Cleric's Sneakthief Leggings of the Afflicted

Cleric's Sneakthief Leggings of the Afflicted catch the light with a dull, almost coughing glow, as if they hold a tiny ember of shadow within every thread. The fabric is a delicate tangle of ash-white linen, reinforced with slender panels of midnight hide that flex and slide with the wearer’s movement. Silver sigils trace the seams in fine, hesitant handwriting, like a whispered map drawn by someone who knows the dark better than the daylight. The inner lining carries a faint iron-sweet scent, a reminder of patient wards and hurried escape routes, while leather straps along the calves bite softly against the skin, giving the sense that the wearer could vanish into a corridor the moment a bell tolls. They look worn yet purposeful, as if they’ve absorbed both mercy and mischief from the hands that stitched them. Lore insists they were born of a difficult bargain: a chapel’s quiet healer who learned mercy from the sick, and a night-drawn thief who learned shadow from the street. The union produced leggings that forgive a patient’s weakness while nudging the wearer toward the edge of a blade’s reach. They are said to carry a residue of both prayer and hush—a reminder that healing can be a dangerous honesty, and that sometimes a healer must slip between moments of care as deftly as between doorways. When the afflicted suffer, the leggings seem to draw a thread of calm through the tumult, a barely audible sigh in the clamor of bells and coughing. In practical terms, the item reads as a rare blend of support and ambush tools for a survivalist who refuses to choose between protection and stealth. On the field, they grant the wearer a heightened sense for opportunities—an almost tactile awareness of where to stand, where to move, and when to retreat without drawing attention. The wearer can slip behind a cluster of foes to deliver a healing blessing where it’s least expected, while the surrounding guards still search for a target they can lock eyes with. It’s a setup that rewards timing: you wisp into the shadows, coax a wounded ally back toward safety, and reappear where the fight’s momentum has already shifted in your favor. In the hands of a patient courier or a field medic who must barter with danger, the leggings become a quiet, kinetic map of risk and relief. Market talk about such a piece travels as a rumor that travels faster than a plague drum. In the back alleys and sun-baked stalls of the city’s old market quarter, the Saddlebag Exchange handles its price like a careful negotiation between faith and ferocity. A parchment price tag is tucked into the belt loop, a rough estimate of gold and silver, and a line of inked notes—some praising the dual nature of mercy and misdirection, others warning that the Afflicted’s curse asks a heavier toll than most buyers anticipate. A buyer who knows how to listen can walk away with more than a piece of clothing; they walk away with a living story about resilience, risk, and the quiet power of moving unseen while offering a cure that might demand a sacrifice in return.