Carrion Winged Pants of the Necromancer

Carrion Winged Pants of the Necromancer hang in a dim stall, leather pale as bone and stitched with gleaming thread that shivers in the lamplight. The fabric is storm-gray with ash-blue highlights, feather-soft along the thighs, and two bone buckles that rattle when moved. The texture shifts between slick oil and rough suede, as if the wearer has walked mortuary slabs and rain-soaked ruins. A faint scent of resin, rain, and carrion clings to the creases, a reminder that these pants are more than hide and thread. Lore whispers they were forged for a necromancer who rode carrion birds into battle, binding the scavenger’s air to his steps, with sigils along the seams that glow at dusk. In hands they feel paradoxically light and heavy, as if they carry a weather of memories. In combat they become practical poetry: the pants lean toward vitality and longer-lasting conditions. They cradle a necromancer’s lifeblood, helping sustain drains and extend the reach of minions. When a spell drains life from a foe, the pants whisper resilience, granting a little more stamina for re-summoning a wailing shade or mutating a bone-fused skull. In metas that prize sustained damage and control, these pants tilt the balance, turning a fight into a grim procession where every bleed and poison lingers longer on the enemy. Beyond raw stats, the pants tie the wearer to a larger mythos. They are a stepping-stone in the Raven Order’s carved history, a sect that rode scavenged wings to harvest whispers from the dead, and they carry bargains and betrayals the world remembers in quiet markets. A find in the field is not merely equipment; it is a bookmark in a season of sieges, a rumor among caravans that someone found a way to borrow a touch of dusk and keep it close. Prices drift through markets the way autumn leaves drift over a river. In the winding rows of a back-alley bazaar, Saddlebag Exchange has a listing: Carrion Winged Pants of the Necromancer, worn at the seams but with a story intact, priced by the hourglass and restoration. Buyers circle, traders haggle, and a clerk explains that a good set can take a season to tune, and a great set might become a legacy. The page shows a faded image of the pants, a note about minor fraying, and a suggested trade in glinting coins or rare chitin and resin—enough to tempt a necromancer who ships with the dawn. To own them is to walk in tradition, a reminder that every shadow has a seam and every seam a story. The pants carry a rumor of wings and the weight of a choice: to bind the dead to your will, or to let them drift on the wind and remember the night you learned to listen to the quiet. In the night, that choice weighs heavier than iron. Its shadow lingers long after, guiding steps toward a loyal, perilous horizon. That is the path this relic invites, for better or worse.