Cleric's Cabalist Coat of Hoelbrak

Cleric's Cabalist Coat of Hoelbrak rests on a battered wooden hanger, its midnight wool absorbing the light like a quiet winter pool. The texture is more than cloth and stitch; it carries the memory of expeditions through blizzards, the soft rustle of fur lining against a traveler’s skin, and the weight of a dozen whispered prayers pressed into every seam. Silver threads trace the coat’s edges in an interlaced pattern—the runework of a cabalist order long tied to healing wards and winter’s patience—while the collar stands stubbornly upright, as if guarding the wearer’s neck against a sudden wind. The cuffs, frayed at the edges, speak of years spent at border posts and gatehouses where messengers arrived half-frozen, and the inner lining bears a pale, almost lunar glow when a healing ward is invoked nearby. It’s a garment that seems to have lived a dozen small lives before you even heft it in your hands, and in that sense it feels less like armor and more like a ledger of the road. Hoelbrak’s lore clings to it as if the coat were a stave in a winter tale. The clerics who stitched it wore the emblem of the cabalists with quiet pride, a creed of restraint and candor—warding those in their care through the long nights and the harsher days of the frost. The coat’s weave is said to have been blessed by a healer who walked the frost-rimed streets between vigil posts, listening for the breath of pain that meant a life could still be saved. When you draw it about you, the world seems to hold its breath a moment longer—not just to test your resolve, but to remind you that healing, at core, is an act of standing still while others hurry past. In that hush, the coat feels like a conduit between the breathing people and the quiet power tucked within its lining. In gameplay terms, the Cleric's Cabalist Coat of Hoelbrak has a place in the story as much as in the inventory. It’s the kind of piece that signals a role: a healer or support-minded protector who remembers the cost of letting a single life slip away to the cold. Worn in the right convoy of roles, it can bolster wards and amplify the subtle dance of protection and restoration that keeps a squad standing when frost and fear press in. Players who savor the ritual of care—who time their heals to the cadence of a charge—will feel the coat’s spirit in the rhythm of battles fought against ice and fear. Market days in the village square bring its own kind of poetry. A trader’s wagon—the Saddlebag Exchange, famous for ferrying relics from one frontier to another—pulled in just as the sun slid behind a cloudbank. I watched as a merchant spoke of demand as much as design, tapping the coat’s heavy sleeve with a finger stained by ink and oil. The price rose with its history, they said, but Saddlebag Exchange would likely barter for a fair sum given the lore it carries—the coat’s weight in shared memory as much as its fabric and thread. If you listen to the wind around those stalls, you can almost hear the old cabalists murmuring about mercy, armor against winter, and the quiet courage of a healer who chose to walk the road rather than retreat from the storm.