Items

The tattered remnants of a Cerim cloak.

The frayed scraps of what was once a powerful Cerim garment.

The tattered remnants of a Cerim cloak.

The frayed scraps of what was once a powerful Cerim garment.

The tattered remnants of a Cerim cloak.

The frayed scraps of what was once a powerful Cerim garment.

The tattered remnants of a Cerim cloak.

The frayed scraps of what was once a powerful Cerim garment.

A traditional cloak made by the Cerim, imbued with the words of the Sayer.

A pair of gloves crafted by the Cerim, imbued with the words of the Sayer.

A protective hood stitched by the Cerim, imbued with the words of the Sayer.

A pair of leg guards favored by the Cerim, imbued with the words of the Sayer.

The pants of one accustomed to sleeping on hard stone.

The pitiful rags of one who has given up hope.

This prestigious red bonnet is said to protect the Clerics of Coventon from impure thoughts.

These red leather gloves are a hallmark of the feared Clerics of Coventon.

These crimson leather trousers weren't woven by mystics; but when you feel them you'll think they were.

The stark white robes of a Cleric from the north.

Each blow against this curved helm reverberates through the body, and echoes out through the lash of a weapon.

Leather gloves lined with metal studs, for light protection.

Shabby leather pants, better for deception and guile than comfort.

A tarnished robe, ideal for quick movement and treachery.

A worn pair of leather mitts that never seem to fit quite right.

A good pair of trousers offers protection against enemies, the elements, and knee-high critters.

An old duelist's robe, saturated with the vague stench of moss and blood.

An unassuming cloak worn by wanderers who prefer not to be remembered.

A ragged mantle made of elk hide, worn by those who prefer the company of shadows.

Armored gloves sharp enough to break the silence, should silence fail you.

A set of worn armor legs dyed the color of dusk — ideal for walking where one shouldn’t be seen.

A humble head covering, ideal for blocking the sun while gardening.

A pair of shabby trousers with mud stains on the knees.

The simple tunic of one who tills the earth.

A pair of well-worn gloves, familiar with the dirt.

Why gaze in admiration at the tree, when you can become the tree?

Let your feet be as roots; firm and grounded. And let your trousers also be as roots; foul-smelling and brittle.

A pair of gloves woven from creeping roots that never stop growing.

A tunic of twigs that rustles incessantly, even without wind.

A pair of simple, tidy leather gloves. Their cleanliness belies a long history of treachery.

A crimson cowl, perhaps woven by a thief who abandoned the isle of Tanth but retained the island's cunning.

The tunic of a wretch, a desperate soul, one who was grateful to be released into God's Embrace.

Worn leather leggings, stained by the marshes of Tanth. They bear the marks of one who crept through filth and shadow, unseen yet never unscathed.

“The world is woven by the wise; only a fool would tug at its seams.” -the Twine King

“Every knot curses the hand that tied it.” -the Twine King

“Cut the thread early, or watch it strangle you later.” -the Twine King

“No tapestry is finished while the weaver still breathes.”-the Twine King

Dark leather trousers that resemble the murk of an inland forest.

A pair of hardy gloves belonging to a woodland hunter.

A lightweight morion helm, favored by forest stalkers and trackers.

The leather coat of a woodland ranger, ideal for hunting.

A sturdy tunic, stitched by hand and stained with blood.

Tough but ragged, much like their former owner.

The mottled steel helmet of an outlaw. Sure to have seen its share of blows.

A pair of drab trousers stitched in Lion's Mound. Coarse and unwashed.

A pair of ratty trousers, often worn by the Risen's most humble soldiers.

The lowliest thieves are lucky to even have their hands covered.

A garment often worn by the lowliest Risen, held together with rage and hubris.

A cloak imbued with treachery, bloodshed in its past.

The faded hood of a Risen soldier, with poor visibility for attacks from behind.

Gloves that would sooner close around a man's neck than till a field.

These trousers did not believe in their former owner's cause.

A pair of simple trousers, yes. But trousers with a sinister air about them.

Coarse brown gloves that slide on without a sound.

The hood of one who is about to commit foul deeds.

A cloak said to be woven out of nothing but stealth and shadow. (Made by a liar.)

