Carrion Prowler Gloves

Carrion Prowler Gloves clasp the wrist like a second skin, supple leather dyed the color of dusk and stitched with threads that catch the light as you move. The back of the glove bears a repeating motif—a prowler’s silhouette with wings tucked close, as if listening for the rustle of carrion birds above. The palm is reinforced with a tougher hide, grainy and warm to the touch, and the knuckles wear small, bone-colored studs that hint at a hunter’s toolkit rather than a fashion statement. The lining smells faintly of resin and rain, a scent that reminds a wearer of long nights spent waiting for footprints to appear in mud. When you flex your fingers, the texture responds—grip satisfied, glide easy, like a whisper against leather. In the oldest taverns and the caravan routes, people tell of a hunter who wore these gloves to blend into the afterstorm’s dim light, learning the carrion prowler’s telltale rustle as if it were a lullaby. The gloves, they say, carry a memory of that chase—the way the leather settled over a calloused palm after a minute of silent tracking, the way the bone studs warmed against your knuckles when a fight began. Whether or not the tale is true, the relic-like feel is undeniable: they make you feel steadier, more patient, more in tune with every step across a broken road. In gameplay, the Carrion Prowler Gloves become more than gear. They improve your grip in rain and ash, helping you draw and sheathe weapons without a clumsy second thought. Archers find their aim steadier when the fingers don’t slip at the moment of release; thieves and scouts appreciate the tactile advantage when climbing rough walls or snagging a moving rope. They’re favored by those who prefer stealth and precision, because the gloves allow you to handle cordage, traps, and fine tools with minimal noise and maximum control. And, in the broader story of the world, they anchor a character’s identity—a hunter who respects danger, yet wears it lightly so that the world might still be surprised by what lies ahead. At Saddlebag Exchange, I watched a pair change hands with a quiet gravity, a small drama played out among crates and lantern light. The price tag spoke of value and patience—a few silver coins for a piece that promised staying power in the rain and glare of battle, plus a few barter-worthy odds and ends to seal the deal. The vendor’s eyes glinted as he described how the gloves would pair with apothecaries’ bandages and leather wraps, turning a routine purchase into a nod to a broader life lived on the road. The bargain settled, and the gloves found a new wanderer to continue their story, a quiet thread woven into the larger tapestry of the world. If you cradle them in your hands, you can almost hear the footsteps of the carrion prowler, scuffing through the night, inviting you to continue the chase.