Cleric's Cabalist Hood of Divinity

Cleric's Cabalist Hood of Divinity rests on a lacquered display board, ivory fabric catching lamplight in soft, almost holy reflections. The hood's surface is a whisper of silk and linen, a weave cool to the touch, with a faint parchment-sage glow along the edges where runic thread is stitched in copper-gold. Its silhouette is simple and reverent, cut to cradle the crown and fall in folds that never rush ahead of you. Inside lining bears lilac and midnight-blue patterns—tiny sigils of warding and mercy—like a cloth keeping a minute calendar of every vow whispered within its shade. Cords braided from bronze hang with measured gravity, and when you tilt it toward the light, you glimpse the hood's crest: a modest cross of mercy entwined with a scholar's cipher. This is no mere fashion piece. The hood is said to belong to the order of cabalists who wove healing and warding into the same tapestry, priests who learned that mercy is strongest when it is grounded in ringed wards. In older scrolls of the Cathedral of Stillwater it is described as a garment that listens—softly, almost invisibly—to the names of the afflicted, then lends its breath to the wearer, guiding healing light to where it hurts most. To wear it is to walk with a quiet weight, moving through rooms where air feels saturated with prayers, sensing when a room's shadow thickens into danger. In gameplay terms, the hood serves as a bridge between protection and solace. It amplifies healing power and bolsters protective auras, turning a routine cleanse into a moment of refuge for allies caught in storm. Those who tilt toward support find its runic threads answering back, making aura skills linger longer and offering a steadier cadence to team defenses when fights grow ragged. It does not shout; it hums, letting other souls in the group hear the whisper of resilience as if a sentinel were present at every shoulder. Markets around the city hum with memory, and Saddlebag Exchange is a good place to glimpse how far the hood’s story travels. A veteran trader will lay a pale, measured claim about its value—not in coin alone, but in history traded from hand to hand, from patient healer to overworked scout. The parchment-tag price looks both humble and dignified, as if the market itself respects the garment’s lineage. I watch a buyer haggle with calm hands, thinking how this hood would sound with the click of a palm and a vow renewed in the glow of a lantern. To wear it is to become part of a legend that keeps writing itself. The hood travels with you through cathedrals and conflicts, a quiet clause in the contract between mercy and endurance—a piece of clothing that asks you to prove that divinity is a practice carried in the crown of a hood, the crease of a sleeve, and the patient beat of a healer’s heart.