Strong Cabalist Coat of the Lich

Strong Cabalist Coat of the Lich rests on the peg like a dark oath, its robe-thick wool black as spilled ink, stained with lacquered panels that catch candlelight and a fringe of pale bone-white trim along the hems. The texture is a surprising blend: a supple, almost velvet feel over woven shield-mesh, with seams that hum softly when the runes along the chest awaken. The collar rises like a damp midnight fog and the shoulders are reinforced with slender plates etched with sigils that trace the borders of forgotten bargains. It seems to carry a memory, as if the coat absorbed the whispers of the Cabalist's apprentices and the secrets of a ritual conducted in a moonless ruin beneath the citadel. Lore laces the fabric—stories say it was woven by artisans who bargained with the Lich itself, a thing that bound living warmth into cold protection, promising power to the bearer but at a price paid in quiet vows and tenure in the fading light. In battle it behaves like a companion more than a garment, thick enough to shield a man’s nerves yet light enough to swing a scythe-like staff without a jolt. The Strong Cabalist Coat of the Lich carries an old breath: whenever life draws near the bearer, a flicker of ghost-fire gathers at the collar and flows into the wearer’s health, granting a small lifesteal that seems almost mortal in its mercy. It also tightens the bonds around lesser minions, sharpening their barked commands and giving spectral caretakers a longer leash. Practitioners tell of runes that pulse with the wearer’s heartbeat, syncing with the body's own tempo and turning fear into a measured advantage. For those who seek control over the darkest wards, the coat is less a piece of armor and more a signature, a declaration that the wearer chooses to walk with spirits rather than to outrun them. Markets and myths meet in the same breath when you walk into the Saddlebag Exchange at dusk, where traders lay out velvet pouches and scrolls on creaking boards and barter in a language of gold and bone. The coat’s price—hushed, debated, and sometimes negotiated with a sly smile—drifts between rumors and reality. One seller, a retired ritualist with knowing eyes, quotes it at sixty gold coins, with negotiations possible for a caravan’s worth of ectoplasm and a handful of rare sigils. Another heartier merchant taps the edge of the coat, promising that the right trade will unlock not just power, but loyalty from the watchers in the dim halls beyond. If you listen carefully, you can hear the coat whisper back to the world: a promise kept, a danger acknowledged, and a path chosen for those who dare to wear it and walk where the veil between life and death grows thin. Some nights the coat seems to rustle with distant footsteps, urging the wearer toward a hard choice: to bind another soul to the living world or to drift beyond the flame of mercy, still.