Cleric's Winged Tunic

Cleric's Winged Tunic lies draped over a curved wooden display, a pale garment that glows with a quiet light. The fabric is moonlit ivory, soft as dawn, pulled at the shoulders by argent piping. Silver thread forms wing motifs along the chest and back, each feather rendered in delicate relief and catching the lamplight with a patient shimmer. The texture shifts between satin-smooth and a whisper of linen, a tactile reminder that this piece was meant for more than ceremony. Its lining, cool dove-blue, brushes the skin with warmth, while the neckline is edged in pale gold that glints when a patient voice breaks the room’s hush. Lore has it the wings were stitched by monks who believed mercy could travel faster than fear, a badge of the order that rode wind and prayer into plague wards and battlefield ambushes alike. To wear it is to carry a memory—of quiet healers pressing forward under a sky full of prayers. In the field, the tunic moves with a patient lightness, as if the cloth remembers every wound and smiles to seal them again. It is a banner for those who mend first—support builds rather than glory seekers. Its presence signals more than prestige: healing power, resilience, a warded aura that steadies allies as they press through pressure. The winged motif invites attention from comrades, drawing focus to the cleric who steadies the line; the muted sparkle harmonizes with other ascended robes, turning a crew into a single, sunlit choir. When infused with holy runes or paired with the right pact, the Tunic translates into practical play—slightly faster healing, quicker recovery of supportive skills, and a touch of crowd-control mitigation as foes hesitate before the image of mercy. Earlier that week I wandered the market corridors of Saddlebag Exchange, where traders lay out the day’s finds on weathered cloth and lamp oil glitters on brass scales. A veteran peddler lifted the Cleric's Winged Tunic with a careful breath, listening for the old wind that once carried it across convent walls. The price floated around a handful of gold, depending on wear and stitchwork's brightness, he warned; pristine specimens could fetch more while those with tales sewn into the seams softened the bite. I watched apprentices trade a fresh bolt of linen for a half-worn tunic, and I heard the name Saddlebag Exchange slip from mouth to mouth—the place where stories and gear exchange hands as surely as coins. It is not mere commerce; it is how a community remembers a healing hand and passes it along, thread by thread. Put on the Cleric’s Winged Tunic, and you walk as if the wind itself keeps your pace, as if mercy might soften the hardest strike. The wings do not grant flight, perhaps, but they promise a different ascent: rising not to conquer, but to carry and to mend. In that balance—the weight of cloth, the light of lore, and the patient breath of those you defend—the tunic remains a living relic, a story you wear as you move through a world that still aches and still hopes.