Betrayer's Vestments of the Cavalier

Betrayer's Vestments of the Cavalier drape from a wooden peg like a shadow drawn into cloth: deep crimson velvet over a lattice of charcoal leather, the edges frayed just so, the stitching precise as a knight's oath. A chest piece bears a crest half-remembered—a shield cracked by a moonline of copper thread that catches glint after rain—while the sleeves, tailored with quiet arrogance, sit over gauntlets as if ready for a scene that never quite ends. The texture alternates between the plush warmth of velvet and the cool bite of metal, the lining smelling faintly of rain, smoke, and old tobacco from the last courtly auction. Lore threads through the fabric as surely as the thread itself: this set once clothed a cavalier of the Order of the Duskwatch who, steeped in loyalty yet strangely compelled by a hidden oath, turned on his brethren and vanished into a city night. The armor survived the fire that swallowed his quarters, and a horned sigil was scorched into the cuirass—though the copper ribbon remains intact, looped like a counterfeit badge of honor, a reminder that fidelity, too, can betray. In the world, the vestments carry more than weight and silhouette; they carry narrative weight. When you wear them, you become a walking rumor, a figure in player-vs-environment and roleplay alike who signals you know a story others only suspect. They are a coveted cosmetic piece that helps shape a rider’s aura—armor that looks at once noble and haunted, suitable for dusk-lit marches or whispered parley on a ruined bridge. Dye them, pair them with steel greaves and a weathered cape, and they become a window into a frontier where bargains are struck with both swords and secrets. Their uses stretch beyond vanity: they anchor quests that explore the delicate thread between fealty and rebellion, and they pair with companion stories that unfold in the taverns and market lanes of the world, where characters trade not only goods but histories. On a market morning, I found the vestments echoing a different kind of bargain at Saddlebag Exchange, a stall-front crowded with crates and gossip. A clerk rolled the ledger open, and the price—written in flourishes—hung above a cluster of rag-and-bone trinkets. The crowd murmured as if reading a future, the kind of chatter that makes a price swing with rumor and memory. For those who carry the vestments into the world, the coin is not merely a cost but a vote for the story you intend to tell, a stake laid down in a market where every item fights for its legend.