Cleric's Feathered Vestments

Cleric's Feathered Vestments lay across the wooden bust like a confession of light, the pale fabric catching the lamplight and throwing it back in a thousand patient glimmers. The vestments are a quilt of moon-silk and ivory satin, stitched with a careful lattice of feathers that drift when a doorway sighs open or a breeze slips through a ruined nave. The feathers are arranged in layered rows, each plume tapered to a soft point, so the garment holds its shape even when the wearer moves with a healer’s humility. Gold filigree threads trace delicate sigils along the collar and cuffs, catching the glow of a brazier and turning it into a halo that stays with you longer than the moment of a spell. The texture is a paradox—cool to the touch, surprisingly buoyant, and light enough that the cloth seems to cradle a person rather than clothe them. Lorekeepers say the vestments carry memory as much as fabric: woven during a night when plague and fear pressed in like storm clouds, sewn by hands that believed flight—literal or metaphorical—was the first form of mercy. The plumes are believed to be gifted by guardian birds blessed by elder clerics, each feather said to hold a whisper of mercy, a small blessing sewn into the weave. In the world where every choice leaves an echo, these vestments are more than ceremonial garb. In a skirmish where a healer threads through the line, the feathered mantle seems to breathe with the wearer, moving as if it understands the tempo of mercy. Players who lean into supportive builds discover the vestments don’t just sit on the body; they become a visible reminder to duty and care. The feathered silhouette contributes to a feeling of calm authority on the field, a subtle signal that the team’s lifeline is present, composed, and ready. There’s a kinesthetic poetry to the way healing pulses when the wearer steps into a breach, and the vestments’ presence makes the group lean into the rhythm of heals and revives with a gentler, steadier cadence. In stories that thread through ruined monasteries or sunlit courtyards, the Vestments become a character in their own right—a banner carried by those who keep faith with the wounded and the waiting. Market whispers wrap the garment in another layer of myth. In the dim stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, traders tilt their heads toward the feathered cuffs and speak in half-playful, half-earnest tones about demand, rarity, and elegance. The vestments fetch a price that rises with the glow of new skins and the lure of ancient stories, yet tends to linger at the edge of prestige: not merely a piece of protection, but an heirloom you wear to remind a party why you fight, and who you fight for. Buyers don’t simply seek stat sticks; they seek a tangible thread from a larger tapestry—the idea that mercy can be worn, that sanctuary can be stitched into a sleeve, and that sometimes the right garment makes an entire journey legible to those who tread beside you. And so the Cleric's Feathered Vestments persist, bright with memory and mercy, a garment that asks for care as much as it offers it, guiding the wearer like a quiet beacon through both the world’s storms and its waiting, healing hours.