Cleric's Draconic Gauntlets

Cleric's Draconic Gauntlets lie on the table like a story cast in metal and hide, the leather bulky and warm beneath a careful lacquer. The plates over the knuckles are arranged as if they grew there, overlapping scales in pale ivory that catch the lamp’s glow and shift to a faint jade as you tilt your wrist. Each scale is edged with a precise bevel, and the cuffs bear glyphs—the cobalt runes spiraling toward a central motif of a sleeping dragon. When you move closer, you can hear a soft rasp of leather, a whisper of old enchantments resting beneath the surface, as if the gauntlets remember every hand that wore them. They feel heavy with history, yet designed for the healer’s rhythm, not the marshal’s pace. Lore has it these gloves were forged in temple foundries by clerics who learned to braid breath into bandage, to make healing as sturdy as stone and as unyielding as dragon scales. The draconic motif is not mere decoration; it is a pledge: to guard life when the room trembles, to shield the vulnerable as a dragon would cradle its hatchlings. In the oldest tales, they awaken in the presence of a crowd of wounded souls, glowing softly and lending steadiness to the hands that mend flesh and courage alike. Whether the stories are factual or imagined, they invite a deeper sense of purpose: the wearer carries more than warmth and grip; they bear a mantle of responsibility. In practice, the gauntlets are a healer’s ally and a warder’s companion. They emphasize stewardship: improving efficiency with healing rites, subtly enhancing protective auras, and granting a more deliberate cadence when hands move over bruise and burn. They don’t turn the tide by themselves, but they tilt the balance toward relief, amplifying that quiet, tireless work that keeps a choir of companions on their feet as arrows whistle and shields meet a sudden storm of danger. In a corridor thick with smoke and siege, they feel like a breath held in iron—firm, patient, and ready to intercede when a comrade falters. Market chatter drifts through the air as caravans trundle toward the gate. Near the Saddlebag Exchange, a clerk weighs the gloves as if weighing a legend, speaking of rarity and price in silver with a careful nod toward demand. A patient buyer might bargain with a word, perhaps swapping a pair of shimmering dyes or a hard-won relic, because these gauntlets are not mere equipment; they are a compact between healer and world. The glow within the scales softens the room’s edges, and in that half-light the cleric knows a truth worth carrying: some relics do not merely arm us; they remind us why we mend, and whom we mend for.