Cleric's Exalted Coat

Cleric's Exalted Coat gleams with ivory leather quilted over pale blue satin, the outer hide catching lamplight and turning it into a soft, wintery glow. Moonstone thread traces the seams like constellations pinned to cloth, and the shoulders are padded with a subtle, almost ceremonial weight that makes the garment feel heavier with meaning than with metal. A hood drapes at the back as if ready to veil the wearer from both sight and judgment, while the gold filigree along the cuffs—a delicate lattice of stars and sigils—catches every flicker of candlelight and returns it with quiet, almost pious radiance. In the first touch, the coat feels cool, then strangely reassuring, as if the fabric remembers every healer who wore it before, every ward they laid and every breath they steadied. Lore whispers cling to it like a scent in rain. Some say it was woven during a rite that blessed a besieged temple by stitching light itself into the threads. Others insist a single masterful seamstress, sworn to a quiet oath, labored through months of dawns and setbacks, pouring prayers into every stitch until the coat became a shield of faith as much as a garment. The cloth’s color—soft, pale blue—has long been associated with solace and restoration, and the sigils along the seams are said to hum faintly when held by one who understands their language: a memory of wards laid, a promise to mend what war breaks. It’s not just apparel; it’s a moving reliquary that invites the wearer to act with mercy, to place repair before ruin, to move with the rhythm of healers who walk between hot steel and cool mercy. In the field, its significance unfolds as a story about presence. The Exalted Coat carries a presence that seems to slow the pace of chaos around you, guiding hands toward the wounded and toward the right moment to lift a shield or coax a fragile breath back into someone’s body. It’s a piece that invites trust—the kind of trust builders and clerics alike recognize when you stand near a line of cries and know where to place a ward, where to lend healing energy, and where to keep your own soul steady under pressure. The texture itself becomes part of the ritual: the weight of the leather grounds you, the satin whispers like a lullaby to the frightened, and the cuffs, when brushed, release a shimmer that looks almost like a second pulse. On a rain-washed morning, I found it tucked away at the edge of a crowded stall in Saddlebag Exchange, where traders slide coins between fingers as smoothly as they trade stories. The merchant’s hands moved with the grace of someone who has weighed fate in leather and thread more often than coin, humming a few bartered phrases about durability and luminance. The price slid into view with the glimmer of copper and crystal, and I watched the coat absorb the market’s rhythms—the brisk trades, the soft chatter, the way a buyer’s breath fogged in the tent’s cool air. We bargained, counting memories as carefully as coin, and when I finally wore it, the market’s noise seemed to fall away, leaving only the quiet that comes when a protector’s duty is renewed. The Cleric’s Exalted Coat endures as more than fabric. It is a vow stitched to the body, a reminder that healing is not only a single act but a practice that travels with you—through fevered nights, crowded halls, and the long march back to dawn.