Cleric's Seer Mantle of Scavenging

The Cleric's Seer Mantle of Scavenging hangs on a weathered peg, its ash-gray wool catching the candlelight with a patient shimmer. The fabric is thick enough to mute the echo of footsteps, yet soft as a whispered prayer, and the hood falls over the shoulders like a quiet shelter against rain and attention. Copper thread traces constellations along the seams, catching every flicker and turning it into a map for the wearer, while sigils pressed into the lining glow faintly when you lean close and listen to the cloth’s own memories. It carries the scent of rain-soaked stone and old parchment, and the edges, frayed from years of rummaging through ruined markets, tell a story of long nights spent sorting through wreckage for something—anything—that might still serve a life. Lore ties the mantle to a Seer who walked among shattered sanctuaries after battles, blessing the scavengers who gathered the fallen to turn neglect into utility, the broken into talismans, the ignored into tools. In the field, the mantle does more than clothe a bearer; it seems to whisper a method for turning loss into gain. Wearers report that the cloth seems to pull small blessings toward their pockets—an extra shard of magnetite from a collapsed chest, a fragment of salvaged circuitry that hums when touched, a rare herb from a burned apothecary’s stall—small mercies that keep a healer or rogue alive when the world has narrowed to one stubborn glint of gold in a market stall’s glass. In practical terms, the Cleric's Seer Mantle of Scavenging tightens a scavenger's edge: it heightens the instinct to locate salvageable components, accelerates the gleaning of hidden container caches, and nudges chance toward rarer drops from salvage work, all while offering the protection and presence of a paladin’s ward. It makes sense that such a mantle would travel with traders, guides, and keepers of the road, for it binds story to survival and lore to loot. The cloth’s worth, however, is not only measured in its power but in its price on the open market, where traders haggle with the hum of coin beneath their breath. On Saddlebag Exchange the price drifts with rumor and demand, a thread pulled taut by the weight of the wearer’s reputation and the need of those who seek to salvage hope from ruin. A mantle like this becomes a narrative in itself, traded between camps and caravans, a portable reliquary of scavenging faith. When you slip it on, you wear more than a garment; you wear a covenant that the discarded can be redeemed, that a quiet seam can stitch a path forward through a world that rewards those who listen to its forgotten voices.