The shirt of a lawless sea dog, caked with salt and adventure.

A simple rag to keep the sea spray out of one's hair. (Ineffective.)

A pair of wide-legged trousers, to let the wind in and keep the smells out.

A pair of trousers dyed teal by design, and parched white by the ocean's spray.

The faded coat of a middle ranking seaman - likely stolen and traded by pirates.

Trousers made of soft linen. They have seen many harsh days at sea.

Take any cloth, fold it three ways, and you have this.

A simple cotton shirt, favored by traders from the mainland.

More stylish than most rags, but rags nonetheless.

Durable and well-made, no doubt stitched by artisans of the Holy City.

The hood of a learned scholar, likely employed in the archives of the Great Cathedral.

Gloves made from ironweave, once worn by a scholar of the Holy City.

This holy cloak has been patched and repaired many times since the Mountain Gate fell shut.

An armor of quilted cloth and tempered steel; warm as a sunrise, cold as its shadow.

A hood the color of dying coals, just before the night swallows the day.

A pair of hammered gauntlets that will keep their warmth long after the wearer’s hands have gone cold.

Forged on the mainland, in a smithy just outside of Elgarth which burned to the ground in the year 826.

Heavy chainmail wrapped around a cloak as iridescent as the sea… The origins of this armor are mysterious.

Dark leather pants, draped in chain mail for extra protection.

Gloves belonging to an unknown warrior, possibly from the Strait of Oroth.

A drape of cloth that shimmers with ill intent. Little is known about its origins.

The humble armor of a knight in training. Simple but effective protection.

Simple leather trousers, of the type given to novice warriors.

Light and nimble, these gloves protect the hand from slashing attacks.

An ornately encrusted helmet, forged by Sacrament's longtime smithy Fillmore.

What the Risen lack in discipline, they make up for with bravado.

A pair of loud, clanging gloves, built as much for show as for protection.

A heavy helm capable of thwarting both mutinies and betrayals - tactics long favored by the Risen.

May these pants bear their new wearer to better fortune than their former owners.

"When shaking hands with the Risen, always watch the one that isn't." - overheard in Havenport

A formidable barricade of steel and cloth, as heavy as it is impractical.

On its way to being armor, but not quite armor.

The battered but ornate armor of a Risen Fellhorn. All fall, only some rise!

They say the trousers are the least important part of a smithy's uniform… But try forging in a skirt.

Thick working gloves, able to withstand high temperatures.

A thick leather apron suited for hot, hard work around the forge.

Those who fear the dogs of war have never seen the pigs.

It's said the Boarskin believe themselves descendents of Kafron Bilsgard. Attempts at further questioning on the subject have gone poorly.

"Every foe a feast." - Boarskin battle cry, meaning uncertain

Many travelers have hidden in the tall grass, watching in fear as these leggings stalk past.

Caked with dried blood, worn and stained and coarse. Make no mistake: these are butcher's gloves.

One hopes it's woven from the clothes of Boarskin victims, as opposed to from their hides.

These leggings resemble the Boarskin family tree - very few branches and some alarming gaps

Perhaps the Boarskin wear such headdresses out of fondness for their porcine brothers. Perhaps they just ran out of human skulls.

A litany of brutalities stitched down the length of each finger.

The Boarskin don't remove the arrows of those who almost brought them down. Perhaps a sign of respect, perhaps a taunt.

The Boarskin Preacher's tunic is sewn from the hides of those who didn't survive their "sermon."

If you were an inbred tribe of half-feral marauders, your pants would likely smell this way too.

Linen pants traditionally worn by members of Sacrament's Guild of Carpenters.

A linen shirt traditionally worn by members of Sacrament's Guild of Carpenters.

The helm of the great Falstead Darak, the warlord who would either unite the Risen - or destroy them.

Heavy gauntlets worn by the Risen Falstead, though his palms were as coarse as any metal.

The rough, durable leggings of the Falstead. Said to be woven with strands of his own leg hair.

The body armor of the Risen Falstead. They say he forged the steel with his own teeth.

A robe made of dappled light, likely woven by the timber druids of Myrfall.

