Ritualist's Ancient Ritualist Vestments spill from a weathered hanger, velvet midnight and linen ash catching the lamplight in slow, deliberate glints. The fabric seems to hum with a memory you can almost hear—the whisper of a distant cloister, the rustle of ritual pages, the weight of promises kept in candle glow. A line of bone-white piping traces along the sleeves, curling into sigils that glow faintly when touched by firelight, as if the thread remembers hands long gone. The collar stands stiff and ceremonial, a sentinel against the heat of the world, while the hem settles like a shoreline of dusk around the wearer’s boots. On the back lies a circular emblem, an eye opened to listen, surrounded by a ring of tiny runes that catch every shimmer of the room and echo a vow to guard what is spoken aloud in the rite. The texture is tactile—a blend of silk that brushes like night riverwater and roughened weave at the seams, where age has roughened the edges and spared the color’s deep resolve. Lorekeepers speak of this vestment as a link to an order that bound memory to cloth, a lineage that could wake whispers in the air and trade them for offerings in the ritual’s name. When you cradle it, you feel the old world leaning in, as if someone once draped you in a mantle of moments you were not there to witness but are invited to recall. In the world where such garments carry weight beyond their stitch, these vestments become more than cloth; they become a statement of purpose. They suit the march and the hush of ritual, the kind of attire a practitioner might wear when drawing sigils in the dust to calm an unsettled dusk or to bind a lingering echo to a sturdy, earthly shore. Wearing them, a player can lean into a ceremonial aesthetic—gestures feel more deliberate, footsteps softer, and even the glow of necromantic warding seems to sharpen as if the vestments were a conduit between body and breath, between memory and magic. They don’t just decorate; they align you with the history of the rite, the idea that power is not only felt but tended, carried, and passed along like a careful flame. The market breathes with the same patient cadence, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes the stage where this relic meets the eyes of collectors, historians, and those who seek to walk within the old stories. A quiet negotiation can unfold over a parchment receipt and a handful of silver, the vendor’s fingers tracing the sigils as if to coax a response from the cloth itself. Prices drift with rumor and moonlight, rising when a new shipment hints at a forgotten chapter, softening when another relic surfaces that pairs well with the vestments’ mournful beauty. It’s not merely commerce; it’s an exchange of memory, of kept vows and possible futures, the kind of trade that makes a story feel tangible enough to pass from one hands to another. So the Vestments remain, folded and ready, a wearable ode to ritual and restraint. Put them on, and you step into the echo of a past that still insists on being remembered, every thread a whisper of what rituals once sought to preserve, and what they still hope to protect in a world that never stops listening.