Cleric's Masquerade Gloves

Cleric's Masquerade Gloves slip from the box like pale ice, ivory leather catching the candlelight as if they carry a trace of winter in their seams. The texture is cool and precise, smoothing beneath the knuckles with a dancer's snap, while the back of the hand is stitched with delicate silver filigree—a crescent crest that seems to shimmer when a sigil of healing is invoked. Velvet cuffs, midnight blue, spill from the wrist and rustle with the faint breath of silk; the fingertips are cut with a hair-thin seam, allowing a gloved touch to trace wards without dulling touch or timing. The overall effect is a masquerade of authority and tenderness: a cleric's baton sheathed in fashion, a promise that ritual and ritualized beauty can move the room as easily as a healing rune. In the lore that threads through the keep's corridors, these gloves are said to be woven from the offcuts of ceremonial sutures used during rites when the temple disguised its healers as nobility to walk among the masked crowds. They speak to a world where compassion wears a costume, where mercy is performed with a flourish as much as a seal on a patient’s brow. In actual play, the Cleric's Masquerade Gloves do more than look right; they sing when the party needs a surge of vitality or a shield of mist. Wielders find their healing skills feel steadier, their boons bloom a touch sooner, and their upkeep of conditions—poison, chill, or burning—threads become a fraction less clingy, as if the gloves coax the weave of magic to bend with intention. They pair especially well with support builds, enabling quicker, more deliberate gestures that align with a team’s tempo. In moments of chaos—a sudden bolt of party-wlaughter, a shrine state under siege—the gloves let a healer place a hand with quiet authority, drawing the sigil threads through the air in a careful choreography that teammates feel even when words fail. On market mornings the lanes hum with whispers of price and provenance, and the Saddlebag Exchange is a chorus of barter where a pair like these moves from one palm to the next. A dealer fingers the silver outline, noting the glove’s age and the integrity of the threadwork, then names a price that shifts with the festival’s mood. Sometimes they fetch a summer’s worth of coins, sometimes a single breath of a higher demand; the exchange is never a surprise, for the gloves carry a story that bidders recognize—the tale of a cleric who walked through a masquerade and found healing in the rhythm of the crowd. The gloves are more than cloth and leather; they are a bridge between ritual rite and bustling market, between past concealment and present aid, between a healer’s quiet hands and a world that needs quiet hands more than loud ones. In the end, the Cleric's Masquerade Gloves linger in memory like a whispered blessing; they remind readers that even armor can archive mercy, and mercy can outshine threats.