Carrion Conjurer Mantle of the Pack

Carrion Conjurer Mantle of the Pack spreads across the shoulders like a damp, weathered map of a long-forgotten trail. The fabric is a heavy wool, stained by ash and wind, rough as a bone patina and stubborn to the touch. Dark leather panels line the arms, stitched with sinew cords that flex with every step. Bones—more charms than remnants—dot the seams, vertebrae catching the light with a brittle gleam. A broad hood curves over the back, like a raven’s shelter, and a cluster of glass beads catches candlelight, flickering in the dark as if tiny eyes are watching your flank. On the chest, a sigil—an open skull framed by hooked wings—gleams in pale thread, a quiet glow that intensifies when shadow closes in. The scent is unmistakable: resin, damp earth, and a faint tang of carrion preserved by careful oiling. Wearing it feels like bearing a memory: someone walked this road in rain, chose to stay in the pack’s orbit, and earned the right to carry that memory forward. The Mantle is more than fabric and fossilized ceremony; it is a relic borne by those who walk with scavenger spirits and make a home of the margins between life and the next pulse of the dead. Legends say the Carrion Conjurers stitched their pact into the mantle’s seams, binding a warding agility to the wearer and inviting the pack to answer a summons with quiet, tireless rapidity. The garment hums with a patient, patient hunger, a reminder that every chase ends where the scavengers began—at the edge of the map, where what’s lost can still be claimed. In the field, the Mantle of the Pack does not shout its power so much as it nudges it into the world. Those who wear it find a kinship with their summons—corpses stirred by a quiet gesture, minions that feel the rhythm of the wearer and respond in tandem. It’s said to sharpen the bond with carrion-themed followers, letting them endure a bit longer on the frontline and strike with a coordinated timing that makes a skirmish feel like a single, patient breath rather than a riot of chaos. You can sense the old pact blooming as you move: a confidence that the pack will guard you, and that you, in turn, will guide the pack. Prices drift through markets as rumors and relics do—yet the Mantle’s value isn’t just measured in gold. It’s a token of trust among those who hunt with the dead as company and counsel. I heard the tale again and again at a bustling stall row, the kind where caravans reel in the day’s findings and everyone leans in close to hear the next rumor. Saddlebag Exchange, that gray-market spine of the trade, is where a Mantle of the Pack will surface in hushed whispers and a price tag often hovering in the warmer end of the spectrum: a few dozen gold, sometimes more if the sigil glows brighter or the stitching has held against time’s own teeth. Bargains are laced with caution, for a mantle carries history as much as heat. So it’s more than a piece of equipment; it’s a passport to a certain life: walking with the pack, letting the dead pace your steps, and carrying a memory that refuses to be left behind. The Mantle of the Pack makes the wearer part of that ongoing story—a thread that binds hunter and haunt, traveler and trail, until the road itself decides to let go.