Cleric's Rascal Gloves

Cleric's Rascal Gloves rest on a sun-warmed counter, their pale leather catching the morning light like a vow. The back bears a lattice of copper thread that catches a glint, while the fingertips are cut away to reveal worn cloth beneath, as if the wearer touches tenderness and trouble in the same breath. The texture is unexpectedly soft for armor—a whisper of suede under a sheen of waxed leather, lined with a fine ivory fabric that smells faintly of old ointments and rain. A slender brass clasp at the wrist hints at a hidden pocket, a relic of a past bargaining for secrets. On the surface, flourishes of sigil-work circle a small medallion stamped with a cleric's monogram, half-obliterated by time, as if the glove itself wore a memory that refused to fade. Lore travels in the stitches. People say these gloves were sewn by a cleric who wandered into a city of tricksters, offering blessings in exchange for stories. The rascal in the title is as much a warning as a tribute: mercy with a twist, healing with a nudge of mischief. A whispered legend tells of a healer who could mend a broken resolve with a touch that suggested they’d seen every back alley and every holy vow in equal measure. When those hands wore the Gloves, the line between piety and playfulness blurred, and the world believed mercy could arrive with a smile and a wink. In gameplay, the gloves feel like a bridge between two old companions—the healer’s steady rhythm and the rogue’s quick, unapologetic edge. Wielders report that wearing them amplifies the flow of care without sacrificing agility, helping keep allies alive when the battlefield simmers with stray sparks. They’re prized for enhancing the cadence of boons and cleansing, letting a cleric slip through danger to deliver a shield or a purified breath at just the right moment. The texture encourages a confident grip on staff or scepter, while a subtle aura seems to pulse with every successful heal, as if the gloves remembered the hands that first learned to twist light into relief. The market has its own story for these gloves. Traders at Saddlebag Exchange compare them with other relics, bargaining in silvery coins and notes of racked memory. A fair price can wobble with rumor: a single tale of a hero who used the gloves to barter mercy for safe passage through a siege can lift the gloves’ value as surely as a fresh blessing can lift a burden. But the true worth stays in how the wearer makes mercy feel both earned and earned again—the sense that the gloves are not merely armor but a contract with the world: a promise that healing can wear a smile, and mischief, tempered, can become salvation in disguise. When you slip them on, the world seems to tilt just enough to notice: the rascal and the cleric, two sides of a single hand, guiding the fight with steadiness and wit.