Cleric's Sneakthief Mask of the Pack

The Cleric's Sneakthief Mask of the Pack sits on a cracked velvet pillow, its ivory faceplate catching lamplight with a cold, moonlit sheen. The edges are stitched with copper thread, a fine lattice that glints whenever a hand brushes the surface. A hollowed-leather frame holds the mask’s shape, bending softly to cradle a pair of dark glass eyes that seem to watch without seeing. A hood of ash-gray linen drapes from the back, pooling like a shadow on velvet, while a ring of tiny sigils—wolf-wrought, circle and snare—runs around the brow, faintly warm to the touch as if the wearer’s breath remains etched into the metal. The scent of wax and old incense lingers in the lining, a reminder of prayers whispered long before the first thief’s footfall crossed a threshold. The Pack’s emblem, a stylized pairing of paw and cross, sits stamped into the underside, a pledge that mercy and cunning can walk side by side. Lore threads into the present as surely as the fabric threads hold together the mask’s silhouette. It is said the mask was forged for a cleric-turned-rogue, a healer who learned that healing sometimes requires stepping unseen through guarded doors. The Pack—a loose confederation of healers who believe mercy must be delivered at any door, not only at altars—adopted the mask as a symbol and a tool. When worn, it does not promise invisibility so much as a quieting of the gaze of others, a courtesy of the street that lets a beggar be tended to before a sentry can cry out. In the world where signals flit between factions and quiet deals shape destinies, the mask is less a disguise and more a bridge—between mercy and cunning, between the healer’s hand and the thief’s patience. In practice, the mask is used for more than stealth. It invites a careful balance: to move with the soft tread of a field medic, to listen with the muted attention of a careful broker, to negotiate access to rooms where the fever burns brightest. A wearer can slip past clerics who thirst for order and past guards who fear rumors more than blades, all while carrying a vial of salve or a dose of antidote tucked within the hidden seam. It is a relic for those who believe healing can require a path through darkness, and that sometimes the quickest way to mend a wound is to let the night decide who enters. Prices drift through the market like perfume on a breeze, and Saddlebag Exchange is where such rumors settle into trade. A buyer might offer silver and a pledge for rare herbs; a seller might demand a small selection of healing salves or a sturdy cloak. The cleric’s Sneakthief Mask of the Pack tends to hover in the higher echelons of the trade, often fetching a few gold coins or the right combination of goods that can sweeten a deal with silence. The days when a price could be pinned down by arithmetic are long past; today, the value rests in stories told around a lamp, and the understanding that certain artifacts are meant to be used—with care, and with a conscience tempered by the Pack’s quiet creed.