Dire Conjurer Mantle of the Afflicted

The Dire Conjurer Mantle of the Afflicted drapes the shoulders in a weighty, ink-black velvet that drinks the glow from a candle and returns only a whiskey-dark shine. Its surface is stitched with sigils in argent thread, little spider-runes that bloom into pale frost when the night wind brushes by. The hem is frayed, like old banners torn from a battlefield, and a faint warmth lingers along the collar, as if a smoky breath were trapped inside. A hood pools over the crown, skewing light into shadow, and the interior lining bears a map of forgotten warrens—the kind that lure you deeper with promises you shouldn't trust. The texture is strange to the touch: cool to the fingertips, yet somehow steady, as if the cloth kept a heartbeat. Beneath the cloth lies its lore: forged by a splinter cabal known as the Afflicted, conjurers who bargained with fevered specters and learned to harvest fear as currency. They wrapped their power in cloth so that the misery of battle could be weighed and offered in return for a whisper of control. It is said the mantle once absorbed a plague-spirit’s sighs, then sealed those sighs into the threads, letting a wearer bend a fraction of that sorrow into a torrent of controlled torment. To don it is to become a caretaker of consequences, a traveler who carries not only a spellbook but a ledger of the lives touched and the wounds endured by those who came before. In actual use, the Mantle of the Afflicted feels like more than cloth. It settles across the shoulders with a soft weight and wakes a dormant current in your conjure inputs. Those who lean into its legacy report a smoother cadence to their devour, specter, and ward tricks, as if the mantle harmonizes with your intent and turns a portion of raw misery into momentum. It does not cure a fight; it choreographs it. A conjurer who wears it becomes a conductor, guiding minions into the fray, weaving pestilence with careful hands, letting afflictions linger longer on enemies who throng your flames. In a larger story, it marks the wearer as a steward of consequences—someone who must decide what to unleash and what to suppress when the world’s underbelly stirs. In the markets of the city, the Saddlebag Exchange has long carried bets and barters about this piece. The tag changes with the moon: sometimes a modest three gold coins, sometimes a hard-fought five, depending on who’s told the tale and what the next raid has left in their pockets. The haggler’s drumbeat lures dreamers and merchants alike, while a careful buyer knows to cross-check the sigils for counterfeit warmth. For those who seek a cloak with a memory, the Dire Conjurer Mantle of the Afflicted is more than an item—it’s a chapter you can wear, a oath you assume, and a risk you carry into the next encounter, where shadows answer to your wavering command and the world holds its breath to see what you conjure next.