Carrion Exalted Gloves

Carrion Exalted Gloves lie across the desk like a small, fatal sculpture: blackened leather sculpted with pale bone-like plates along the back of the hands, rivets glinting where the metal meets the skin. The texture is paradoxical—soft as a spent leaf at the fingertips, yet compact and unyielding where the carven plates press into the palm. A faint resin smell clings to the seams, mingled with something old and iron-warm, as if the gloves carried the memory of a rite performed in the dark. Runed sigils coil along the knuckles, catching the light with a cold, almost clinical glow. They speak in a language of carrion and exultation, a link to exiled orders that bargained with decay to grant power through the slow, patient work of death. Putting them on changes the air around you; not a flourish but a hinge. The gloves are designed for control, amplifying the wearer’s tie to life’s ebb. When a necromantic spell slips from your lips, the space between you and your thralls tightens; wounds you mend feed the patrols you command. They sharpen touch on debilitating conditions, prolonging the moment when corruption blooms on an enemy and withers in your grip. In the right hands, the gloves turn scraps of power into a steady harvest—bone and shadow rearranged into a rhythm you can trust in battle. They are less a tool, more a pact you carry from ruin to road. Market chatter rounds out the gloves’ story. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a quiet stall clacks coins as traders haggle over the gloved hands that promise more than mere protection. The price is steep enough to turn the casual buyer away and lure a devoted collector closer, the kind who reads runes like weather and knows a name can carry a legend. It’s not just metal or hide; it’s a narrative etched into the skin, a reminder that power in this world is won through patience, blood, and a careful hand on the lever that tips the balance. When the right rumor drifts through the crowd—perhaps of a necromancer rally or a new harvest of relics—the gloves become a catalyst, their value swelling like a tide. One scavenger found them amid the wreckage of a ruined temple, fingers brushing the bone plates as if spoken to by old friends. With the gloves on, he walked the line between respect and hunger, commanding a handful of wraiths to move a fallen statue so he could pass. The temple breathed again, if only for a heartbeat, and the gloved hands kept their counsel: power is a burden, but it is also a map—one that points toward the next ruin and the next story waiting to be told. Carrion Exalted Gloves endure, a relic you wear as much as you wield, a reminder that in the world’s quiet corners, life and decay continue to barter for a moment longer of command. That memory lingers in the market as long as the gloves’ grip remains.