Who wears this helmet shall see beyond the now, into the age of trees.

Leggings of unknown origin. Probably from the wooded isles beyond the Shattered Hand.

Gloves made of wood and earth, molded by an ancient forest cult.

Heavy, course trousers soaked in soot and flame oil.

The incandescent helm of a Risen Kindler, one of the outfit's most volatile warriors.

Leaving so much of the skin exposed while wielding fire might seem odd. But then not all Risen are great forward planners.

A hood made of coarse, waterlogged threads plundered from Sacra's shores.

Sure to leave your wrinkled fingers with a stench of seaweed.

Mottled and soggy, this tunic once belonged to a Scuttler from the ragged coasts east of Sacrament.

Wear them for too long and one may find barnacles in unexpected places.

Never a war was won on an empty stomach!

Most noblemen presume such caps are strictly decorative; but a good chef knows they're ideal for pastry storage.

Every taste that went into the soup, and many that didn't, can be found smeared on these trousers.

Tough leather trousers, stitched together with thick strands of Alpine Goat hair.

Regal, tufted, and impenetrable. The body armor of a Risen Breaker who claimed the highest body count of anyone short of Darak himself.

In the end, revolution often gives way to terror.

It's said that only two kinds of people ever shake hands with the Risen - living traitors and dead fools.

The former war plate of one of the Risen's most reviled champions. Said to weigh as much as normal suit of armor, with a man inside.

The demented helmet of a Risen warlord who has forgotten everything in life but the scent of battle.

Heavy trousers, soaked with so much sweat and blood that they bend and creak like tree limbs

Coarse gloves for gripping heavy weapons, or the crumpled skulls of enemies.

A helmet crested with dark feathers, for a Breaker's axe swoops down upon their prey as swiftly as any eagle.

They fit no pair of hands as neatly as they fit around an enemy's throat.

Stained with the mud of the fields, the blood of their enemies, and the occasional shit-smear of a mistimed respite.

The Risen have been known to cobble together formidable suits of armor from their broken enemies.

Let your enemy feel only the wind before your hand, and then nothing.

Let your enemy believe that your plans are his thoughts.

Let your enemy see only where you have been.

A pair of simple leather gloves, no different from any others.

"If your purpose is true, you will always find the wind at your back." - Dasha proverb

A simple tunic, hand-stitched in Marin Village.

The strongest threads, the sharpest steel. Nothing is too fine for the Knights of Tanth.

A stern, powerful set of gauntlets forged on the island of Tanth.

It's said that the Knights of Tanth wear crimson so they always have somewhere to wipe their blades.

The crimson helm of a Tanth Harvester, the most feared of the island's many assassins.

An impeccable garment from Tanth, possibly woven from the rich fur of a Kylesh seal.

Sleek leather gloves worn by a Tanth marauder, for those who like to murder in style.

Lightweight helmet that once belonged to a loathsome tracker from the island of Tanth.

A set of crimson leg armor with jagged steel knee guards. Beware the jab from Tanth that strikes below the waist.

"Where my axe goes, my arm follows. Where my hand points, my axe goes." - Ironhand mantra

Nick a foe's artery and you'll understand why the Risen like to keep their hoods up.

The more the mainland strips away Sacra's dignity, the more its residents clothe themselves in the Risen's colors.

The Ironhand eschew protection for mobility - the best defense is a quick axe buried in an enemy's skull.

"Isn't a group of rebels supposed to be dressed in rags and tatters?" - Randolph, Captain of the Sacrament Guard

A helmet doesn't just protect a head, it hides a soul. Drenched in darkness, any deed is made possible.

Leggings meant to turn a man into a wall.

The Stormwall take their name from Phalen's great sea barrier. It holds back the ocean, the Stormwall hold back Phalen.

A richly woven and finely dyed leather tunic. Indicative of high standing and low morals.

A pair of leather gloves that have been scrubbed coarse in a futile effort to remove bloodstains.

When the bloodshed and battle lulls, one must find other ways to entertain.

The dashing cap of a bandit who looked good and had an empty soul.

Sacrament endures.

Sacrament endures.

Sacrament endures.

Sacrament endures.

