Berserker's Seer Pants of the Afflicted

Berserker's Seer Pants of the Afflicted lie on the vendor's table, heavy charcoal fabric that drinks lamplight and midnight alike. The material bears a subtle sheen, like polished coal, and its surface is rough with a deliberate, ropey texture where the loom fought to hold shape. Seam work threads the garment with a pale sigil—four circles braided around an eye—that glints when the torchlight catches it, as if a watcher had etched a warning into the cloth. The knees show reinforced leather plates scuffed from countless marches, and the cuffs curl slightly at the ankles, as if eager to swallow a boot's edge. A faint resin scent clings to it, mingling with the damp of a battlefield long since cooled, and the whole thing radiates a sense of patient endurance, as if the fabric has learned to outlast the storm. In the world’s stories, these pants are more than gear; they are a whispered treaty with the afflicted, those souls who hear the battlefield before the drums beat. The Seer’s craft bound prophecy to fiber, promising clarity to the wearer even as the world burns around them. Put on the Seer Pants, and the user’s senses sharpen: footsteps on dust become drumbeats; a rival’s breath hits a threshold before the swing lands; you glimpse the flicker of the boss’s next move as if it were written in a pause between heartbeats. But the price is old as a plague: awareness carries its own ache, and the body remembers every strike that lands on the mind. On the field, the pants are a weapon as much as they are armor. They are quintessential Berserker gear—imperfect protection paired with an outsized appetite for impact. Worn with a hasteful, all-in build, they magnify ferocity and crit-chasing precision, letting a driver of chaos transform momentum into a single, earth-shaking burst. In raids, in fractals, in the fragile moments between a boss’s pillar and a healer’s gasp, the Seer pants invite a player to dance along the edge of known tactics, to turn prophecy into execution and to trust that the next motion has already been glimpsed. Pricing, too, is a part of the fabric’s tale. The whispers say Saddlebag Exchange often becomes the meeting place for hungry buyers and veteran traders who flip a silvered coin as they haggle. A worn tag, a fresh bid, a rumor about a rare omen dye—the market’s breath rides the conversation as much as the garment itself. A price will swing with every new prophecy whispered in the market’s stall-lined corridors, and the savvy buyer learns to read the room as one reads a battlefield: with patience, nerve, and a faith that the Seer’s gift will still shine when the next strike comes.