Berserker's Feathered Gloves

Berserker's Feathered Gloves glitter with a cascade of iridescent feathers and burnished brass, the supple leather beneath it smooth as river stone and etched with a worry-worn sigil that looks almost drawn in wind. The back of the hand is a mosaic of feather quills, each one set into a lattice of fine gold thread, so that when the wearer moves, the light ripples like a bird’s wing beating through a storm. The palms are lined with quietly grained leather, worn soft by years of gripping hilt and weapon haft, while knuckles are protected by a subtle ring of tempered steel that feels cool to the touch even after a long chase through heat and dust. It is a piece that speaks in textures: the silky sheen of the feathers, the dry rasp of leather under your thumb, the turn of aged brass that catches the sun just so, as if the gloves themselves remember every swing and sprint. Locals tell a story etched into the glove’s palm—a tale of the Feathered Order, a wandering band that learned to ride the wind’s edge and turn chaos into a measured, terrifying grace. Small birds are painted in bas-relief on the inner cuff, and a line of runes runs along the seam, a whisper of old battles where the berserker’s roar was said to be answered by a chorus of fluttering, taloned witnesses. Those runes aren’t merely decoration; they’re a reminder that power, when tempered with discipline, can sing rather than scream. Some say the feathers were gifted by a storm-spurned smith who carved the glove from a single, moonlit hide and then bound it with a pact of wind—an artifact meant for those who would charge forward, eyes bright as dawn, yet never lose their footing in the heat of fury. In practical terms, the gloves feel like a second skin when you move—enhancing the wearer’s presence on the field, sharpening the edge between impulse and aim. They’re celebrated among berserkers for amplifying raw momentum and ferocity, helping to land clean, brutal hits and to chain critical bursts with a singer’s pace. The feathers, far from mere pomp, seem to catch currents that push the body forward just enough to feel a step quicker, a draw of breath easier. Worn by skirmishers and frontline dread alike, they become a symbol as much as a tool—a reminder that a calculated roar can move more than a blade; it can tilt a skirmish toward a favored wind. The market rounds out the glove’s story. A traveler once told me the price shifts with the caravan’s mood, the weather, and whether a fresh batch of feathers arrives from the eastern coasts. At Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a ledger open and close like a tide pool: offers creeping up as demand rises, then settling again when spring winds blew new possibilities across the continent. It’s a place where bargain and legend mingle, where a well-creased pair of gloves can be traded for a story as much as for gold. And so the Berserker’s Feathered Gloves live on, not merely as gear but as a compact saga—of wind, war, and the restless heart that longs to meet every dawn with a shout and a step that lands true.