Sturdy, robust armor hammered in the forges of Eversol's greatest smiths.

A pair of thick iron gloves, good for preventing injury and callouses.

What it lacks in sight it makes up in raw strength. Forged from heavy iron.

Your enemy may hear your steps a mile away, but they will be powerless to stop your coming.

Always tend to your armor, that the glint of the sun may blind your enemies. - Boroth, Arena Master

A pair of hammered battle gloves, luxurious and impenetrable.

Intimidating in battle, cumbersome for travel.

A powerful golden helmet that still reeks faintly of its former owner's breath.

A scrap of aged leather, still dripping wet from the bogs of the Orban Glades.

Crafted by the shamans of the swamp. Designed to intimidate more than protect.

A fetid collection of rags used by the Nith for their notorious "quagmire" rituals.

"Spores give strength!" -rumored Nith mantra

The more colorful the fungus, the more it strengthens the leather.

It is said that the Nith do not keep trophies from their enemies. Instead, they become them.

Blurring the line between fabric and flesh.

Late at night the Orban Glades echo with the Nith's guttural screams, reverberating within their masks of bone.

For some, illness and rot is a slow creep. For the Screamer, it's a blistering frenzy, a madness of decay.

The acidic swamps rot away the Nith's legs, leaving only bone, splints of wood, and these shredded leggings.

Does some corner of their minds remember civil society, a reflex to wrap their bodies in these putrid rags?

The thick body armor of a ruthless mercenary from beyond Sacra's shores.

The helm of an elite marauder from Tanth, a madman from a mad land.

A pair of vivid gloves dyed with crushed madder root, probably plundered from the coasts of Waithe.

Crimson for walking, crimson for stalking, crimson for killing.

The Red fear no god nor government, and so they rob the living, mock the dead, and live only for the moment.

To join The Red, a woman must cut ties with all lovers and paramours. And the word cut is often taken quite literally.

The chestpiece of The Red, a female gang of brutal, unscrupulous marauders. They take what they want and leave the rest for the crows.

It matters less what lies inside an archer's skull than what lies inside her quiver.

For those who have yet to develop sufficient callouses on their draw fingers.

Made of deer hide, stitched tightly to be waterproof and silent.

Swift, cunning, and black-hearted was the former owner of this garment.

The plumed helm of an archer, likely from Rog or Kafir.

Sparse leather hand coverings designed to favor dexterity and stealth.

Smartly wrapped leather pants that favor movement and minimize noise.

A lightweight outfit crafted in the forests of Myrfall. The further the shot, the safer the kill.

A hand may grasp, but a talon enfolds.

When worn as a gift, it bestows great honor. When worn in plunder, it promises doom.

Is it said that the cloak of the Great Beak contains one feather from every creature that flies in all the realms of Atlan.

"Beware the tree that moves when the wind is still." -only known words spoken by the Great Beak to have been translated in the common tongue

It is said that the feathered gloves of the Balak Taw let them loose arrows as silently as a bird flies.

A coarse set of feathers earned when a young Balak Taw kills his first Alpine Goat.

Travelers often remark that a Balak Taw warrior is as quiet and stealthy as a bird - and yet somehow as gratingly loud as one too.

Where once was the head of a man, now shall be only plumage.

The feathers of this cloak are said to come from the Kestrels of Waithe - exceedingly rare on Sacra.

The crown is rumored to be dyed red from the Great Beak herself placing a bloody hand upon the Jay's head during its rite of initiation.

"Feather before flesh!" - Balak Taw chant

Coarse leggings belonging to one of the Balak Taw's most dangerous assassins.

The elegant crest of one of the Balak Taw's elite breed of warriors.

Leg guards woven out of coarse leather... which is said to come from the flayed flesh of fallen Boarskin.

It is not only the people of Sacra who fear the Balak Taw. For the wild birds of Marin now live under constant threat of being "harvested."

The Balak Taw have not always been on Sacra. But few people alive can recall a time when the Marin Woods were safe.

This majestic coat is given to only a handful of Balak Taw warriors. It must first be blessed by the Great Beak himself.

A pair of trousers molded to be as thick and coarse as the bark of an oak.

