Cleric's Winged Mantle

Cleric's Winged Mantle unfurls from a softly creased wrap, a pale velvet-white canvas dusted with starlight. The fabric shifts with a weightless twill, like a quiet prayer told in cloth. Gold filigree snakes along the edges, delicate as lace, while across the back the silhouette of two lacquered wings blazes in pale amber when caught by torchlight. The mantle’s texture is a paradox: smooth as glass in the daylight, yet subtly grainy where the threads knot, as if each fiber remembered a lullaby sung in a stone chamber long ago. There is a scent of beeswax and linen, the tang of old candles burning in quiet sanctums. Lore whispers that the mantle was woven by healers who walked the same floors where saints once knelt, blessed by a twilight halo that lent courage to the weak and a radiance to the healer’s hands. In the field, its wings catch the light whenever a spell lands, as if signaling the party that a healer stands at the ready. It doesn’t grant brute power, but it anchors a healer’s identity in the heat of battle—a moving banner that turns tactical decisions into a narrative of care. Wearers report that the mantle lends a serene glow to their kit, a subtle reminder to focus on cleansing and mending even when the skirmish roars. To observers, the Mantle marks its bearer as someone who tends the broken places—whether a shattered shield, a fallen banner, or the exhausted gaze of a front-line comrade. For players, the garment becomes more than gear; it is a character’s vow, a visible commitment to keep others standing. Dyes transform its aura into everything from moonlit silver to dawn-bright gold, letting a healer align the Mantle with a guild’s colors or with a personal myth. And for those who craft and collect, the subtle texture and the lore-threaded hem invite long conversations around campfires about saints, seals, and the old prayers that still guide the living. The Mantle’s presence also extends into the market’s shadowed corners, where stories ride the air alongside coin. Saddlebag Exchange, a hive of traders and tellers, is where a cleric’s Winged Mantle finds its next chapter. Prices drift with rumor and dye, rarity and provenance. A common, well-worn version might hover in the mid-gold range, easy enough for a hopeful apprentice to glimpse, while pristine or uniquely dyed examples pull higher—often around a few dozen gold more, sometimes more still if the wings gleam with an unusual amber or the sigils glow faintly in candlelight. I’ve watched the leaves of the trade turn as a buyer cupped the Mantle in careful hands, listening to a seller’s cadence about lineage and patchwork repairs. The exchange isn’t merely a ledger; it’s a bridge between stories—between the healer who once wore it in triumph and the traveler who now seeks to carry a fragment of that mercy into a new skirmish. Whether worn in ceremony or in the heat of a harried retreat, the Cleric’s Winged Mantle remains a living relic—one that robes its bearer in memory, binds a community through shared purpose, and keeps the world’s cracks from becoming as cold as stone. It is both shield and signal, a whisper of mercy made tangible, fluttering softly above a crowded field as if to say: there is still light to be tended.