Carrion Winged Tunic of the Necromancer

Carrion Winged Tunic of the Necromancer spreads across a display bust like a shroud, its fabric a pallid ash-gray that feels coarse at the fingers yet somehow silken where a ritual thread has worn smooth. The texture carries centuries of whispered hands—soft where it matters, stubbornly stubborn where it does not. From the shoulders sprout dark, winglike panels: bone-white hide stitched with lacquered black feathers, each plate etched with sigils that catch candlelight and ghost a memory of deals struck in fevered dreams. The collar is tall and forgiving, but the hem ends in a ragged fringe that flutters when the room sighs, as if a memory of wings still trembles there. The whole piece seems to carry a scent of rain on stone and a thread of old soil, as if it were sewn from the last breaths of field graves and the first cold winds after a siege. Lore lingers in the tunic’s seams, where the old tales say it was worn by a necromancer who walked with carrion birds as if they were sentinels and conscience. Some legends claim the tunic was woven from the hide and feather of a nesting pair that fled a plague-haunted caravan, a garment made not to hide power but to bind it to a watcher’s reach. When worn, the sigils whisper of bargains struck between life and what lies beyond speech, and in the right hands the wings seem to lift a person not merely through air but through memory—the way a battlefield might lift away in the mind’s night and leave the living to reckon with what was done. In the world’s markets the tunic is a hinge between history and necessity. Those who seek to channel death’s soft authority—necromancers and their curious allies—treat it as both mantle and talisman, a piece that intensifies the aura of corpses at rest and heightens the bond with a necromancer’s steadfast minions. It is said to augment the potency of bone armor and to coax a little extra life out of a lifetap, nudging summoned shadows to linger just a heartbeat longer at the necromancer’s will. Its presence invites a dance of tactics: a wearer’s minions gain a touch more bite, the wearer’s curses mark foes with a longer shadow, and the wearer moves through battlefield ebb and flow with a patient, predator-like grace. The garment’s value is as much a story as its fabric. A trader’s table, a glint of gold, a measure of risk—these are the coins by which a relic like this moves. I found myself tracing the price in the bustle of Saddlebag Exchange, where a few gold pieces could be traded for the tunic or resolved into a string of smaller coins and keepsakes. The market breathes with the possibility that a particular night will tilt the scale: a buyer who hears the sigils and sees a strategic edge, a seller who remembers the old wars and the debt they carried. Deals shift with mood and memory, and the Carrion Winged Tunic of the Necromancer is one of those items that makes the room lean in a little closer, as if the wings themselves were listening for the next whisper across the stall. In the end, it lands where history and power meet, awaiting the hand that will either bind it to the next story or let it drift back into the shadowed shelves of memory.