Berserker's Scallywag Gauntlets of the Flock

Berserker's Scallywag Gauntlets of the Flock rest on the counter like a rumor that finally found its shape: deep, weathered leather dyed the color of storm-tossed seas, each finger cut short and reinforced with small brass scales that glint when the light catches them. The forearm panels are stitched with a stubborn, scarred crimson thread, looping into a heraldic seabird in full dive—the Flock’s signature, a symbol whispered among raiders and skalds alike. The texture tells a tale, too: the leather is supple enough to feel like a second skin, yet thick enough to resist a blade’s kiss, with a ruinous edge that hints at storms survived and brash decisions made at the moment of dusk. Inside, the lining bears the scent of salt and rain, a hint of fur that keeps the wearer warm when the wind bites, and a discreet clasp at the wrist that seals away a secret you never intended to reveal to a crowd. The lore threads itself through the look. A berserker of the Flock—legend says a storm-worn pirate who rode the edge of fear—wore gloves much like these when he carved a path through a harbor convoy. They say the gloves carry the memory of every clash, the memory of a crew that trusted only speed and instinct, a crew that vanished into rumor as soon as the smoke cleared. To wear them, then, is to join that roving chorus for a heartbeat: to feel your blood sing with the gulls, to let the storm’s edge bloom along your knuckles, and to hear in the rustle of the thread a vow to fight with unreasoned ferocity until the last wave subsides. They are not mere armor; they are a talisman that invites you to test the limits of your wrath and to claim them back, hand by weathered hand. In practical terms, the gauntlets are prized for their raw edge in the thick of the fray. They balance precision and power, inviting a skirmish where each strike lands with a sharpened focus and each milestone of a combo feels earned rather than coerced. For a Berserker build, they feel like a chorus you can call upon at will—the moment you swing, your grip tightens, the world narrows, and chances for a decisive blow rise as gulls wheel overhead. Whether you’re cutting through rubbery shield work, reaching the vulnerable flank, or simply forcing a retreat in system-cracking tempo, the Gauntlets push you toward a rhythm that feels almost predestined—like the Flock’s own cadence. That sense of predestination carried me to the Saddlebag Exchange that week, a roving market tucked between a potter’s stall and a fisher’s lean-to. The vendor’s grin suggested he knew the gloves would draw a crowd, and when I asked about the price, he leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper: sixty gold, give or take a trade for something the Flock might admire—a compass carved from driftwood, a map fragment with half the route burned away, a coin purse threaded with a thief’s quiet laughter. We bargained, as travelers do, until the gloves found a new keeper and the stall’s bell rang the next tale into the afternoon. Walking away, I carried both the weight of the sea and the certainty that this piece, weathered and bright, would keep steering me toward the next horizon, one fierce, sanctioned swing at a time.