Leather gauntlets thick enough to pound your enemy into the mud, until their flesh rejoins the earth.

So swift to strike and so firm of stance is the Heavy Feather that it is said the eggs shall never break.

No one knows exactly how the Balak Taw are able to stitch their garments to be so lush and dense with feathers, yet soundless as a bird of prey.

A pair of feathered gloves, so swift and light they'll leave your enemies wondering if you ever touched them.

A crest imbued with the pride of the Balak Taw. Wear it, and feel their eyes upon you.

A heavy leather coat draped in iridescent feathers. Let others wear the camouflage, while you draw the enemy's eye.

Primarily a ceremonial dressing, this feathered crown can also be a powerful distraction in combat.

A tunic born in the trees, woven from the wind, and blessed by the air herself. Or so the Balak Taw claim.

Crafted from hides, feathers, and resin, these gloves have a …distinct... odor to them.

"There's only so much land, but there's always more air." --rumored Balak Taw proverb

The prized plumage of the Unbreakable Egg, elusive champion of the treetops.

A pair of powerful mitts coated with feathers plucked from the toughest raptor on Sacra.

Who carries this crown shall find honor and reward in the presence of the Great Beak.

Let your legs be as strong as a tree, and let your feet be as unmoving as its roots.

A soldier's gauntlets are an extension of his hands. They are built for grasping and guiding the world to order.

The strength of a soldier's helm is the difference between carrying out God's work and meeting God in person.

A suit of armor should be like a soldier's backbone - rigid, stern, and unassailable.

A soldier should always keep his boots firmly planted on the ground that he protects.

Those who wear the armor of Sacrament must pledge themselves to shore up her walls like iron, and fall upon her enemies like rain.

An angular shroud stitched of heavy, pale cloth - to block out the sun during long survey missions.

"A map shows the way; a foot decides the truth." --Eron Plinthy, Cartographer of House Orland

A fair cloak stitched with many hidden pockets; for inks, compasses, and collected secrets.

Half-fingered gloves stained with dust from every corner of Sacra.

A pathetic pair of trousers belonging to a former prisoner.

The quarry in the Nameless Pass was manned by prisoners from Fort Reach. Until the Pestilence arrived.

A filthy, ragged cape belonging to one who formerly lived and worked in the Nameless Pass.

Worn by one who served both steel and Speaker. The oaths may be broken, but the armor endures.

Each finger etched with a vow. Break one, and the metal will remember.

A pair of heavy leg guards polished to a ceremonial shine, dented by many forgotten wars.

Narrow of vision, heavy with tradition. The helm of one who followed, not questioned.

"Why put a target on my back, when I can wear one on my front?" - Groveguard of Havenport

Leather gloves thick enough to prick with a thorn, or stick with a dagger.

Every weapon forged needs to be tested at some point.

Pray that your enemies aim for the shins.

"Electricity crawls, lightning leaps, loyalty burns." -Wrath

“Fealty ends only when the body does.” -Wrath

A storm speaks once. Everything else is just echo.

When the air tastes like metal, look for lightning. When the air tastes like blood, look for Talon & Wrath.

A pair of heavy gloves suited for shaking hands as much as clutching weapons.

Leather breeches that were hand-made in Marin Village, though not many people know this.

A cloak which has seen far more of the world than its refined threadwork might suggest.

Some say that, late at night in Sacrament's cemetery, you can hear the sound of thudding steps far below.

It's unknown if the poor souls trapped beneath the ancient helm are still alive, dead, or some horror in between.

Gauntlets such as these litter Sacra - relics of an ancient war - daring only the most desperate to slip them on.

Those foolish or greedy enough to steal ancient Cerim armor find themselves trapped within their own tomb.

They shiver with the energy of the ancient, the Sayer's words long since twisted into lies.

The heavy footfalls of graverobbers turned into guardians, scavengers hollowed out into shambling shells.

The armor may be ancient Cerim, but the body found within it is somehow both far younger and long dead.

Empty eyes stare out from its sockets, a silent scream captured forever in its teeth.

From the proudest king to the lowest grave robber, everyone lies to themselves.

A pair of powerful, hammered-steel gloves that can reach toward the might of the Cerim, but never grasp it.

