Cleric's Seer Coat of the Afflicted

Cleric's Seer Coat of the Afflicted hangs heavy on a peg, its charcoal wool darkened by candle soot and rain. The fabric carries a dull gleam, as if the night itself were woven into its threads. A high collar stands stiff with stitched sigils—thin copper lines that catch light and never quite settle—while the sleeves bear a sequence of rune-embossed bands that seem to breathe with the wearer's pulse. The coat's interior is a quilted maze of ash-gray satin, warm enough to shelter a core from a frostbite dawn, yet light enough to move in during a skirmish. Across the back, a single emblem—the silent, watchful eye of the Seers—is pressed with a faintly raised thread, a sign that the afflicted are not alone when this coat is worn. Locals whisper about the cleric who first wore it, a healer who walked among fevered streets with a lantern of care. They say the sigils absorbed fear and fed courage, that loops of copper threaded through the cloth bound sudden grief to quiet resolve. In the hallways of the old temple, the coat hung beside jars of herbs and caged moths, a relic of mercy as much as a shield. To see it is to remember the long nights when bells tolled for the sick and a hand reached out through the smoke. In the world it travels with, the coat becomes more than textile; it's a conduit for the healer's art. In dungeons and in pitched sieges, it boosts the wearer's healing efficacy and augments vitality, granting a steady, grateful breath to allies caught in poison and bleed. The worn surface seems to emit a soft warmth that lends temporary protection to nearby teammates, and the sigils flare when a mass condition is cleansed, as if the cloth itself is cheering the attempt. It also carries a risk—a tether to the afflicted that can drain the wearer when standing too close to despair, forcing careful positioning and timing. The Seer's Coat thus embodies a philosophy: mercy must be worn, not shouted, and every hour spent in its field is a small covenant with those who suffer. Where such ornate mercy trades hands, the market winds through the docks and into the Saddlebag Exchange, a caravan-laden stall where prices drift like tidewater. A curt merchant there, eyes on the ledger, will tell you the coat fetches a premium—rare, with the sigils intact and the seamwork proven—yet you can bargain on a slow market day; a few silver pieces, a trade-in of worn gear, maybe a recipe for herbs if you read the signs right. People come with stories: a veteran healer whose ring of courage rubbed from the finger by a plague, a student who wants the coat to honor a mentor. The exchange isn't merely a shop; it's a guild of memory, where every item carries a story and every price carries a memory of the afflicted. And when the rain stops, the coat changes hands again, moving from one shelter to another as the afflicted find comfort in its warmth. It lingers in memory.