Berserker's Scallywag Gauntlets of the Afflicted

Berserker's Scallywag Gauntlets of the Afflicted glare back at you from a weathered crate. Leather pitted by salt and sun clings to the wrists like a second skin, while brass studs pin the seams and a chain-link cuff encircles the wrist. A strip of scarlet cloth—the color of dawn over a storm-tossed deck—snakes through the knuckles. The forearms bear etched sigils: a compass twined with a wailing skull, and a creeping green bloom that shivers as the light shifts. They smell of tar, old rope, and ink, and when you flex your fingers, a soft, angry clatter seems to sprout from the metal as if the gauntlets are sparring with time. These were forged in the shadow of a pirate crew known as the Afflicted, a band who raided a plague-wraith’s galleon and paid with luck—glory on one hand, curse on the other—binding sea-worn iron to a leather hug that never forgives. On the field, they are more than mere gloves. They lean into the berserker’s hunger, turning risk into certainty. Worn with the right build, they tilt the balance toward brutal efficiency: increased Power and Precision, with Ferocity that makes critical hits sting and burst through defenses. The texture seems to funnel rage into motion, rewarding aggressive timing: a swap from guard to strike, a reckless lunge that lands just as a foe overreaches. Yet the Afflicted curse is not a mere boast of bravado. It exacts a toll: linger too long in the heart of combat, and your health breathes shallowly, the fight draining you as you drain it. The trade-off is the spine of the tale—the storm rewards the dancer who moves, not the statue who endures. Players tell stories of quick-kites and bold bursts, of weaving between targets so each critical strike lands with maximum flourish while the curse stays neatly in check. Nearby, a merchant leans over a crate and whispers of value, the way markets talk when spray drips from a ship’s anchor. The Saddlebag Exchange keeps ledgers for relics like these, a loose network of traders who meet at dawn and dusk along the quays to swap stories and gear. The gauntlets draw eyes not only with their bite but with a price tag inked on rough parchment and tied to the crate with twine. In the murmur of the crowd, the Exchange’s name surfaces again and again—the Saddlebag Exchange—as if the tide itself were endorsing the deal. The vendor offers fairness in exchange for risk, and the ledger’s figures shift with hour, weather, and the willingness of a buyer to gamble on pirate luck. Those who finally own them carry a thread of the sea inside. They are not merely equipment but a marker—a reminder that power, earned by swift, fearless action, comes at a price. Strap them on, and the hulls groan, the nets sing, and market chatter rises into a chorus as you step into the next fight, chasing a moment of brutal, glorious clarity across the map.