Cleric's Barbaric Gloves

Cleric's Barbaric Gloves rest on the rough-hewn table like a relic found in a battlefield shrine. The leather is sun-warmed, a deep oak-brown that has soaked years of rain and patient use. The back of each hand is reinforced with irregular patches of brass rivets, as if someone hammered together mercy and muscle, while the fingers leave open tips for tactile work in the ward. Along the cuff, a row of faded sigils is stitched with gold thread, their runic mouths half-remembered from rites that priests insisted were older than the city walls. When you cradle them, the texture tells a story: grainy, resilient, almost stubborn, with a scent of oil and old smoke clinging to every seam. They look barbaric in their blunt practicality, yet there is a sanctified dignity in the way the light catches the metal studs, turning them into a quiet halo around the wearer’s hand. In the hands of a healer, these gloves feel like a promise kept under fire. The gloves are said to be cut from the hides of patient beasts that once wandered the monastery’s outer sanctum, tanned with a ritual that binds warmth to memory. The wearer’s healing touch seems to carry more weight, as if each stroke of a palm could coax a limp breath back into a fallen comrade. In game terms, they’re treasured for the way they soften the line between duty and fear: a modest increase to healing potency, a slender boost to vitality, and a hint of steadiness when the squad is pinned behind a shattered shield. They don’t shout, but they hum with a quiet resonance that makes a squad’s tempo feel steadier, their cleanse feel surer, their prayers feel a fraction stronger. Travelers tell of the glove’s other life, too—how it’s traded, bartered, and weighed in the crowded aisles of a market where every vendor swears their wares sing. The Saddlebag Exchange, a rough wooden pavilion lined with satchels and a bell that rings with every new arrival, is where such gloves sometimes pass from one story to another. A captain might offer a handful of gold and a tale from the frontline; a scholar might trade relic pebbles for a chance to study the sigils stitched there. The price is never fixed, shifting with demand, the wearer's reputation, and the season’s battles. A quiet, honest sum might sit in the low hundreds of copper at dawn, only to bloom into gold beneath the glare of a festival. And so the Cleric’s Barbaric Gloves become more than leather and thread. They are an artifact of care forged in hardship, a bridge between healer and fighter, a tangible memory of those who chose mercy even as the world burned around them. Each time the fingers curl and steady, the glove keeps faith alive in a place where faith is a practical thing and a lifeline. The glove’s memory travels with every healer forward.