Carrion Rogue Coat of Grenth

Carrion Rogue Coat of Grenth lies heavy on the shoulder, a midnight coat stitched from coal-dark leather and velvet torn to resemble moth-eaten wings. The texture is cool and slightly slick, catching candlelight as if the night itself were pressed into the fibers. Bone-white buttons, shaped like tiny fangs, press against the chest, and the hem carries a thread of ash-grey runes that glow faintly when the wearer moves through shadow. The cloak’s lining is pale as bone, a whisper of cold air that clings to the spine, and along the collar runs a small sigil of Grenth— the god who ferries souls—inked in a lacquer that never seems to dry. To touch it is to feel a quiet pact with death’s patience. Lore-hunters say such a coat once belonged to a rogue who traded in secrets and the currency of fear, a shade who learned to vanish in plain sight within cities of stone and ambition. The Carrion prefix nods to the rot and renewal that Grenth governs, as if the garment drinks in the pallor of the cemetery and wears it with a sly grace. In deeper circles, artisans whispered that the cloth is not only a symbol but a tool, tempered by funeral rites to resist the light and keep a step ahead of pursuers. In the world of the rogues and streetwise shadows, this coat becomes a tangible hinge between danger and discretion. Wearers find that it catches the eye of rival scouts and, more importantly, smooths the path for decisive strikes from the flank. The enchantment is not a shield but a companion: a boost to the ability to weave stealth, unleash bursts of precision, and slip away from a crowded scene before a ward enacts its counterspell. It turns a risky infiltration into a calculated performance—the kind of moment where a ghosted step becomes a deadly flourish, where a whispered breath can tip a fight in your favor, and where the cloak’s breath seems to borrow your own. Markets tell their own story, too. In crowded cities, traders speak in hushed tones about the price of necromantic finery, and the Carrion Rogue Coat of Grenth is no exception. On Saddlebag Exchange, listings drift with the tides of demand—bright, clean specimens fetch a premium, while those with slightly more wear slip into the middle ground. A buyer might haggle over the exact sigil glow or the feel of the lining, while a seller weighs whether the next expedition is worth the risk of parting with such a coveted cloak. The exchange’s notes are a map of the world’s shadow economy: deals sealed with a wink, the soft slide of coin plates, and the quiet realization that some stories are measured not in gold but in the fear a coat can command. Put on the Carrion Rogue Coat of Grenth, and you do not simply wear armor—you wear time itself, a reminder that every corridor is a corridor of souls waiting to be moved, and that a well-timed shadow can be as sharp as a blade.