Cleric's Noble Gloves

Cleric's Noble Gloves rest on a worn velvet cushion, ivory-white linen catching the light in soft, reverent threads, their backhand a delicate lattice of gold and moon-silver embroidery that seems to hum with a quiet ceremony. The fingers are slender, the palm padded with a supple, honey-tinted leather that has journeyed far enough to carry the whisper of a dozen long hospitals and as many whispered vows. At the knuckles, sigils glow faintly when the wearer breathes near, as if prayers themselves had been pressed into the fabric. The overall silhouette speaks of restraint and grace—an instrument meant not for spectacle but for steadfast service, as if the gloves knew that mercy travels best through patient hands. Lore threads through their appearance like the faint bloom of a blessing on worn skin. They are said to be part of the ceremonial regalia of a long-vanished order of healers, a lineage that tended wounded ranks and broken parishes with equal care. The gloves bear the memory of those who carried hope through siege and famine, and there is a sense that the fabric remembers the weight of a calling more than the touch of any weapon. In stories told in market squares and quiet monasteries alike, the gloves pass from one steward to the next with each generation’s vow to heal before they harm, to shield before they strike, and to remember that even a battlefield can be soothed by a healer’s hands. In practical terms, their power makes the wearer’s craft feel more intimate, more precise. When a cleric of mercy works their healing or calls a protective blessing, the gloves seem to catch the energy and channel it with a cleaner arc, widening the impact of the spell while easing the strain on the wielder’s breath and posture. They do not turn the tide alone, but they lend a quiet certainty to the moment—an assurance that the next patient, the next shelter, the next caravan crossing the road will be met with steadier hands. It’s the kind of edge that matters when you’re guiding a party through a twisting ruin, or standing in a dim trench to hold the line with a ward that refuses to falter. Pilgrims and mercenaries alike have found themselves glancing toward the gloves when the sun set was cruel and the lanterns burned low, trusting that their story is not simply about damage avoided but mercy delivered. The gloves’ market life is almost as storied as their past. Travelers whisper of the Saddlebag Exchange, where relics like these gloves exchange hands for a price that signals their rarity and the weight of what they represent. A pristine pair sings to collectors and healers alike, and even a worn but well-kept set commands a respectable sum—enough to fund the next leg of a pilgrimage, to sustain a small temple, or to repair a roster of apprentices who will one day learn to mend rather than maim. So the Cleric’s Noble Gloves endure, more than leather and thread. They are carriers of oath and oath-keeper, a reminder that in a world where power often strides with a gleam, mercy travels in patient, careful hands.