Cargo query

A standard gambeson of quilted cloth. Good for catching blows, but almost unbearably sweaty.

This old splintered shield is no stronger than a child's toy.

Though shining brightly, this necklace smells distinctively of rust.

The interlocked bronze links of this necklace tinkle softly every time you move.

A purple gemstone set in bronze, this ring has been crafted by a steady and practised hand.

A cheap ring, decorated only with a sizeable green agate.

Each of this amulet's jewels shines like a viper's eyes.

A cornered animal will, on occasion, feel a rush of exhilarating energy, and an urge to fight. The same is true of many arcane practitioners, who do not take kindly to being menaced.

Bright and polished, this necklace was clearly cherished by its previous owner.

A paralysing eyestalk harvested from a beholder was boiled in a broth, and poured down the throat of a dwarven ringsmith. Not one fortnight thence, he crafted this ring.

This wizardly hat has a little embroidered rabbit inside its lining - the rabbit is called snowball, and once he was lost, never to be found.

A grudging gleam emits from this ring - more an indictment of light than an endorsement.

Putting on this hat is somehow enough to lift your spirits.

With every blow the skullcap seems to compress, narrowing the vision of the wearer.

A noble warrior's cloak, woven in the heart of an ancient empire.

Considered a token of good fortune, this ring's stones are perfectly smooth.

Strapped and lined in an either piscine or arboreal motif, these sandals are perfect for a warm morning stroll.

Adjusting this unassuming ring on your finger, you hear a faint sizzle, as of pressure being released.

Not only do these sandals allow your feet to breathe on warm summer-scented evenings and leaf-crunchy autumn afternoons, but come the turning of clocks toward colder seasons, the sandal straps emit a faintly magical heat as cosy as any pair of wooly socks.

The little tentacle engravings are a nice touch.

The taut violet leather is drier than snakeskin, and puckered at each knuckle with shallow mouth-shaped pits.

The tight weave of chains in this armour chimes like wind through leaves.

Fine fabric obscures the bulk of this chain mail, allowing its wearer to mix in polite society while protecting them from unexpected assailants.

Made from thick, strong chains loosely-fitted, this armour hangs more heavily than some but protects its wearer with an impenetrable weave of metal.

Linked rings crackle with energy, just waiting to be released.

Tight chains protect the wearer from many sharp weapons, while fabric padding protects the skin from cold metal.

While the stitching on the shirt is rushed and uneven, the chain mail is sturdy, and the garment is decorated with an obsidian disk that seems to swallow all light.

The intricate embroidery on the linen panel of this armour indicates the nobility of its previous owner.

This mail's impossibly fine, close joining indicates the work of gnomish fingers.

A plump mass torn from Sovereign Glut's own flesh. A marker of the colony's esteem - or perhaps its property.

Imbued with a little luck after the item was pressed to the pursed lips of a saint of the goddess Tymora. Inscribed roughly and inexpertly on the underside: 'Lady Luck, don't you piss in my porridge oats!'

Modelled on the chandeliers in the Waterdavian Sea Ward - aesthetically pleasing and most grand.

Underwear of this type was commonly worn by mages powerful enough to broadcast their likeness across the many plances of existence.

Indigo cloth manipulated into elaborate patterns mark this outfit's wearer as a gregarious observer, listener, and conversationalist.

This lovely ensemble is evocative of the apron of a master chocolatier - and just as scrumptious.

Despite the many scorch marks, these leather boots are somehow still supple and intact.

With every rustle of this cloak, small moths like windblown embers appear around you - they flutter for a moment, then fade into inconsequence.

'What moves faster, a loosed crossbow bolt or a windblown cinder? Let's find out.' - Overheard during a Flaming Fist raid in Baldur's Gate.

A coldness clings to this macabre circlet, like the chill of a grave.

Provides its wearer a touch of elegance but no additional protection.

This delicate circlet grants the wearer the ability to cast the Scorching Ray spell.

Merely holding the circlet makes your skin flush, filling you with determination and righteous fury.

Huntresses prowling in the least hospitable woods of Toril hold one rule as cardinal: kill quickly. This is not about suffering. It's about sound, and its necessary absence.

Fell magic has seeped into this circlet, rejoicing at the slightest touch of despair.

You get the eerie feeling that the jewelsmith used more than alien metals to forge this circlet - something like ancient magic, or shards of a soul.

Designed for fun rather than function.

Though the name is an exaggeration (the fabled city's heat would burn the fabric black stitch by stitch), the sheer magnificence of this ensemble's appeal is not.

Woven of heavy wool, this cloak is solid of make if somewhat stiff to wear.

Woven of heavy wool, this cloak is solid of make if somewhat stiff to wear.

Woven of heavy wool, this cloak is solid of make if somewhat stiff to wear.

For one to wear this heavy cloak woven of errant, unused gold, one's pockets must hang even heavier still.

One of the relics of Deep Duerra's rebellious children. The children found nothing of use in the vault and were discouraged. But in the morning the Vault Keykeeper's son, who admired the children, sought them out - and in his arms he brought a wealth of things, forged in shadow.

