Reliquary of the Raven Ceremonial Gown drapes the room in velvet, a garment that seems to drink light rather than reflect it. The fabric is a heavy satin-black with a faint, living grain to it, like skin stretched over a secret. Cranes and ravens are stitched in silver thread along the hem and sleeves, their wings spread in a perpetual hush of motion. Tiny beads of onyx and glass ripple with every movement, catching the candle flame and turning it into a rain of constellations. A high collar stands tall, not stiff but aware, and the front is cut with a careful V that hints at ceremony rather than combat. The sleeves widen slightly at the cuffs, as if to cradle something precious—perhaps a memory tucked away in the seams. The gown's talismanic weight goes beyond its loom. In the oldest temple caches, scribes whispered that the Reliquary was woven to house a raven’s memory—a fragment of prophecy that could guide a careful hand through shadowed politics. Some say the fabric itself remembers what the wearer has seen: a glance exchanged across a council table, a vow spoken in a dim hall, the hush before a raid on a shrine. When you pick it up in a quiet auction, you feel the energy not as heat but as a soft pulse, a rhythm that travels up the spine and into the fingers. It is a piece meant for processions and whispers, not for rending steel, though it bears a lightness that makes you move as if the air itself were sealing a covenant around your shoulders. In game terms, the gown is a rare cosmetic that elevates any ensemble with the weight of a story. It does not grant brute power; it grants presence. Equipping it shifts the tone of every encounter—NPCs tilt their heads, factions lean in with memory rather than motive, and players find themselves more legible to those who prize history in cloth. It’s the kind of garment that makes a quest feel personal: a reward earned not by conquest but by gathering fragments of a world’s reticence and coaxing them into a single, elegant silhouette. In crowded markets or quiet sanctuaries, its owner can be recognized by the way the raven sigils catch the light and by the measured, almost ceremonial glide with which they move. Prices drift along the market currents, and seasoned traders know to watch the Saddlebag Exchange for the moment when a bid slips into the right range. It’s not merely about gold; it’s about timing and memory—about catching a rumor before it becomes a price tag. The gown is frequently traded in sets of stories: a former narrator of a fallen dynasty, a courier who carried a prophecy tattered by wind, a collector who once wove it into a larger tapestry of relics. To hold it is to hold a quiet oath: to remember, to listen, and to walk forward with the weight of a raven’s counsel guiding every measured step.