Carrion Cabalist Hood of the Lich

Carrion Cabalist Hood of the Lich sits heavy on its velvet hanger, a midnight-black crown of stitched leather and muted bone, the surface matte as a moonless night. Its shape scoops low over the forehead, the shoulders cascading into a forced drape that makes the wearer feel watched by unseen eyes. The texture is both velvety and stern, like skin dried after a long winter, with edges that curl inward as if the hood keeps a secret too grim to reveal. Threadwork glints with faint, pale sigils— sigils that shimmer when starlight hits them, tracing cold, hungry runes along the seams. It is said the hood was spun in a crypt, where a cabalist kept a oath-bound order: to cloak power in silence, to let the dead have a voice only the living dare not hear. The Lich’s name is whispered into the lining by those who claim to have heard it slip through the threads on a wind-chill night. In gameplay terms, the hood carries more than its black polish and velvet weight might imply. Those who wear it walk with a new cadence, the way a necromancer moves after a pact has been sealed: the minions seem to orbit a small, personal eclipse, and every pulse of decay in your target yields a louder, more resonant note in your own toolkit. It’s not simply vanity; the hood ties itself to the wearer’s path—whether you chase condi-damage, lifesteal, or the bone-bound summons that flock to a cabalist’s call. The phrase “taste of the beyond” seems to hover in the air whenever a command is issued to your skeletal chorus, and the shadow it casts is a little longer, a touch more unavoidable in crowded battle. This is where the story of the hood threads into the wider world. Caravans moving between ruined shrines wheel their carts a touch slower when this piece passes by, as if some oath-bound gaze keeps time with every click of a wheel. In raids and fractals alike, the hood earns its keep by giving the wearer an aura of old magic—an invitation for your minions to cling closer, a quiet boost to your necromantic repertoire, and a reminder that power often wears silence as its finest hood. Market talk softens the edge of its legend. In the back alleys where the Saddlebag Exchange glitters with questionable provenance, traders barter with hushed voices and quick glances. Some claim it carries a curse that licks the edges of a treasure’s value; others insist the hood’s true worth lies in the chains of stories it drags behind the wearer. Those who sell it speak of a price that matches the hood’s gravity—enough to hush a room, enough to keep a caravan on the road for another season. And those who buy it do so not only for the look, but for the memory it carries—of crypts that breathe and a Lich who never truly sleeps. In the end, it is a story worn as armor for necromancers.