Cleric's Prowler Coat drapes the wearer in a twilight-tinted wool and suede silhouette, its velvet-gray collar brushing the jaw and a row of tarnished brass buttons catching the light like distant stars. The outer fabric wears a soft bristle of weathered hide along the shoulders, while the interior is a smooth, sun-warmed lining that settles against the skin with the quiet comfort of a well-loved book. Copper thread winds through the cuffs and hem, catching when a lantern flame flickers and turning a moment of movement into a whisper of history. It feels both ceremonial and practical, as if a single stitch might hold a blessing and a strike of wind at the same time, and the texture seems to carry a rumor of old ink and old prayers pressed into the fabric. Lore threads pull at the coat’s corners as you run a gloved finger along the hem, where runes are etched in a deliberate, almost breath-like script. They tell of an order that walked the line between sanctuary and shadow, protectors who wore humility as armor and patience as a blade. The name “Prowler” hints at a lineage that moved through narrow streets and moonlit courtyards, guiding pilgrims with a quiet confidence and, when necessary, slipping past danger with a healer’s grace. Some legends say the coat was first woven for those clerics who chose to blend healing rites with reconnaissance—the kind of guardians who listened to the pulse of the city as if it were a prayer wheel turning in the wind. In such stories, the coat isn’t simply worn; it’s inhabited by the memory of footsteps that never startled a soul, only steadied them. In actual play, the Cleric's Prowler Coat remains a symbol and a tool, a hybrid piece that invites both bulwark and shadow. It’s treasured by healers who must stand at the edge of chaos yet keep a path open for the vulnerable, and by scouts who trust that a well-timed retreat can be as vital as a well-placed strike. The design accommodates a mix of protective auras and mobility-enhancing enchantments, so a devotee of sanctity can weave through a skirmish without losing suture-precise control of their healing gifts. It’s a garment that lends presence without shouting, turning every measured stride into a narrative moment—one that reassures allies and unsettles foes with its quiet authority. Prices drift through the market like wind through a canopy, and here’s where the Saddlebag Exchange threads the story into everyday life. Traders speak softly of the coat as if it carries a pact, trading rumors as earnestly as goods. Some say a fine specimen changes hands for a loan of relics and a few silver stings, while others insist on rare components or a story in exchange for the cloth. The market’s mood—frugal one day, extravagant the next—drives the price, and a buyer knows to listen for a whispered bargain as much as a solid offer. Walking away from a stall, you feel the coat’s weight not in your shoulders alone but in the shared history of those who have worn it and the road that still lies ahead.