One can only imagine what ancient battlefields and plagued monstrosities these eyes have gazed upon.

The False Ones do not eat nor drink, sleep nor rest. Their penance is ceaseless and eternal.

This cloak may have been stitched by ancient hands and imbued with the power of the Sayer - but its most recent owner was a sad, desperate thief.

A pair of finely woven gloves that seem to glimmer with the ageless suffering of the False Ones.

A humble cloak woven by Dasha artisans. Countless pockets give way to countless secrets.

The Maker disdains flashy adornments. A pair of simple leather pants can suit lords and farmers alike.

The armor of the capital - forged from ore in the mines of Bayscathe, and sculpted in Phalen herself.

A powerful pair of gauntlets. Sculpted from metal so pure they often glint in the sunlight.

An immaculate pair of leg guards. Should only be worn by allies and defenders of Phalen.

The crest of Eversol, the seat of power and nobility.

The armor of a monk, long dead, who claimed he could hear the earth breathe.

Clawed metal gauntlets with lethal hooks forged into the palm.

It is said that inside this helm, you can hear the voices of those you've slain, whispering incessantly.

A pair of finely-woven leggings that rustle like parchment pages when the wearer moves.

When wrapped around the head it provides little protection but is excellent at wicking sweat.

Simple yet elegant leather gloves, of a type favored by mystics and soothsayers from the mainland.

Slim leather trousers, suitable for those more interested in posture and appearance than protection.

The stylish leather coat of a traveling seer, likely of dubious integrity. No doubt it has had many owners.

The coat of a traveling seer, who delved too far into the fell arts of the clerics from Giranoth.

Although they wear shoes, it is said that the clerics from Blackhewn never touch the ground.

Sewn from a sinister black cloth designed to amplify mystical powers.

The drapings of a cleric from Blackhewn, on the eastern edge of The Seethe.

The diseased rags of a former Dasha cleric.

The religious wrappings of the Dasha faithful, now malign and corrupted.

The most favored armor of the Knights of Tanth. A vibrant, formidable outfit.

Rumor has it the helms of Tanth are dyed with a mixture of saffron and blood.

Gauntlets rumored to have been blessed by the King of Tanth himself.

A pair of greaves forged in the finest (and only) armory on Tanth.

A crimson helmet forged curiously in the shape of the known world.

Its shape may prevent the wearer from hiding in the bushes; but the Knights of Tanth have no need for stealth.

A filthy jumble of coarse leather in the vague shape of a pair of gloves.

Any coward can forge a helmet out of metal. For the Boarskin, true glory comes from the wearing of flesh.

Best not to ask whence the leather which made these trousers was sourced.

The sweltering, stinking hide of the Boarskin clan. Best worn by those who have lost their sense of smell.

The faint glowing light never wavers, even as the fabric rots around it.

You can tell the hands of a Brightburn by the faintly glowing stains that cover their fingers.

Painted with a glowing rune, evocative and intimidating, but signifying nothing.

A small sect of Risen scholars, now mostly dead, once attempted to harvest the luminous putrescence of the Gloam.

The vibrant body armor of a mysterious outfit known only as the Order of the Moss.

Bronze, hammered metal, of unknown provenance.

Trousers belonging to one of the elusive, erudite members of the Order of the Moss.

And my enemies shall tremble before me, and my legend shall grow upon the earth.

A massive cloak cobbled together from damp hides and fetid rags.

If they fit you, you are too tall.

The most prized adornment of the Nith. A headpiece made of nothing but bone and death.

When they first appeared, The Gloam's iridescent growths caused some to think they had emerged from the sea. But only the blackened earth could dream up something so foul.

"Hands fumbling in darkness will find only fell deeds." - saying often heard in Havenport

Dancing lights behind you, run fast and never rest. Dancing lights before you, lie down and wait for death.

A strand of shimmering mold and fungus, twisted into the vague shape of armor.

You are moving through a darkened cavern, touching the wall for guidance. Then your hand lands upon a wall… that moves.

A heavy gauntlet that can squeeze the life out of darkness itself.

Some say footfalls in the night add twice the height.

