Cleric's Winged Gloves

Cleric's Winged Gloves are pale ivory, their leather supple as a whispered prayer, stitched with gold thread that catches candlelight and turns it into a halo along the knuckles. The fingertips are capped with delicate brass studs shaped like tiny feathers, and along the back of the hand a sigil—an open palm enveloped by upward-sweeping wings—is embossed in a pale silver. They smell faintly of beeswax and herb oil, and as you slide them on the sensation is suddenly of lighter instinct, as if the fingers remember old rites forgotten by the street vendors below the markets. These gloves carry more than ornament. Local legends say they were sewn by clerics who tended those first plague winds, mending torn prayers as much as torn bandages. In the stories a healer raised her arm and, with each spoken blessing, a hinge of wind carried heat away from the wounded. It is a tale told in tavern corners, and even the most skeptical smiths admit the motif of wings is a common thread in these relics' lore: protection, mercy, and the speed with which a dying hope can be rekindled. In gameplay, the gloves feel like an oar in a crowded sea. When you activate healing prayers, the cast time reduces faintly; shields pulse with renewed resilience; and the overall aura around you blooms with a subtle sanctity that buffs nearby allies. In tight corridors and during siege assaults they let a cleric ride the edge of the frontline, their hands painting light across wounded comrades while the rest of the party keeps pace. The wing motif is not only cosmetic—it's a story about ascent: the cleric who refuses to fall, who climbs above the smoke with the dawn. Market day, you learn, matters as much as the myth. Adventurers gather outside the Saddlebag Exchange, where stone-faced merchants lay out brimming baskets and inventory scrolls. A soot-streaked trader named Miro will tell you that one polish and the winged gloves become almost a different tool entirely. The price flits like a dragonfly: sometimes low as a noble's weekly allowance, sometimes high enough to buy a mount's fare to a distant coast. Negotiating there, the buyer learns to read the glove's glow—when the sigil shines faintly, it whispers that the weave is tired; when it flares, the prayer is fresh and the glove is at peak harmony. Cleric's Winged Gloves, then, are less a piece of armor than a small chorus you carry on your hands—a reminder that mercy can be swift as a gust and that even in the hardest hour, a single well-timed blessing can lift a whole company toward the dawn. Last winter, I watched a caravan pause beneath a storm archway, cleric’s gloves wrapped in cloth to keep the sigil from damp. A healer traced a slow circle in the air, fingers quiet, then sent a wave of relief through the crowd. The moment felt like witness to an oath: to mend, to hurry, to uplift—gift at a time.