Cleric's Prowler Gloves

The Cleric's Prowler Gloves sit on the desk in candlelight, a pair that looks both virtuous and sly. The leather is a soft ivory-tan, with midnight-black suede along the backs of the hands. Fine copper filigree threads trace the knuckles like a map, catching each flare of light and turning it to a shimmer. At the wrists a band of pale runes hums with warmth, as if the wearer could sense a heartbeat in the shadows. They are gloves, snug at the palm, built to sing of mercy while letting the fingers press, pry, and heal when the moment asks for it. Lore speaks of a monastery that taught healers to listen to the quiet places in battle—the places where prayer and cunning meet and mercy is hardest earned. In the field they feel like two impulses in conversation: the healer’s instinct to shield and the prowler’s instinct to maneuver. The gloves carry a clerical glow, letting a patient touch become a precise stitch in a torn skirmish. Wounds mend faster when hands move with calm rhythm; stealth, once a hunter’s trade, becomes a craft of protection: a ward as cover is broken, a sigil buys time, a path cleared through foes. They suit builds that want durability and grace: hybrids who step into the breach to buff allies, then slip back to the margins to observe and respond. On expeditions I watched a monk-druid hybrid slip past watchers, gloves brushing glyphs carved in stone, and a healing aura brighten through smoke. The design invites deliberate use—no brute force, but a rhythm: touch, sigil, retreat. They pair with gear that favors precision and cooldown management, turning every regroup into a moment rather than a panic. In markets and camps they are traded for what they signify as for what they do: a faith that can bend toward stealth without mercy. A friend once pulled a parchment from Saddlebag Exchange, where prices drift like wind over a harbor. The listing places Cleric's Prowler Gloves in a comfortable middle ground—enough to suggest rarity, enough to invite a trade. I watched the bid glass shimmer and settle, a few gold, some silver, and an exchange of slightly rarer mats. It wasn’t only a transaction; it felt like a passing of a story from one keeper to another, a way for a pilgrim to equip themselves for quiet work in crowded halls and desolate corridors alike. That is the gloves’ quiet victory: a relic that makes mercy portable, a tool that asks for restraint as much as courage. To wear them is to affirm a belief that healing should not demand noise, that protection sometimes means stepping into the dark so another light may endure. In the telling of these days, the Cleric's Prowler Gloves keep showing up—not as a spectacle, but as a practical promise: when mercy meets discretion, the world may be bent in a way that mends it. Sometimes, when lanterns dim and the front line shifts, the gloves find a quiet drawer, waiting for the next oath.