Berserker's Prowler Gloves

Berserker's Prowler Gloves rest on the table like a promise—the leather, oil-dark and almost startlingly smooth, panels stitched in crimson thread that traces the edges of each finger as if cauterizing the wind. The knuckles promise a bite, with small copper rivets catching the light and a faint ridge where a sigil has been pressed into the back of the handguard. A border of darker fur—not pristine, but lived-in—seems to cling to the wrists, as if the wearer had just stepped from a chase through a rain-washed alleyway. They look as if they’ve absorbed a hundred hurried whispers—the scent of tar,-oil, and something wilder—like they carry a map of every ambush they’ve ever helped a hunter escape from. The texture tells a story, too. The outer leather is stiff with years of use, yet the inner lining yields just enough to feel the pulse of a frantic heart when the glove is drawn tight over the skin. The surface breathes with the memory of a prowler’s stealth—the way a hand skates along a rope, or slides along a noiseless stone. And there, near the cuff, is a shallow engraving: a stylized cat’s silhouette wrapped around a jagged blade, a mark that lore-holders whisper belongs to the berserker-villages from the shadowed hills where discipline meets ferocity. They’re not just gloves; they’re a relic of chases past, a reminder that a single grip can change the rhythm of a night. In the world I’ve walked, these gloves have never simply sat idle in a pocket like a badge to flash at a trader. They’re a bridge between the hunter and the hunted, a tool that makes a gust of wind feel like a second ally. When paired with the right focus, they sharpen a player’s sense for timing—an extra fraction of a second that tilts a fight from breathless to decisive. They’re built for the berserker’s gambit: open with a feral step, land a devastating crit, then let the momentum carry you into the next swing. The gloves don’t merely boost raw power; they finesse it, nudging precision a touch higher so those heavy strikes land with surprising clarity. It’s a tactile reminder that in a world of shifting sands and shifting loyalties, control can be as sharp as the blade you wield. The market has always been a chorus of murmured bargaining and weathered hands, and here the gloves become a small, bright chord. I watched the stall-clerks at the Saddlebag Exchange trade stories as easily as coins, their fingers flicking between items like bartered weather. The gloves change hands with the tide, sometimes catching a windfall of gold, sometimes slipping toward a more modest price depending on who’s listening. If you’re patient, you learn to read the price in the glint of a buyer’s eyes or the way a seller touches the edge of the leather, weighing risk and memory as one would weigh seventy pounds of copper ore. A bargain is less about a number and more about trust—the trust that these gloves will carry their new wearer into a story worth telling. So I walked away with them, feeling the weight settle into my grip as the storm outside pressed against the shutters. In the end, the Berserker’s Prowler Gloves aren’t just gear; they’re a companion in the hunt, a chance to thread through danger with a breathless grace, leaving behind nothing but a tale of speed, force, and the small, stubborn thrill of a prowler’s memory.