Precise Embroidered Pants hang from a peg in the market stall, midnight fabric catching the lamplight like still water. The cloth is a deep obsidian-black satin, so smooth you could coax a river to forget its course with a single stroke. Silver threads run in a careful lattice along the thighs, a repeating pattern of tiny compasses and runes that seems to move whenever you blink. The embroidery glints with a disciplined sheen, as if the seamstress kept a tiny north star stitched into every inch, guiding the wearer toward clean lines, neat alignments, and purpose. The waistband is stitched with pale piping and a discreet brass buckle that catches the glow of torches, a small ceremony you might overlook in a hurry but notice when you hold them still in your hands. The inner weave feels cooler than the air in a crowded square, a silk-soft lining that greets the skin and stirs memories of long journeys. Lore, as much as cloth, clings to these pants. They are said to have been woven by a guild of archivist tailors who mapped every footstep of a courier who never missed a turn. It’s told in the taverns that the compasses stitched into the thighs do not point north but toward decisive action, toward timing and rhythm—the moment when a strike becomes a decision, and a decision becomes a map. On days when the city clocks stagger and the rain keeps pace with your breath, those patterns seem to hum with a quiet promise: measure twice, cut once, and never hurry where precision matters. In gameplay, the Precise Embroidered Pants feel like a passport for exacting plans. They raise the wearer’s Precision, nudging the odds toward clean, critical strikes, while the cut keeps you balanced enough to nudge a shot or a step in the same breath. Worn with light gauntlets and supple boots, they become a suit of quiet confidence for scouts and mapmakers who need to read terrain as carefully as they read enemies. They suit a hunter who strings a shot through a narrow alley, or an artificer who lines up a careful trap with the patience of a clockmaker. The story in them is not about brute force but about the discipline to aim, to hold, and to trust that small margins matter when the world hinges on one precise moment. Word of them travels with the dust of caravan wheels and the chatter of markets, especially when a dealer in the Saddlebag Exchange mentions them in a hushed tone as if quoting a verse. In a morning barter, someone offers a fair price—coins stacked like a skyline, receipts drawn with neat handwriting—and the keeper of the stall improvises a line about supply and demand, about how rarity and craft keep the market honest. The hat-trick of embroidery, the careful cut, the market's whisper—all of it folds into a single, enduring image: a pair of pants that does not shout, but tells you exactly where to stand and how to move.