dungeon silent ward

The rusted helm of a cathedral guard who refused to abandon his post.

Iron plate blackened by dried ichor, with surgical tools riveted in as charms.

Greaves caked in the dust of a place that has not been walked in for decades.

Heavy gauntlets, the fingers stained where they once held a dying friend.

Steel boots that leave a faint wet print behind even on dry stone.

A plague doctor's mask, its beak still packed with ancient dried herbs.

Oiled leather coat of a scout who almost made it to the exit.

Bracers lined with vials of herbs that no longer do anything useful.

Waxed leggings with a belt of tiny bone tools.

Soft-soled boots designed for quiet passage through quarantine halls.

A hood embroidered with the sigils of a long-forgotten healing order.

Robes with pockets full of surgical tools that no one will ever use again.

Bandaged gloves that still smell faintly of chrism.

Long, practical leggings stained with the work of the ward.

Soft-soled slippers worn for not disturbing the sick.

A sealed vial of chrism Morhaus was administering when the plague took him. Still warm.

Still beating in its jar. You can feel it pulsing in your pack, in rhythm with your own heart.