Shaman's Conjurer Mask of the Lich

Shaman's Conjurer Mask of the Lich sits on the table, a bone-white faceplate lacquered in midnight ink, its surface cool to the touch and etched with sinewy glyphs that shift like cobwebs under candlelight. Two hollow eye sockets hold fragments of smoky glass that catch a stray spark and glow faintly when conjuration crackles in the air. A crest of carved stag antlers rises from the brow, bound with dark leather that smells of rain and dried resin. The texture is paradoxical: smooth as bone at the outer edge, yet tremulous where the runes meet the skin of the wearer, as if the mask remembers every breath that has passed beneath it. It feels heavier than it looks, weight born of old bargains and long nights spent listening to whispers that aren’t your own. Lore clings to it as if it were a remnant of a pact sealed at a crossroads between shamanic power and necromantic ambition. The elders say that this mask was forged in a place where ritualists invited a patient, calculating lich to lend its gaze to a mortal face—a moment when fear becomes a tool and memory becomes a weapon. To don the Shaman's Conjurer Mask of the Lich is to carry a thread of that bargain; not a curse so much as an invitation to walk with specters who know the lay of the land between life and the echo of what lies beyond. In the field, the mask feels almost alive, as if it recognizes you and answers with a soft kinship toward the conjured. It tightens the weave around your conjurer’s toolkit, amplifying the resonance of your minions and totems. When you summon a spectral ally, the creature responds with an extra sigh of air, a little more menace in its claws or jaws, and your totems burn a bit brighter, their sigils enough to draw the eye of foes who might otherwise ignore the quiet promises of an ally in the corner of the battlefield. The mask doesn’t grant raw invincibility or flashy power, but it turns the ritual you perform into a more intimate conversation with the world’s hidden corners, where the dead listen and the living learn your intent with each whispered chant. I’ve watched it draw questions from traders and wanderers alike—why now, why this face, why this pact? The conversations curl into rumors about price and scarcity, about the risks of a bargain that could outlast a single life. The market chatter is inevitable, and Saddlebag Exchange figures into the dialogue as a barometer of its value. Listings pop up in quiet bursts, prices fluttering with demand and the cadence of guilds shifting their loyalties, and the stories surrounding each sale drift through the stall markets like autumn leaves. A mask such as this neither sells for a fixed sum nor loses its aura to a simple arithmetic; it sells for a moment when a new caretaker believes that the Lich’s patient, wary gaze might guide their next expedition, a moment when a collector or a mage-nomad sees their own reflection in the bone-white face and chooses to walk a little longer into the night.