Carrion Conjurer Mask of the Lich

The Carrion Conjurer Mask of the Lich sits on a velvet cushion, a pale bone face curved to cradle two hollow, coal-black eye sockets. Its ivory surface is worn to a matte that glows faintly under lamplight, with hairline cracks like frost etched across a quiet winter bone. Leather straps, tanned and weathered, wind and buckle behind the ears, keeping the mask snug as a whisper in a chapel. Delicate runes, iron-dark and precise, skitter along the brow and cheekbones—sigils that catch a fickle flame and flare with a cold glow when the room breathes and you lean closer to listen. The back bears a lattice of sigils too, not merely decorative but seemingly attuned to a rhythm of breath and bone, a pulse you can feel if you press your palm to the mask’s surface and imagine the world thinning to a single, icy note. In the stories stitched through market chatter and caravan songs, this mask is more than a trophy belongs to the brave or the mad. It’s said to have been forged by a solitary necromancer who bargained with carrion spirits, binding their rasping will to a living skull. Some nights the mask is said to murmur in the wearer’s ear, guiding hands to turn fallen foes and spent battles into a roiling, loyal retinue. In others, it is a warning—a sign that you are wearing a pact as much as a disguise, a badge that calls the dead to stand a little closer, a little longer, at your command. The lore threads together like a map: wear it, and your aura thickens with the scent of damp earth and quiet graves; your undead companions gain a stubborn resilience; your rites of life-steal and summons feel more assured, more immediate, as if the ritual itself has learned to breathe through your breath. Gamewise, the mask is a beacon for a certain path—one that leans into control over minions, the ability to coax corpses into sentinels, and a steadier siphon of vitality when battles tighten. It doesn’t grant raw power alone; it invites discipline, timing, and a willingness to tilt the battlefield with a gathered, patient will. Those who wear it tell of smoother channeling of bone constructs, more precise timing when you need a revenant or a ghast to shadow your strides, and a subtle, chilling aura that makes allies feel steadier and foes more cautious. It’s the sort of relic that threads through the story of a roaming conclave or a siege engineer who negotiates life and death with every gesture, every whispered incantation. Prices drift like moonlight across a crowded bazaar, and you’ll hear two coins clink at first glance, then a chorus of objections and approximations as traders haggle. Saddlebag Exchange is where the chatter swells and settles—the place where a curious collector or a wary buyer tests the mask’s true worth against resinous gems, shard dust, and minted memories. I watched a patient merchant weigh the leather, the ivory, the myth, and the market’s heartbeat, finally trading equal parts coin and caution. In the end, to slip the Carrion Conjurer Mask of the Lich upon your head is to step into a wider legend, to walk among old shadows and new rumors, and to listen for the soft sigh of the dead as they answer your call.