Cleric's Sneakthief Coat of Vampirism

Cleric's Sneakthief Coat of Vampirism lies heavy on the hanger, a dusk-blue woolen coat with oil-dark lapels, patches of fine silver thread tracing a sigil that glows softly when the moonlight spills across it. The fabric soaks up shadows, velvet-soft to the touch, yet reinforced with a hidden lining that bites back when needed. The sleeves taper into slender cuffs, and along the inside seam runs a narrow piping embroidered with tiny runes that flicker like embers when a spark of magic travels past. The hood drapes just so, a whisper of shade that frames the face without concealing intent; the front closes with discreet clasps shaped as skeletal hands about to release a crimson rose, a design that feels ceremonial and rebellious at once. The coat carries the perfume of stone corridors and damp incense, the iron tang of vows; it is a garment of mercy and misfortune, stitched by hands that walked both sides of a broken covenant. Lorekeepers tell of a cleric who refused temple politics and common mercy, trading favors for information while healing wounds and stealing back greed’s claims. The Vampirism rune tucked in the lining awakens when a strike lands from the shadows, stealing a fraction of life to knit back the wearer’s flesh, a benediction wrapped in a thief’s grace. It is said the cloak was worn by one who learned to read a battlefield in the shape of a patient’s breath, a patient who would live not because of medicine alone but because a healer who could also vanish into night was waiting in reserve. In practice, the cloak makes the wearer a living hinge between healing and harm, a silhouette that slips through patrols and rescue parties with equal ease. When you step from the alley into the glow of campfire light, you feel the faint pulse of the coat’s vampiric gift, nudging you to strike at the moment blood-warm courage returns and the wound between guardian and target opens. It rewards careful timing: a backstab after a feint, a heal delivered as you retreat into darkness, turning damage into renewal with every measured move. The texture itself seems to breathe, warm to your fingertips as you draw power from a foe and keep moving, never breaking the rhythm of a night mission. Traders in crowded markets have learned that such a piece carries more than looks; it folds into a storyline of factions, of sanctuaries breached and sanctuaries kept, of oaths severed and rethreaded with silver thread and necessity. I found it tucked among kits and capes at Saddlebag Exchange, where a wary clerk with a wink let slip that the price comes with a price: a handful of coins, a few favors, and the sense that most buyers will never entirely part with their first life. The tag read modestly, but the weight of what it could do in the right hands turned my breath to careful planning, scenting the night with possibilities beyond the road ahead for anyone.