Strong Acolyte Gloves

Strong Acolyte Gloves press against the table, their leather dark as midnight, fingers cupped as if listening for a whispered ward. The back of the hand is stitched with a lattice of sigils in pale gold thread that catch the torchlight and hum faintly when warmed by a nearby brazier. The leather on the palm is thick where the thumb meets the knuckle, layered for durability, while the cuffs are reinforced with bronze rivets. A narrow belt of reinforced fabric around the wrist bears the word Acolyte, stitched in a script that seems to move when you blink. They look, at first glance, like relics salvaged from an old temple, yet they sit so comfortably in your hands that you expect a gentle healer’s touch to emerge with every flex of your fingers. The texture is a paradox: rugged and forgiving, as if the gloves have learned the weight of a thousand slips and stumbles. When you cradle a ward or brush an ally’s shoulder with a healing touch, the sigils flare with a patient, almost listening glow. Lore says they were woven in the halls where acolytes trained to bind healing energy to their will, tempered by the breath of patient mentors. In battle, they keep the hands steady as you soothe wounded charges, whispering subtle notes of protection into the air—quiet until the ward settles and the wounded begin to hear the world again through the fog of pain. In game terms, their significance is more than fashion. They sharpen focus for healers and support builds, nudging the gap between a quick cast and practiced restraint. A few pulses of light sear through the wards you weave, and your heals land with a touch more certainty, your condition cleanses carry a longer drift, and your grip on the moment steadies the team as they scramble to hold the line. They don’t turn a bad fight into a dream, but they tilt the odds toward the care you’re there to give, like a seasoned hand guiding a lantern through a storm. Market chatter rarely stays quiet in the shadow of the city’s bazaars, where caravans unload fortunes and bargains swing on a thread. Saddlebag Exchange is the kind of place where a quiet nod can seal a fair trade; a gloved trader may offer a solid pair for around three gold coins, with the digits climbing on a brisk week or dwindling when new batches roll in from deeper markets. If you listen to the lull of leather and clasp—if you listen to the gloves themselves—you’ll hear the pulse of the world they’ve touched: a lineage of care, a thread through the city’s wounds, and a ready promise to whoever wears them next.