The fur is so blue as to be almost black. When mantled across your shoulders, the patterns on the cloak seem to shift and ripple.

A favourite among fleet-footed gish, this cloak allows the wearer to wield a foe's elemental mastery against them.

Wizards Otiluke and Bigby may be renowned as dignified members of the Circle of Eight, but on one occasion, as younger men, Bigby bet Otiluke that he couldn't suck thirteen litres of vodka out of a protection cloak like this one.

Bigby won.

Part of an outfit worn by the wizard Tenser when he was inducted into the organization of eminent wizards called the Circle of Eight.

No sooner does blood speck the armour than it's absorbed, as if sustaining something within.

One can hardly be called a lord if they aren't dressed as such. A cursory glance at Gortash's finery would reveal intricate garb - a closer look would reveal a maddening attention to even the most minute details of the filigree.

Upturning the hat and gazing into it, you get this slightly vertiginous feeling, as if you were looking into a cold, abandoned well with no discernible end.

Stylish without being altogether noteworthy, though the embroidery is actually very fine in certain lights.

Stylish without being altogether noteworthy, though the embroidery is actually very fine in certain lights.

Stylish without being altogether noteworthy, though the embroidery is actually very fine in certain lights.

As red as campfire flame.

This chunky copper ring is embedded with dark green stones.

Inlaid with semi previous stones, this ring looks expensive - at first glance.

Provocative light blooms from the engraved contours of this ring.

'Let your lips turn black as night/On this eve of frightful wights/Let your throat be filled with screams/Nearby looms the Raven Queen!' - A song of dark festivity

At camp, under the deep blue sky fading to indigo at the horizon, this shirt fits right in.

Battered by age and use, this once-fine helmet feels like a ghost of a bygone time.

Indents on the fingertips of these gloves are ringed with tiny meteorites, lined in a shimmering purple light rather than the rich red of astral flame.

Patterned as many knightly shields are in the modern era.

Though caked with mud and grime, the ring smells faintly of lavender. Remarkable, considering where it's been.

Slipping one's finger through this ring fills the senses with the waft of tombs, the urine-yellow smell of old bandages, images of dead spiders curled into husks, and the sensation of hot, slobbering breath at the nape of one's neck.

Though time has tarnished this armour's metal and cracked its leather, the black sheen of Shar's symbol shines eternal from its chestpiece.

With many broken and missing scales, the armour offers little in the way of protection.

The sting of fear at the encroachment of some hulking brute is lessened by these gloves. In fact, in such moments, they send rivulets of courage coursing through you.

Rudimentary teleportation sigils mark the palms of these gloves, like coiled snakes in a bath of pitch.

Scratched in places, scorched in others, and worn thin at the heel, these boots bear the indelible marks of experience.

The grip of darkness is a fear felt by many. The grip of a Dark Justiciar's Gauntlets is a sacred fear reserved for an unfortunate few.

The grip of darkness is a fear felt by many. The grip of a Dark Justiciar's Gauntlets is a sacred fear reserved for an unfortunate few.

Shar's aspect winds its way though the patterns and pauldrons of this half plate, and any light cast nearby seems to almost quiver away from it, afraid. For even the light knows that the clank of this armour is swiftly followed by the Dark Justiciar's silent blade.

Shar's aspect winds its way though the patterns and pauldrons of this half plate, and any light cast nearby seems to almost quiver away from it, afraid. For even the light knows that the clank of this armour is swiftly followed by the Dark Justiciar's silent blade.

Stamped with Shar's own sigil, this helm was worn by the Nightsinger's own crusaders. The darkness within seems deeper than night, somehow.

Adorned in a fanned coronet of speartip points, its mask fixed with stiff-lipped intent, this helmet evokes a frightful, almost alien aspect that gestures to Shar. For she is strange and terrible indeed.

Though well-preserved, the armour's gleam is somewhat muted - as if half-shadowed, even in brightest day.

Worn by Shar's most loyal zealots, the mere sight of it strikes fear in the heart of even the bravest of souls.

With a sharpened gemstone at its centre, this ring is capable of cutting the very flesh it decorates.

Flowing through your chest, threads of whiskey-like warmth - they spread and spread, and who could lay you low, you champion in hopeful hours?

A message stitched in gold lettering on the inside of the right-hand glove implies these were a birthday present.

This attire disguises you as a poor soul indebted to Raphael - other debtors in his thrall will not be hostile to you.

This attire disguises you as a poor soul indebted to Raphael - other debtors in his thrall will not be hostile to you.

Patterned with twists of gold, lilac and sapphire, these delicate shoes are very reasonable for dancing, romancing, perhaps even prancing.

Capably crafted, giving the impression of affirming wealth,

Based on a mad alchemist's experiments to derive youth from his victims by poisoning them, this cloak relies on a much more reliable arcane formula.

Lowly and poorly fitting on any physique, this garb is of worst quality.

Beneath a layer of dust, the mask still gleams. An innocent smile and wide, searching eyes - seeking its own kind.

This circlet shimmers with a hundred otherworldly metals.

Robust, sleek, and flattering, this ensemble presents a very fetching figure for the wearer.