Carrion Scallywag Gauntlets of the Afflicted

Carried on the edge of a tide-worn pier, the Carrion Scallywag Gauntlets of the Afflicted spill a dull glow when lanterns strike their metal-bone inlays. The leather is salt-cracked and soot-streaked, stitched with coarse sinew and patinated brass studs that glint like barnacles in moonlight. Rising from the wrist, the gauntlets curve into talon-shaped knuckles, each finger a quiver of chipped bone and dark lacquer that smells faintly of brine and old blood. They look as if forged in the belly of a wrecked ship, where something living learned to wear metal the way a gull learns to steal a fish—with nerve, audacity, and a touch of rot. The Afflicted, the pirates who stitched these things, were said to bargain with carrion spirits for speed and stealth, trading whispers for bite. If you listen closely, the pitted plates murmur about gliding through mists, about striking with the quickness that makes a man forget he is already dying. In hands, their weight is deceptive—like a weight you forget you carry until you need it. When a rogue slides them on, the world sharpens: the smell of copper-touched air, the rasp of rope on wood, the way a lantern’s glow seems to lean toward you. They force you to move with a pirate’s recklessness, a scavenger’s appetite for danger. In combat, they tighten the host of possible endings, turning a dull skirmish into a pageant of curse and courage. The gloves sing when you land a hit that leaves enemies reel ing, and the Afflicted’s curse, whispered through the seams, threads a thread of lifedrain to sustain your own breath a moment longer. They are not mere fashion; they are a badge of trade and survival, a way to remind you that every blade you lift is paid for in a memory. Market rumors say that the old selling halls where the Saddlebag Exchange holds court still carry the memory of these gauntlets. A price is spoken in the heat of barter—then a clerk slides the tag until it rings true in silver and gilded dusk. A careful buyer might walk away with a relatively modest sum for a battered pair, while a pristine find—prized by collectors who crave the younger, sharper bite of the Afflicted—can fetch a gold or more. The Exchange’s ledgers note names and tides; the dockside whispers claim the gauntlets cannot be worn without attracting the attention of those who keep the old bargains alive. And so the Carrion Scallywag Gauntlets of the Afflicted pass from hand to hand, not merely as gear but as a fragment of a larger story—one that threads through the harbor, through desperate trades, through the cough of plague-sick nights when the sea itself seems to be dying and lending a hand to those desperate enough to wear the price. Some say the gloves never truly leave their wearer, only borrow their pulse for a heartbeat longer. In harbor glow, their story keeps bleeding forward, inked by seawind, rust, and courage of scavengers.