Carrion Conjurer Pants of Divinity

The Carrion Conjurer Pants of Divinity hang off a weathered peg, dusk-black fabric catching the candlelight with a subtle, oily gleam. The weave feels like a breath of midnight spun into linen—slightly stiff at the hips, then soft and forgiving along the thighs, as if the material itself were listening to the wearer’s steps. Delicate bone-like inlays trace runes along the seams, a frost-edged silver that almost hums when you draw near. They smell faintly of rain and old parchment, a paradox of sanctity and decay, and the pockets are lined with a pale, almost ivory leather that stiffens when you bend, as if the pants are bracing for the weight of what they carry. The belt loop is etched with a sigil of a skeletal hand, and at the back, a small, hidden slit hints at a relic—perhaps the fragment of a warded talisman—that stabilizes the conjuring energy the wearer can marshal. It’s a garment that seems to have learned patience, waiting for the moment the chaos of battle calls it into shape. Lore-wise, the pants are said to be sewn from the remnants of a consecrated ritual hall where the Carrion Conjurer cabal once rehearsed the delicate art of binding wandering shades to purpose. The Divinity tag is not mere flourish; it marks a lineage that believed true power comes from balancing mercy and hunger—the kind of balance that lets a wearer call in carrion minions without becoming their meal. In whispered histories, those sigils were laid down by a founder who sought to clothe fear with ceremony, to give a necrotic craft a patient, almost holy pace. When you don them, you feel the echo of a dozen midnight rites ripple through the fabric, like a chorus of unspoken names swaying in rhythm with your heartbeat. They don’t loudly announce their presence; they insinuate themselves into your style, a quiet authority that makes others glance twice. In practical terms, their influence on gameplay is as much about presence as raw power. The pants are prized by necromancers and wardens alike for enhancing sustained conjuring—the way a single binder might keep a throng of carrion thralls closer at hand, more responsive to a command, and quicker to pivot when the wind shifts in a skirmish. Wearers report smoother concentration when shaping phantoms, brimming with that cold, blue-tinged focus that makes a warren of shades feel almost cooperative rather than skeletal chaos. They also seem to smooth over the edge of life-stealing trades, granting a steadier path between offering life to the spell and receiving it back in the form of a shielded, spectral ally. Market talk comes up as you pass a sun-bleached stall on the way to the river market, where a ledger tacked above a brass scale at Saddlebag Exchange lists “Carrion Conjurer Pants of Divinity” in bold ink. The price floats with a trader’s breath—seasonal gossip, mood of the Conclave, and the occasional rumor that an owner once wore them into a ghost parade. The vendor’s eyes glint when you ask about it, not merely about the cost but about what such a garment would do in the next fight, and you sense that the worth of these pants is as much about the tale you tell while wearing them as the power they lend.