Carrion Conjurer Mask of Melandru

The Carrion Conjurer Mask of Melandru sits on the shelf like a relic grown from a fallen grove, its bone-white surface catching a flicker of candlelight and turning it into a quiet halo around a pale, mask-like face. The piece is carved with patient, almost reverent care: delicate sigils spiral along the cheekbones, a thorned motif of Melandru curling toward the temples, and a narrow line of ebony lacquer tracing the rim as if sealing in whispers. Its eye slits are shaded and deep, suggesting a gaze that sees through both flesh and shadow. The leather strap that once bound it to a wearer is weathered, foxed with age, yet still pliant enough to suggest it could be fastened again to someone clever enough to listen to forest-taught hands. A ragged tuft of dark fiber—perhaps a remnant of a bird’s plumage or a ceremonial cord—crowns the crown, giving the mask the appearance of something both ceremonial and scavenged from the wild’s more macabre corners. Touch it, and the surface feels cool, a deliberate counterpoint to the heat and breath of a crowded camp, as if the mask carries a whisper of winter even in summer markets. Its lore threads through the item as if it were a breath between worlds. The Melandru in question is the goddess of guardianship and growth, a patron of forests and healing that never fully relinquishes a story to decay. This mask, they say, was worn by a caravan conjurer who walked the boundary between life and rot, summoning carrion spirits not to mock the end but to mend the torn edges of a grove wrecked by blight. The wearer whispered to the fungi that knit the soil and to the birds that scouted the canopy, coaxing a new balance from decay. In time, the mask came to symbolize the uneasy alliance between life’s abundance and death’s inevitability—the art of gathering what remains and using it to protect what endures. In practical terms, the mask is not merely a trinket of story but a tool that glides into the rhythm of a Necromancer’s or a condition-focused build. When worn in the right hands, it seems to temper the harsher edges of the dead, shaping a narrative where minions grow more faithful and in-tune with a player’s forest-blooded path. Players report that it harmonizes with conjuration arts and nature-aligned survivability, letting you stride through a clearing of foes while the grove’s whispers calm the restless. It is the sort of item that invites a captain of whispers and a lifeblood steward to weave a larger tale—one where every minion, every petal, and every pulse of decay is a note in a larger ballad of survival. Prices drift through the market like autumn leaves, and in the backrooms of Saddlebag Exchange you’ll hear the murmured arithmetic of rarity and demand. The mask can be found hovering around a price that honest traders call negotiable, a balance between the thrill of possession and the weight of legend. Some buyers push for a guardian’s patience, others for a hunter’s stealth, and the chatter behind the counter—where rough blankets of gold coins glare like coins on a hearth—tells of buyers who seek more than a costume: they seek a story they can wear as they walk through shadowed glades again and again.