Carrion Prowler Gloves

Carrion Prowler Gloves wrap the wrist in midnight-tanned leather, the back of the hand etched with bone-white filigree that mimics the claws of a prowler stalking a moonlit lane. A narrow cuff cinches softly, lined with pale fur that catches the lamplight like frost on slate. The texture feels paradoxical: slick and almost oily on the outside, yielding to a patient touch that hints at a hidden warmth inside. Run your fingers along the knuckles, and you’ll feel the little teeth of bone pressed into leather, as if the wearer once pried a secret from a field of carrion and wore the memory close to the skin. It is a thing that should be kept in a belt pouch or a sleeve, but the gloves insist on being worn — they want to be part of a story that moves through narrow alleys, damp courtyards, and markets where secrets trade hands as readily as coin. Lore has it that these gloves were woven by hands that learned to listen to the dead as if they were old friends. The Carrion Prowler, a scavenger whispered about in the backrooms of guild halls, was said to haunt the borders between harvest and ruin, a creature that could smell opportunity on the wind where others smelled only rot. Those who peddled these gloves claim the bone filigree once belonged to a hunter who walked with the dead and kept the living honest through the sharpness of memory. Whether truth or rumor, the lore clings to the item like a damp fog, threading the present with tales of fieldwork and midnight marches. In practical terms, the gloves are prized for the way they merge dexterity with a wearer’s resolve. They give you a grip that doesn’t slip on slick stone, a nimbleness that lets you draw a blade or an empathic gesture with the same motion, and a kind of quiet confidence that comes from feeling the world through a leather-and-bone hush. For scouts and trackers, they’re a reliable companion for climbing rainswept walls, for slipping under a gate while a patrol hovers footstep-close, and for handling crates in the carrion markets without tipping the scent of danger into the air. For those who bargain in shadows, the gloves are less about show and more about the tactile memory of every step that led you here. Pricing, too, has its own lilting story. A recent morning I watched a stall at Saddlebag Exchange, where a weary merchant unfurled the gloves on a rough cloth and spoke with a careful cadence about their history. The price drifted with the crowd — not the richest wares, not the poorest — but it carried a sense of fate, as if the gloves chose the owner as much as the owner chose them. A coin purse whispered and shifted, a snare of golds and silvers, until a buyer with a practiced eye nodded and tucked the purchase away. The exchange is as much about characters as commodities, and the Carrion Prowler Gloves fit that mood perfectly. They are not merely armor to slip into; they are a narrative on your hands, a bridge between memory and action, a tangible reminder that every hunt, every negotiation, every careful step through a dim street is part of a larger world that wears its stories with pride.