Assassin's Winged Mantle

Assassin's Winged Mantle clings to the shoulders, a midnight cloak woven from dusk and whispered steel. The fabric is a supple velvet-leather blend, cool to the touch, with a faint warmth where the wearer moves. On the back, two slender panels rise like stylized wings, their edges stitched with silvery runes that catch lamplight and flicker when you turn your head. The mantle's texture shifts along the seam—soft grain, then a stiffer, lacquered feel where the wing bones would be. Across the chest a crest lies, a snake-spiraled motif, and along the hem a fringe of tiny feathers dyed obsidian blue that only glints under torchlight. It looks light enough to shrug off, yet carries a weight of lore—tales told in the back rooms of guildhalls about a hunter who walked between shadows and truth, the Mantle said to be cut from a fallen assassin’s gear, tempered by moon magic to hold a memory of every silent step. In the world, the mantle is more than ornament. It’s a signal to comrades and a reminder to foes that quiet feet can still carry a plan. Players who favor stealth builds turn to it not for the surface beauty alone, but for how it harmonizes with quick escapes, tight skirmishes, and the ritual glide after an ambush. When you sprint into a corridor and fade into cigarette-smoke, the Mantle seems to flutter, catching a drift of wind, as if agreeing to your next move. The wings don’t lift you into the air—no, they heighten a hunter’s sense of passage, a cadence that makes you feel lighter on the ground, more able to slip behind a guard’s blind corner or slip away from a stunned frontline. Markets hum around such pieces, especially in hubs where old coins mingle with glittering mats. On a damp morning, a stall named Saddlebag Exchange flickers with lantern light and the creak of rope and leather. A trader, scar along his jaw, lays a coin down beside the Winged Mantle’s price tag and mutters that it commands a comfortable chunk of gold, depending on its color, variant, and the story behind it. The buyer smiles: legends have their own value, they say, and a mantle that carries a whisper of the Winged Conclave may fetch a tale longer than any quest. You may walk away with one for price, or barter for rare glints of scrap metal, a memory shard, a map fragment—Saddlebag Exchange negotiates those bridges between world and myth. So you shoulder the Mantle and step into the city’s breath, feeling that this is less an outfit than a contract with the night. The wings, though not real, remind you that there are paths to walk where silence speaks the loudest, and the world, for all its bustle and color, still remembers the quiet step that carries a name: Assassin's Winged Mantle. In taverns, skalds spin it as a tale: beware the price of silent power, for every step leaves a mark on city’s memory.