Cleric's Feathered Mantle

Cleric's Feathered Mantle unfurls over the shoulders like a quiet dawn: ivory linen, soft as prayer cloth, lines of gold thread tracing runes along the hems. The mantle's edges are adorned with a cascade of pale feathers—pearled in the light, their tips catching a blush of sunset—each feather laid in a careful arc, as if the wearer carried a small wing at their back. The fabric breathes with the wearer, and the embroidery catches every beam, throwing a halo of warmth around chest and shoulders. An inner seam glints faintly, a suggestive sigil: candle flame curling around a feathered wing. Lore whispers that the mantle was woven by temple seamstresses who listened to prayers until their threads trembled with blessing; that the feathers are said to be gifts from a celestial messenger who guided healers through sieges, guarding their hearts as they tended the wounded. In daylight or candlelight, the cloth seems to hum with the cadence of ritual, existing on the threshold between oath and action. In gameplay terms, the mantle is less a vanity piece and more a talisman of temperament. When worn by a cleric or any ally anchored in support, its presence shifts the tempo of battle: it damps the most piercing nerves of chaos, nudges allies toward steadier decisions, and magnifies the efficacy of healing and protection in close quarters. It doesn’t spell out miracles, but it whispers timing—the moment to seal a cluster of fighters, the instant to renew a dying ally’s breath, the way a shield wall can be held just a breath longer. The feathered edges become a visual cue for range and radius, guiding teammates to stay within the mantle’s soft radius where the most care can be given. It’s a tangible reminder that mercy is a skill, not just a mercy spell. I wandered the market lanes at the edge of the city, where cloths and curiosities flap in the breeze and traders shout prices to the rhythm of the crowd. There, tucked under a tarpaulin-slung stall, a clerk pointed me toward Saddlebag Exchange—a maze of peddlers and poets who catalog relics with a wink. The Cleric’s Feathered Mantle rested on a wooden bust, the price tag inked in copper: seven gold and fifty silver, a sum that felt steep until the vendor and I spoke of journeys through plague and siege and the long nights spent binding wounds with thread and faith. The price, like the mantle, carried a history. A buyer who understood that value isn’t just coin could see beyond the tag: a mantle that binds you to a larger story, and a story that you wear as you walk back into the fray. Back at the gate, banners rippling, the mantle holds a promise: choices, not steel, turn the tide. It invites you to trade fear for faith, to lend a hand when the rally goes up, and to carry not just gear but a vow that mercy can be a weapon, shield, and a path to light.