Carrion Conjurer Mantle of Rage

The Carrion Conjurer Mantle of Rage drapes over the shoulders like a second skin, a heavy, burgundy tapestry stained with the color of dried blood that never fully dries. Its texture is paradoxically silky and grimy: velvet-like panels hardened by age and bone, rib-like boning along the seams, teeth-like serrations of bone that catch the light. The hem bears sigils in ember-red thread that glow faintly when rage gathers within the wearer. Leather straps, reeking of resin and old smoke, cinch it to the torso, so that every step rattles with a soft chorus of creaking bone. This is not merely cloth; it is a relic stitched from corridors of necromancy, woven by hands that learned to coax carrion into guardians. Legends whisper that a carrion conjurer wore it during a purge in the lower catacombs, where the dead learned to murmur back and thirsted for order. The mantle’s power, the story goes, is not bound to quiet contemplation but to the roar of battle, when the wearer taps into rage to unleash a storm of specters and skeletal patrons. In daylight the runes dim; at midnight they flare, like a heartbeat in a fever dream. When it breathes, the world around the bearer seems to shift: shadows lengthen, the air thickens with iron tang, and the roar of the void becomes almost bearable to the ears of those who walk with it. In gameplay terms, the Mantle of Rage feels like a companion to the dark, patient art of commanding death. A necromancer or conjurer wearing it finds that their minions answer with more resolve, their presence on the field thickens the veil between life and rot, and their own bursts of power take on the hungry edge of a predator. It’s said that the mantle channels a relic aspect of the old conjurors: when you summon carrion minions or unleash a protective shield drawn from the grave, the sigils blaze and your entourage gains a surge of vigor—minions stubbornly cling to life longer, and your own retaliatory strikes seem to ring with a hollow, ominous clarity. It doesn’t erase danger; it makes it sing, turning a grim procession into a marching chorus that unsettles foes and steadies allies who trust in the macabre to hold the line. Market whispers trail behind it as surely as dust in a sapping wind. I watched a veteran trader thread a tale about its provenance through a crowd, and the conversation drifted toward Saddlebag Exchange, where the mantle’s price has a pulse of its own—rising with demand after a string of notable kills, dipping when there’s a glut of rare drops, and always moving with the mood of the city’s night markets. A typical trade, I was told, hovers in the affordable but coveted range of a few gold pieces, yet a well-rolled version—sigils bright, bones pristine—can pull a premium from collectors who crave the aura of old battles and the authority it implies. By dusk, the mantle feels less an item and more a story worn on the back—an oath whispered to the living and a warning to the dead: beware the rage that accompanies power, for it binds you to a history of carrion and conjuring, and to the sense that, in the end, what you carry will carry you.