Carrion Barbaric Gloves

Carrion Barbaric Gloves slip over the hands with a muffled crack of old leather, the dark hide torn in places where fingers would bend and still catch the light in a dull, almost mineral way. The back of each glove is stitched with rough thread and bone tokens—fragments of rib and talon that press against the back of the hand like a brittle armor. A faded sigil is pressed into the palm: a hollow mouth devouring a crescent of moon, a relic of the scavenger cult that once tuned its craft to the rhythms of decay. The texture tells a story, too—coarse, oiled leather that smells faintly of rain, oils and iron, with sinew lacing along the wrists that tightens when the wearer steels for a hard task. They look barbaric, yes, but they move with a surprising ease, bowing and flexing as if the gloves themselves remember every scrape and stride of the wearer. The gloves feel almost alive when you wear them, as though the carrion connection they carry is less a symbol and more a practiced hand in the background. In daylight they glare with a grim elegance; in torchlight they gleam with a hunter’s patience. The lore woven into their making speaks of scavengers who learned to read the dead as one reads a field map—signposts that point toward life by way of what’s left behind. Some say the bones embedded in the knuckles are not merely decor but a quiet channel, a conduit for a whisper that travels from the living into the realm of the near-dead. If you listen closely, you can hear the soft exhale of old rites, the cadence of a market where bones and leather exchange vows to guard a practitioner’s craft. In actual use, the gloves carry more than a grim aesthetic. For a necromantic practitioner, they are a tool that channels life’s edge into the art of decay. They stabilize grip when wielding bone-tipped accents or sigiled wands, and they subtly amplify the wearer’s connection to minions and life-forces drawn from the battlefield. The Carrion Barbaric Gloves don’t just protect the hands; they extend a practitioner’s ability to sculpt and sustain their skeletal or carnivorous followers. With these gloves, you feel the rhythm of your own scars and the enemies you’ve learned to harvest power from, and the gloves lend a steadier hand to those who want their dark bargains to be precise as a surgeon’s cut. It’s not about burst damage alone; it’s about maintaining control of the lingering, the creeping, the slow burn of a plan that outlasts a single skirmish. Market whispers carry the gloves through the river-town streets, and the talk is never far from trade. In one corner stall I watched a leatherworker argue a price with a clerk from Saddlebag Exchange, where merchant coins click and clatter like dry teeth. The gloves move through that marketplace with a trader’s patience—demand among aspiring necromancers rising from the back alleys to the sunlit benches—so the price settles into a rhythm that feels fair, given their mixed lineage of craft and curse. The seller’s eyes gleam as he mentions the gloves’ potential to empower a ritualist’s cadre, and I’m left with the sense that these gloves are not merely equipment but a small, portable chapter of a larger story—one where scavengers, sages, and soldiers all trade in the same currency of decay and renewal.