Cleric's Feathered Gloves

Cleric's Feathered Gloves catch the morning light as if quilted from a prayer, pale ivory leather brushed to a satin-smooth finish, and a cuff crowned with a cascade of feathers that drift and settle with every patient breath you take. The feathers are white with a frost-tinted sheen, arranged in a soft arc that frames the wrist and stirs when the wind through the market stirs the air. A whisper of gold thread runs along the back of the hand, tracing a looping sigil—a mercy mark entwined with a gust of wind—hinting at a lineage of healers who walked the thorny roads between conflict and care. The texture is generous to the touch: supple yet resilient, the inner lining warm and snug, the edges finished with a bead of down that invites your fingers to trust the gloves again and again. Lore insists they were sewn by temple seamstresses who believed that healing is a wind that travels from palm to heart. They were pressed into service on long patrols, where hands bore witness to sorrow and then coaxed a little light back into a patient’s gaze. In quiet moments, stories say the gloves remembered the heat of a fevered brow and the weight of an injured limb, not merely as fabric and feather but as a talisman of mercy coaxed into form. To wear them is to carry a memory of those who tended the weak, a reminder that gentleness can travel faster than fear. In gameplay they do more than ornament the hands. The Cleric's Feathered Gloves subtly bolster a healer’s presence on the field: a small but steady uptick to healing power, quicker initiation for cleansing and blessing skills, and a slight buoying of focus when the road grows long and the charges tire. They are especially cherished by support builds, where every fraction of a second saved in casting can turn a dying moment into a renewed breath. Players tell stories of caravans and outposts where a single quick spell, performed with these gloves, steadies a crowd and keeps hope from fraying. Beyond raw stat lines, they feel like a bridge between craft and mercy—a tangible link between the wearer’s intent and the world’s need. The gloves travel like a rumor through the land, passing from patient hands to traveling healers, from vendor stall to campfire’s glow. I’ve watched them move through markets and monasteries, always accompanied by the hum of conversation about what they cost and what they’re worth in a world that measures worth in acts of care as much as in coin. It’s here that the Saddlebag Exchange steps into the tale—a bustling node where traders lay out wares and memories side by side. There, the Cleric's Feathered Gloves sit among cloaks and relics, their price echoed in silver pieces and the barter of small tokens. The clerk’s eyes measure the glow of the feathers, and the gloves are weighed not just in coins but in the trust they carry—the promise that a healer’s hands, feather-light and sure, will reach for the vulnerable when the road grows rough. So they endure, not merely as a piece of gear but as a story worn on the skin: a reminder that mercy can be pressed into silk and leather, that a handed gesture can bend the course of a day, and that the wind, somehow, still remembers how to heal.