Deeply hooded inky black cloak

This item was a prize from the Hunt for History.

Item

a deeply hooded ink black cloak

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Crafted of a deep ebon spidersilk, the cloak has been sewn through with fine vaalin threads dyed a rich black which seamlessly match the fabric. A deep hood on the cloak is designed to entirely conceal the wearer's features and the style of the garment allows freedom of movement with minimal noise. A small circle of enameled eahnor, the crest of Ta'Nalfein stamped upon it, securely clasps the cloak.

Details

History

This cloak is said to have belonged to a group of assassins.

Special Properties

This cloak casts the Ranger spell, Natural Colors.

 You rub a deeply hooded inky black cloak.
 Feels smooth!
 1d100: 42 + Modifiers: 234 == 276
 
 You seem to blend into the surroundings better.
 Cast Roundtime 3 Seconds.

Loresong

As you begin to sing, your awareness of the present moment shifts and your focus shifts to a scene long-past.

Several sets of gloved hands work in a torch-lighted room, quietly stitching garments that meld into the shadows of the darkened room. The perspective of your vision shifts, you now see an older elf, his face more lined and experienced than the youths that sit before him, their hands busily stitching.

The scene shifts again, and you see the younger elves now, lined before the elder, the deep black garments finished and worn, the shadowy fabric concealing their shapes. The older elf approaches each youth, running his fingers along the cloth and seams of each cloak, his face and voice showing gentle approval.

The surroundings blur, and now you see a vacant city street. The complete pitch of night is slightly dispelled by the lamps that line the roadway. As your eyes adjust, you can barely make out two figures, their forms cloaked in an enveloping blackness. You catch a glimpse of the taller figure's eyes, which dart suddenly down the road and, with a silent hand gesture, the two figures seem to disappear, melding into the shadows.

As you blink your eyes, the scene shifts. You recognize the street, but this time, it is seen from a different perspective. Your eyes follow the length of the road, and you feel your body tense as you glimpse and recognize your mark -- a well-dressed man who stumbles jovially toward you, obviously having come from many hours spent in a pub. As the man approaches, voice loud in song and raucous laughter, you feel a light hand touch your arm, steadying you. You try to watch your companion for a signal, but in the shadows, it is as if he has disappeared.

Taking a final deep breath to steel your nerves, you wait for the most opportune moment once the man has passed. Drawing a stiletto silently from within your left glove, you fall upon the man's back, driving him, dead, to the ground in one swift movement.

You quickly glance up and down the empty street and, confident you were unseen, secure the hood of your cloak and dissolve back into the black of night.

Slowly the vision begins to fade, and you regain the sense of the here and now.