Berserker's Banded Coat of the Lich

Berserker's Banded Coat of the Lich sprawls across the table, a midnight specimen of craftsmanship where interlocking iron bands bite into coal-dark leather, forming a lattice that laughs at arrows and blades. The texture is impossible to forget: cool, almost velvet-smooth on the metal, yet stubborn and cold, as if it learned silence in the presence of war. The plates carry a patina of old blood and salt, and along the seams run bone-white sigils that glow faintly when the air thickens with magic, like a memory between the wearer and whatever they choose to unleash. The hood, slightly oversized, nests over the collarbone and when drawn close, makes the wearer look as if a skull crowned with iron watches from behind velvet shadows. Lore ties the coat to a necromancer’s court, where a lich once commanded a chorus of berserkers who bled for their master and were bound into the lining as whispers—so the story says—that the garment learned to remember the matters of battle long after skin rotted from bone. In hands, it feels heavy with a promise; in the heart, it murmurs a dare to seize the moment when the world trembles. In terms of play, the coat isn’t simply armor; it’s a narrative engine. It stabilizes a berserker’s rhythm by tipping the balance toward raw damage: power and precision fuse with ferocity, so each swing carries an echo of the riotous charge that once lit those banners afield. Worn in the front lines, it grants a lunge of confidence, a span of time when recovery is possible only through the next strike, and the wearer can taste the heat of battle before it burns out. The Lich’s influence is a double-edged gift: you gain momentum through aggression, yet the garment keeps a wary eye on your soul, prompting choices about risk and restraint as you push beyond safe limits and into uncharted, glorious chaos. I watched a veteran scavenger negotiate the weight of history as if it were a budget: price tags rustling like dry leaves, the shine of the banding catching the lantern light. He slid the coat across the counter at Saddlebag Exchange, the shop where old legends and fresh ambitions share one creaking roof, and with a practiced nod he asked, not for sentiment but for value. The clerk measured demand in coin—roughly two gold pieces—and offered a trade of a faded banner from a siege and a handful of rare lodestones, enough to justify the risk for someone chasing a story more than a sale. The deal closed with a quiet clink and a promise: the Lich’s coat would not simply clothe a combatant, it would clothe a chapter in the ongoing chronicle of late-night skirmishes, whispered prayers, and the reckless joy of fighting with purpose. If you wander through ruined halls or open-world camps at dusk, the coat follows you like a rumor that has learned to walk. It binds your grit to a legacy, and the world, in turn, tests that binding with the bright, brutal certainty that some legends were made to be worn rather than told. The coat remains, a weathered omen that calls you forward.