Shaman's Conjurer Pants of Grenth hang from a chipped peg in the dim corner of a sun-worn stall, their fabric a deep, soot-streaked charcoal that seems to drink the light. The weave is tight and soft, like a whispered oath, with bone-white piping tracing the seams and a subtle sheen that hints at an enchantment slept within the thread. On the thighs, lacquered panels of blackened leather catch the lantern glow, etched with sigils that resemble night-blooming sigils and the pale crescent of Grenth’s grin. A faint rasp of bone beads at the waist keeps the garment aligned with ritual motion, and the hem carries a border of frayed tassels that rustle with every measured step. It’s the kind of garment that feels almost alive when you move, as if the pants themselves are listening for the right word to utter. There’s a quiet lore to this pair, a whisper of the Shaman’s Conjurer lineage tied to Grenth, the god of death who never lets a bargain go unsettled. The pants were said to have been worn by a caravan’s conjurer who walked between the living and the memory of the dead, binding restless earth-spirits to her will with a thread of ash and a vow spoken low. The texture carries that memory—soft enough to slide through a rough embrace of weathered leather, sturdy enough to stand up to the cold bite of night—while the sigils glow faintly when moonlight finds the threadbare edges. It’s easy to imagine the wearer standing on a crest at twilight, calling forth a line of summoned figures that march in step with each careful breath. In the field, the pants are more than a look; they are a page in a larger story about how power travels through cloth and charm. They grant agility to the conjurer’s hands, a steadier stance when rituals are cast under pressure, and a subtle boost to the totemic cadence that releases phantasmal aid in the moment it’s needed most. The wearer can channel Grenth’s chill without losing footing, letting bone and ash drift into the air as a circle closes around a skirmish. It’s not merely defense or offense, but a narrative device that honors debt to the dead while keeping a caravan’s wheels turning. In a world where a well-timed conjure can sway a tide, these pants become a quiet anchor, a reminder that even the mortal form can cradle otherworldly weight. Market talk comes in like a distant bell. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, such a pair would draw curious glances and measured offers—the kind of price that reflects not just the cloth, but the story sewn into every seam. A careful trader might name a tag around ten to fifteen gold, depending on the night’s luck and the sigils that burn brightest when a buyer’s heart is true. In drier times, or with a fresher dust of grave ash, the price could drift higher, as a collector looks for a garment that carries a living memory rather than a mere label. So the pants remain, not merely as armor but as a hinge between memory and the moment. The wearer steps forward, and with each stride the sigils wake a little, a reminder that some legwear is meant to move history along as surely as it moves you.