Cleric's Emblazoned Pants

Cleric's Emblazoned Pants hang from a peg in a dim stall, the linen a pale, almost holy white that looks stitched from winter fog. They are cut slim through the thigh, broad at the knee, then taper to a careful, unassuming hem. The fabric bears a muted glow in the runic embroidery along the seams—thin lines of gold thread curling into a stylized reliquary motif, a cross-section of some long-vanished order. If you lean close, you can smell pewter and beeswax from the clean-lasted belt loops, and you’ll notice the cloth carries the memory of a dozen altar steps walked in haste during a night watch. Legs move with a whisper; the pants are soft yet resilient, with a weight that tells of double-layered weave and a healer’s care. The emblems, though not oversized, feel almost alive: an eye of a sun or a shining blade, depending on the angle, catching a spark of light whenever lanterns flicker. The lore merchants tell a tale of these pants stitched in the cloister's greenhouse, by hands that mended more than garments—who bound wards into their seams to shield a body during fever dreams and plague marches. Today they are more than cloth; they are a promise you can wear, a reminder of a healer who stood at the front line when the temple bells fell silent. In battlefield lanes and quiet dungeons alike, the Cleric’s Emblazoned Pants are said to anchor a role rather than a class: a patient shield-bearer who absorbs the brunt so others can sing the final healing. Players talk about their durability, the way the cloth seems to resist rips and splashes, the way the sigils shimmer when a blessing is cast. They pair well with robes of ivory or mantle-like coats, turning a silhouette into a moving reliquary. Market life breathes through the cloth as well. The seller will tell you that the price reflects memory as much as metal: a final stitch costs more than the thread. In the informal circuits of the bazaar, you’ll hear chatter about Saddlebag Exchange, where prices drift with the day’s loot and demand; a buyer might walk away with a bargain if a courier’s ledger is short on gold, or a merchant might curse the weather and price a little higher to cover the next shipment from the inland caravans. The pants are commonly traded between a dedicated healer’s alts and a monkish scout who values the support they offer in long expeditions. A good pair will fetch a respectable coin, a middling pair a story, and a pristine, re-sparked one a legend in the right circle. Somewhere in this world, a cleric’s work continues, and those embroidered lines keep time with every step. If you borrow the lamplight and listen, you’ll hear the rustle of the cloth like a quiet benediction, the soft sigh of a ward unfurling as you stride toward the next dawn. In the end, they move not as cloth but as history worn by healers.