Cleric's Conjurer Mantle of the Lich

Cleric's Conjurer Mantle of the Lich rests heavy across the shoulders, a cloak of midnight wool that seems to swallow light. Its surface glints with a polished, almost lacquered sheen, while the inner side is warm and dove-gray, like a quiet confession spoken against the skin. The hem is embroidered with bone-white thread in an intricate lattice of sigils that pulse faintly when you breathe, a soft blue glow tracing the pattern as if the cloth itself remembers every spell you have ever learned. A hood drapes low, casting your features into a deliberate shadow, and along the shoulders a row of small carved beads—seeds of some long-forgotten laurel—sit as if pinned to memory, waiting for a voice to call them to life. The texture shifts between silk and velvet as you move, a tactile reminder that this mantle is at once a garment and a conduit, a piece of history you can wear into the next hour of combat or quiet negotiation alike. Lore hints coiled into the weave, too. The Cleric-Conjurer order—a rare kinship of care and consequence—tended the living while shepherding echoes of the departed. They believed every healing touch could tether a fragment of a restless spirit, and they learned to dress the dead’s debt in cloth and oath. The Mantle of the Lich is said to be spun from those very vows, pressed into a fabric that carries both the warmth of mercy and the gravity of restraint. To slip it on is to acknowledge a pact: healing may require a toll, and power, once drawn, travels with you as a patient, watchful partner. In the world of skirmishes and sanctuaries, the mantle has a practical voice. For a conjurer or necromancer who leans on minions and spectral allies, its aura seems to tune the tempo of magic, letting life and death dance in closer harmony. Wielding it, a spellcaster finds the edge where lifeblood flows back into the caster along the same thread that nourishes a conjured warden or skeletal archer. It doesn’t erase risk; it reframes it. The cloak’s subtle resonance can prolong a fight by stabilizing the ebb and flow of souls you call forth, lending you patience when the world narrows to a single wailing minion and a single stubborn heartbeat. In quiet moments between skirmishes, the mantle reminds you of the oath you wear: to heal, to guard, to command what must be commanded—even if the price is measured in whispers and look-alike shadows. Market talk threads through the story as well. In the cluttered aisles of Saddlebag Exchange, where relics trade hands like rumors passed around a campfire, the Mantle of the Lich is spoken of with a cautious reverence. The price tag shifts with the mood of the day: a gleaming, pristine piece draws admiring glances and a chorus of speculative offers; a worn version carries less sheen but more history, which is often enough to curry interest from collectors who value lore as highly as lluminated thread. Traders nod and bargain in low voices, weighing the tale behind the cloak as much as its relic-back mileage. A clean mantle can fetch a tidy sum; a storied one can become the centerpiece of a longer negotiation, the kind that starts with “I saw a monastery fall” and ends with a handshake under a flickering lantern. So it hangs there, not merely as cloth, but as a vow threaded into a living world. Cleric's Conjurer Mantle of the Lich is a garment of mercy and debt, a reminder that power—like kindness—often travels best when carried with care.