With The Gloam, it can sometimes be difficult to tell fabric apart from pulsing flesh.

Wet, festering trousers that have not seen the sun for many seasons.

The cloak of the forgotten Gloam - this is what becomes of the plague in the dark, wet places beneath our feet.

Close your eyes and be quick of step, and you may yet escape the darkness; unlike the former owner of these trousers.

Gloves once made of leather, now grown thick with the glinting sinew of The Gloam.

A noble warrior's tunic, unbroken by battle, now coated in shimmering filth.

No one imagined what demented shape the Pestilence could be twisted into by the darkness beneath our feet.

There is more to fear beneath the ground than merely death and darkness.

The glistening armor of a warrior for whom dying to the Pestilence was only the beginning.

If your eyes fail you, but your ears behold the clank of heavy iron footfalls in the dark… Run.

Dank, fetid trousers that still bear a trace of their former owner's sickly luminescence.

There are few who venture into the deep places beneath Sacra anymore. Of those who do, the sight they most fear is a beautiful, dancing light in the darkness.

Heavy leather gloves, once belonging to a man, but now taken from a cave-dwelling wraith.

Certain scholars have attempted to examine the luminous growths that afflict The Gloam. Certain scholars are rarely seen again

Only a champion deserves to wear such finery! A warrior of peerless skill, a legend without equal! Are you such a warrior?

The pants of one who has heard the hush of the crowd, felt the dust of the arena, and tasted the blood of victory.

As rigid and unflinching as its former owner's will.

A pair of hammered gauntlets, bleached bright from years of battle.

Thick and loud, these are not the leg guards of a subtle warrior.

A formidable helmet that will block out most attacks, as well as sunlight and clean air.

Thick gloves that once belonged to a hermit of the eastern mountains.

Winter in the Frozen Peaks can be brutal. A thick hide is essential for survival.

The fearsome crown of a champion hunter. To best the beast, one must become the beast.

When snow falls thickly, so the leather of one's breeches must thicken as well.

A thick, warm coat belonging to one of the deranged "goat men" of northern Sacra. (Sworn enemies of the Balak Taw.)

It is rumored that to come of age, members of the Grifkin must kill a goat with their bare hands, and then live inside it for a week.

A rough-hewn pair of leggings designed to blur the line between animal and man.

For keeping the flesh warm in high mountain regions, nothing beats the fur of an Alpine Goat.

A coat of fine threads and lustrous feathers, fit for the House that rules the empire.

No royal is born so high that he is above the need for pants.

Lightweight pants that smell faintly of thick, wet earth.

A wide-brimmed hat of unknown provenance, steeped in fell magic.

Soft gloves that have been dipped in mold and bathed in the blackness of the night sky.

Drapings that may appear simple and ragged; but they are infused with dark purpose.

The uniform of a high-born noble of Tir; but it has been stripped of its crest, and worn tired with time.

A refined pair of leather gloves, hand-made by one of the elite artisans of Upper Tir.

Trousers made for a nobleman in the valley beyond the Frozen Peaks.

The uniform of the ruling House in Phalen, until recently led by King Harol.

As the knight keeps a firm grip on his spear, so House Bolein maintains a firm grip on the throne.

They march through the streets of Phalen, for order, for victory, for God.

It is said that no matter where you are, one can always see the dawn sun glinting off the helm of a Bolein Knight.

Always watch the hand you aren't shaking.

They're worth more than you paid for them, honest.

A magnificent suit of armor, acquired strictly by honorable means.

Defenders of Knellap fight with the pride of the cock, the patience of the hen, the fury of the flock.

Leggings meant for straddling a spit of land, planting a flag, and declaring it liberated.

None seem able to find Knellap on any map or scroll, but don't tell that to its defenders.

These gloves fight for justice, however misguided and deranged that justice might be.

When a true warrior looks inward, she sees only blackness. And when she looks outward, she sees only fear.

Quick leather pants, woven in secret. Worn in haste.

A cloak that wields sadness as armor, and despair as a weapon.

We do not need the eyes that were born into our skull. For the many eyes of the all-knowing will show us who we truly are.

May the many hands move through yours, and may your grasp be everywhere at once.