Cleric's Sneakthief Coat of the Flame Legion

Cleric's Sneakthief Coat of the Flame Legion sprawls across a display stand, its velvet-black fabric catching the light like cooled obsidian and the seams glowing with ember-gold thread that twitches with every passing breath. The lapels bear copper sigils—flames curling around a hooded eye—that glow faintly, warming the fingertips even before the wearer zips the coat up. The hood sits tall, a shadow’s cusp, designed to vanish a face in a crowded forge or a candlelit corridor. The sleeves narrow toward cuffs etched with soot-gray runes that seem to murmur when a draft flares through a room, as if the fabric itself remembers every corridor it has ever walked. Inside, the lining is a soft ash-silk, the scent of smoke lingering like a memory you can wear, and a network of hidden pockets lies behind the left breast and along the seams—plump enough for a vial of restorative, a lockpick, a folded note—concealed beneath a healer’s calm and a thief’s breath. The coat carries a lore that clings to it as stubbornly as ash to a boot: forged in the heat of factional feuds by clerics who learned to walk two paths, it is said to have been stitched by a master of the Flame Legion who believed mercy could be a tactical maneuver. Some whisper that it was sewn from provisions saved in a caravan’s shadow, a relic meant to bind the fervor of a healer to the stealth of a rogue. In the whispers of the markets and the quiet corners of covenants, the coat is spoken of as a bridge—between sanctified duty and covert necessity, between healing rites and the quiet art of slipping past a watchful guard. When worn, it feels less like armor and more like a careful negotiation with danger—the certainty of protection tempered by the freedom to move unseen when the world demands a whisper, not a shout. In gameplay terms, the Cleric's Sneakthief Coat is a relic of dual purpose: it invites players who want to walk the line between guardian and gambit. The fabric seems to breathe with the wearer, bolstering stealthy approaches, softening the clatter of armor, and smoothing the path for quick disengagement when a flask of smoke or a scarce fuse is required. Its craftsmanship hints at a life spent balancing healers’ duties with covert obligations, so it suits feats of scouting, artifact recovery behind enemy lines, or ferrying refugees through flame-lit streets without drawing a crowd. The coat’s aura—if one dares to call it that—suggests a narrative arc: a healer who learned to vanish; a covert who learned to mend. Markets around the winding docks and candlelit squares occasionally cradle this coat, and it’s a coveted prize for those chasing stories as much as gear. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a weary trader once offered a future in trade for this relic, the price spoken of in hushed tones and chalk marks on a map. It’s not uncommon to hear of a listing drifting between two and a half to three gold, sometimes with a barter of rare dyes or a ledger filled with travel warrants. The coat’s value, like its origin, is as much a story as a sum—an emblem of what it means to move through the world with flame in your pocket and mercy at your sleeve.