Cleric's Tempered Scale Gauntlets

Cleric's Tempered Scale Gauntlets lie weighty in the palm, their scales a mosaic of pale bronze and obsidian, catching light as if a small flame smolders beneath their lacquered surface. The texture is uncanny: each scale thin as a sliver of armor, yet firm, overlapping like a fish’s fin shield, and the interior is lined with soft ash-gray leather that keeps the metal from biting into skin during long marches. At the wrist, a shallow sigil glows faintly, a motif of an open hand and a haloed wheel, a relic pattern whispered to be tied to a long lineage of healers who walked the frontier as if it were a consecrated road. The gauntlets are not merely protective plate but a memory—every strike tempered by prayer, every movement a diagnostic of who you are inside the armor. In the field they become more than armor; they are a conduit. When the wearer channels healing energy, the scales ripple with a pale sheen as if drawing breath from the air itself. Light pours from the palm through the gaps between plates, not in a blinding flare but in a steady, almost patient glow that stitches wounds and steadies hearts. Those who fight alongside a Cleric's Tempered pair know they are often safest when the gauntlets are in full, because the wearer’s focus tightens like a drawn string, the healing aura broadening to touch allies who lag behind the frontline. It is said that the tempering process—a ritual of fire, remedy, and quiet prayer—binds the wearer to a promise: to shield the vulnerable, to absorb the shocks that would fracture a party. The item sits in the world like a bright thread in a tapestry still being woven. Traders speak of it as a hallmark of reliable support—the kind of gear that turns a frantic skirmish into a managed retreat or a hard-fought push into known safety. The gauntlets draw attention not only for durability but for their capacity to harmonize with a healer’s rhythm, to amplify the effect of cleansing winds and protective auras. The word gets around in whispers and old maps: a cleric’s grip that can cradle a line of fighters when the world seems to shake itself apart. Price and presence mingle in the bustling open-air markets, where Saddlebag Exchange holds court with its float of reds, blues, and golds. There, a veteran peddler will tell you that these scales are rare enough to warrant a careful coin, but common enough that a determined student of the sacred arts can find a choice specimen if they’re patient. It is not merely currency that binds you to the gauntlets, but a shared story of pilgrimage, sacrifice, and the quiet, stubborn hope that even in ruin, mercy can be made solid.