Rampager's Prowler Gloves

Rampager's Prowler Gloves slip over the hands like a second skin, blackened leather kissed with copper rivets and a whisper of pale fur lining the cuffs. The texture is cool and smooth at first touch, then grows stubbornly alive as it settles against skin, a subtle grain that remembers every brush of a blade and every sprint across rain-slick cobbles. Fine stitchwork runs along the back of the hand, a pattern that resembles a prowler’s paw—talon-thin lines converging toward the knuckles as if to guide a hunter’s grip. A narrow band of faded brass threads threads through the wrist, catching glints of torchlight and hinting at a heritage that predates many traders’ tales. People who prize speed and precision swear the gloves feel almost aware, absorbing the echo of every quick strike and returning it as a sharper edge of opportunity. Lore merchants will tell you this pair once belonged to a shadow-skirmisher who stalked caravans and city gates, a figure who moved with the quiet certainty of a hunter closing on dusk. The prowler’s name is buried in rumor, but the gloves survive as a durable oath: a guarantee that a hand can lay hold of opportunity before fear can blink. The leather bears faint, crescent-moon marks—emblems of the night watch, or perhaps of the guild that trained them to read the city’s heartbeat in the rhythm of footsteps and muttered bargains. Either way, the gloves carry a memory of pursuit—of patience, preparation, and a last-second decision to press forward. In play, Rampager's Prowler Gloves matter because they tune a certain kind of story: a character who trusts speed, timing, and the savage poetry of a clean, precise hit. They are built to support a crit-hungry paradigm, where Power fuels raw strength, Ferocity sharpens the blade of every crit, and Precision tilts the odds toward the perfect strike. It’s a triad that makes skirmishers, condition-clearers, and agile brawlers feel lighter on their feet, almost as if the gloves coax the wearer to push a little harder, swing a little faster, land a little cleaner. Used well, they become not just a stat line but a cue—a reminder to read the moment, to pivot, and to blend movement with consequence. Market stories weave them into the fabric of the city’s commerce as well. In the bustle around Saddlebag Exchange, a particular stall would murmur about the gloves’ price, slipping a figure between silver and glimmering resin, then leaning in to trade for hardened leather scraps and a few tradeable trinkets. The exchange isn’t merely a place to cap a deal; it’s a corridor of memory, where a buyer can glimpse the hunter who wore them and imagine crossing paths with the same alleyway winds that once carried the glove-wearer’s quiet steps. So the Rampager's Prowler Gloves aren’t simply equipment. They are a quiet invitation to walk through a city’s nightscape with intention, to pursue opportunity as if it were prey, and to carry forward the tale of a hunter who learned to turn shadow into momentum with nothing more than a steady hand and the right pair of gloves.