necessity. Some whisper the sigils along the chest glow faintly in moonlight, a sign that the wearer still tends the wounded under distant stars. In terms of presence, the coat is less about flash and more about vocation. Wearers take their place in the breach, a guardian first, a healer second, and the cloth becomes a visible vow that mercy and steel can keep the same company. The weight of the leather, the way the plates bite into the shoulders, anchors steadiness in the chaos of battle, letting kitchens and clinics—where cures are made from patience and breath—happen closer to the front lines. Players notice how it endures, how the texture shifts in the rain and the heat, how the garment seems to carry a quiet authority that invites trust from allies and caution from foes. The coat’s aura is a thread in a larger story—the tale of a healer who pressed forward through smoke and scream, whose oath seems stitched into every seam, turning survival into a kind of quiet ritual. Market life threads the garment into everyday life as well. In towns and crossroads, traders swap stories of relics passing through Saddlebag Exchange, their stalls creaking with worn buckles and distant furs. A Cleric’s Barbaric Coat might wait in a crate for days, its value rising or falling with the market’s mood—the glow of its sigils, the sturdiness of its stitching, the demand from those who want a mantle that binds mercy to might. The price, naturally, moves with season and need; a fair offer often rests on a balance of silver and barter, a token that recognizes both craftsmanship and the weight of a healer’s burden. The Saddlebag Exchange, that caravan-worn shop on the road’s edge, becomes the hinge where the coat’s narrative turns—whether it sails on to save a life or returns to the shelf as a memory kept in check by a watchful market. Evening light wavers through the camp as the coat finds its next wearer. A caravan leader, a nurse of open hands, and a recruit with a future full of tremors—each touches the heavy leather and feels the shared vow: to walk toward the blast, to bind wounds with steadiness, and to move forward, together, with mercy pressed close at heart. The Cleric's Barbaric Coat remains more than fabric and clasps; it’s a living part of the world’s fabric, a tangible reminder that healing and courage rarely travel alone.