Cleric's Winged Mantle lies coiled in a glass-topped case, ivory silk catching the lantern light and spilling a pale, pearlescent glow. The cloth drapes as if moved by a quiet wind, and along the back run two slender panels resembling splayed wings, edged with fine gold thread that catches every flicker of flame. The texture is a study in contrast: a soft, suede-like inner side that cushions the shoulders, and a stiffer ceremonial outer layer that keeps its shape. Sigils stitched in pale blue trace the hem, whispering of vows kept and oaths sworn. Forged in the twilight days of a healer-order, the mantle carries a lore of mercy in its fibers. It is said to have belonged to a cleric who rode between villages on a caravan of mercy, intercepting ambushes with a calm, almost angelic poise. When the wounded lay in rows in the chapel's nave, the wings in the mantle would flutter with the softest breath, as if answering a prayer. To wear it, one must shoulder the responsibilities of comfort and courage: not merely to shield the body but to anchor the spirit of the group. On the field, the Mantle becomes more than ornament. Players report that equipping it aligns with a healer's playstyle: the aura around the fabric seems to pulse when healing words are spoken, the sigils glow faintly and grant a modest boost to healing power and concentration, a subtle reminder that mercy multiplies when shared with others. Its silhouette helps allies spot you in a skirmish, a visual cue that light rides with them. Wielded by support builds, it unlocks synergy with healing sigils, cleansing wards, and the occasional defensive boon, turning each clutch moment into a narrative beat rather than a mere cooldown. Market days lend a different story to the Mantle's value. I watched a seller at the Saddlebag Exchange unfold the cloth, listening to the clack of coins as neighbors haggled over runes and backpieces. The Mantle's price drifted with the crowd, moving from a decent handful of silver to several gold on days when the faction wars quieted and traders from distant caravans arrived with stories to tell. A cautious buyer might trade a dampened scroll and a small stipend, while a veteran collector could fetch a tidy sum for a well-kept specimen. Either way, the cloak remains a symbol—a beacon for those who carry mercy into the field and a reminder that beauty, in the hands of a healer, often means survival. Thus the Cleric's Winged Mantle threads its way through the world, not merely as armor against the cold, but as a living connection between patients and protectors, a passing of faith from one bearer to the next. It lands softly on the shoulders of those who listen for the wounded, and it lifts, if only for a moment, the weight of battle into something almost holy. The wings do not conquer; they console, and in that quiet victory lie the real power of its story.