Cleric's Prowler Gloves

Cleric's Prowler Gloves rest on the wrist like a whispered oath: ivory-tinted leather, smooth as confession, braided with midnight silk along the back of the hand, and a row of tiny sigils running up the forearm that catch the light with every gesture. The fingertips are tipped with polished obsidian, a touch of protection that reminds the wearer to listen before they move. The palm bears stitched emblems of healing and mercy that glow faintly in candlelight, and the seams hum with a quiet warmth when a life is saved. The texture is cool and pliant, the grain catching every brush of air as if the glove is listening as much as it speaks. Long after the last bell tolls, the gloves tell a different story — one whispered among courtyards and back alleys. The clerics who forged them believed mercy should arrive unseen, that a hand could mend wounds while a foot dissolves into the crowd. The glove’s "prowler" name nods to that paradox: healers who walk like sway of smoke, restoring life without announcing their arrival, stitching resilience into the fabric of a small, crowded world. On the field, they are said to balance healing intent with stealthy mobility. Wearers find they can sustain a battered unit from safer ground while slipping to a flank to seal a fragile moment with care. In tight corridors and crowded towers, the gloves encourage a patient rhythm—cast a blessing, adjust a shield, sidestep a spearhead, repeat—until the tide turns without ever shouting for attention. They feel like a bridge between sanctuary and street, a piece of ceremonial mercy that remembers the urgency of a dying breath and the quiet room where a nurse breathes life back into a patient. Lorekeepers speak of a lineage that wore such gloves when healing was as much about subtlety as power. They tell of healers who wore the Prowler to cross forbidden thresholds, tend the wounded beneath the arch of a siege, and vanish into the dusk before noise could rise again. The gloves, then, are more than leather and thread; they are a careful script written into skin and motion. Price and provenance drift through the fabric of the world as surely as wind through a market stall. In the sunlit bustle of Saddlebag Exchange, traders unfold folios and lay out the gloves on a worn velvet cloth, letting the light catch the sigils. A knowing vendor weighs memory against metal, and the price tag becomes a small chronicle of the item’s journey — rare, coveted, and worthy of a story that makes sense only when you hear it told aloud. By the time you walk away, the Cleric's Prowler Gloves feel less like gear and more like a doorway: a way to mend, to move, to belong somewhere between mercy and motion. For those who carry them, the gloves are a chorus of quiet actions—a healer's conscience, a hunter's hinge, and a reminder that power, when tempered by mercy, travels farther than fear.