Berserker's Barbaric Gloves

Berserker's Barbaric Gloves lie on the table like a promise made in haste: heavy, weather-darkened leather, the surface scored with shallow scratches that catch the lamplight in a thousand tiny gleams. The texture is at once rough and stubborn, as if the hide has learned to withstand a dozen winters’ worth of quarrel and clash; thick seams hold together knuckles wrapped with brass rivets, and the inner lining bears the faint scent of pine sap and smoke. On the backhand, a sigil—roaring bear tangled in thorned vines—is burned deep, a herald of the fury that sleeps there until the wrists are braced and the call to strike arrives. They’re barbaric in form, with a high cut at the forearm and a fringe of tattered hide that whispers of long rides and longer battles. When you slide them on, the world seems to tilt toward a louder tempo, as if the glove itself were tapping a hidden drumbeat just beneath the skin. Along the road, I watched a bladesmith admire them, tracing the sigil with a gloved finger and murmuring about tempering steel and how relics pass from hand to hand. A scout wore them through a desert march, claiming the fur lining kept his fingers warm while comrades burned beneath sun, and that the glove's weight gave him the nerve to sprint into the melee for a final swing. In corners, traders spoke of curses and charge, price. That legend translates into a practical truth: these gloves are built for an aggressive, high-risk approach that craves power, precision, and ferocity. They don’t shield the wearer so much as amplify the moment of impact, turning a gut punch into a roar, a wary retreat into a flamboyant charge. Wearers slip them on to complement crit-heavy setups, to exploit opening windows after a perfect spell combo, or to chase down a fleeing foe with a flourish that reads as both artistry and threat. The gloves’ tactile weight makes you feel every hammering strike and every decisive block, a constant reminder that momentum is the weapon you carry. Market chatter folds into the story as well. In the markets where traders swap stories as freely as coins, the gloves have a reputation for traveling well but asking a hefty price. I heard it whispered along the river stalls that Saddlebag Exchange often ships these items between distant towns, the trade channel humming with a cadence of barter and trust. Prices drift with news of raids, with days of calm, and with the luck of the finder; a careful buyer learns to watch the ledger and listen to the oath of the vendors who swear they’ll guard such goods until a worthy hand offers its weight in gold. The gloves, once worn by a legend, now wait for a new voice to carry their fury forward. Some nights I imagine the glove meeting a new wearer at a rain-soaked border, the sigil glowing as the bear answers with a crack of thunder. For now.