Cleric's Cabalist Shoulders of the Lich

The Cleric's Cabalist Shoulders of the Lich gleam with pale bone-white plates, etched with silver sigils that glow faintly like frost at midnight. Each shoulder is a study in restraint and menace: ridges of carved bone wrap around a core of dark ore, and filigree threads wind along the seams, catching light as if tiny torches are stowed inside. The texture feels ancient yet alive, a cool rasp under the touch, as if the armor remembers the hands that forged it. Against the cloth beneath, the sigils pulse with a slow, patient rhythm, hinting at a lore that binds the living to the dead in a ritual favored by archivists and dark counselors. Legends say the Lich lent its shadow to a cabalist sect that taught the art of speaking to souls through bone and breath. Wearing these shoulders, a cleric would wear a robe of quiet power, a conduit for rites that turn necrotic energy into shielded resolve. The seams seem to harbor a whisper—half a warning, half an invitation—that a ritual can flare into life when healing hands mingle with granted doom. The lore speaks of nights when the order bound spectral guardians to the shoulder blades, letting them drift along the edge of the battlefield to warn of danger and to listen for the first sighs of the fallen. From a gameplay lens, they are not mere ornament. In the right hands, these shoulders anchor a build that leans into lifeforce and disciplined control. They speak a language of synergy with minions and marshalling of dark resilience, a favorite among necromantic clerics who weave healing and doom in the same incantation. When a healing spell hums, the sigils flare and a wind of pale motes sweeps outward, tugging at the wounded with a quiet promise of return. They do not shout—rather they murmur contracts: life granted, pain tempered, and foes unsettled as the ritual cadence grows steadier with each use. That is where the market’s pulse threads through the tale. On a sunlit afternoon, I followed a caravan to the Saddlebag Exchange, a place where caravans barter relics and rumors travel faster than coins. A trader named Lomar eyes the shoulders with practiced hunger, weighing them against a ledger of demands and dreams. The chalked tag proclaims a price in gold, though the primary negotiator knows the true currency is memory: who wore them, who whispered back when the dead were not yet quiet. Lomar would entertain exchange for a bundle of rare inks or a crate of antique tomes, promising that a buyer who understands the artifact’s mood walks away with more than a mere discount in a storehouse of legends. The consensus is simple: value is earned by listening to the world’s hush—the sighs of wind through broken halls, the glow of sigils when the moon climbs. And so the Cleric’s Cabalist Shoulders of the Lich pass from one story to the next, a link in a longer chain that binds past and present into the quiet armour of the living.