Cleric's Linen Insignia is a small square of pale linen, its weave so tight you can almost glimpse a heartbeat beneath the surface, a soft, late-sun color that seems to glow faintly when held up to a candle. The edges are bound with a slender thread of gold that catches the light in a way that makes the fabric feel ceremonial, as if it were worn for vows rather than for weather. Across the fabric an embroidered sigil—an open hand cradling a star—threads its way in pale silver, the stitches precise and patient, like a quiet vow whispered to the cloth. It rests in your palm with a cool, almost reverent texture, the linen yielding just enough to remind you that it’s meant to be touched, not tossed aside. In the right light, the sigil shivers with a gentle sheen, as if the cloth remembers long corridors of sanctuaries and the soft drift of prayers echoing down stone halls. Lore has it that these insignias were born from the hospital wings of order-bearers who traveled between besieged holdings, stitching symbols into tunics to mark those who tended the wounded with a steady hand and a steady heart. They were gifts and reminders, tokens passed from mentor to apprentice, a quiet code of trust in the din of war and the cadence of healers moving through chaos. In the world of supplies and trade, the Cleric’s Linen Insignia is more than a pretty fragment of cloth; it functions as a badge of service and a practical nexus point for a larger story about how communities keep faith and craft alive when the frontlines push forward and collapse in on themselves. Players prize these insignias not only for their beauty but for what they unlock in the hands of a skilled crafter or a keen trader: finished linen for ceremonial garb, access to healing-themed craft recipes, or the ability to barter for rare components that pair with linen and thread as if the fabric itself were a bridge between devotion and industry. It’s the kind of item you carry between stalls and stalls again, listening to the market hum, the clink of coins, and the soft rustle of cloth that reminds you why the insignia mattered in the first place. Prices drift through the stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, where travelers and tailors mingle with the scent of wax and leather, and a Cleric’s Linen Insignia can fetch a fair amount of silver depending on its condition, its sheen, and the season’s demand for heraldry and healing lore. I’ve watched it go from hand to hand, traded with a respectful nod, a receipt sketched in chalk, and a promise that the next person who bears it will carry forward the same quiet creed: to mend what is breaking, to ease what wounds, and to keep faith alive in a world constantly pressed by time and trial. The insignia rests then at the heart of those exchanges, a textile reliquary that ties practice to myth, craft to care, and the hope of healing to the simple, enduring act of being seen.