Cleric's Scallywag Gauntlets of Vampirism

Cleric's Scallywag Gauntlets of Vampirism slip over the wrists, curving like tide across bone and brass. The leather is weathered, stitched with ash-gray thread, pitted from a thousand skirmishes. Along the knuckles runs a row of sigils—crimson crescents, salt-streaked crosses, and a tiny anchor that seems to weep when it catches the light. The metal plates along the back of the hand are sculpted to resemble a ship’s figurehead: a roped snarling face with eyes set like garnets, framed by riveted copper. When you flex, they rasp faintly, a sound half-wind, half-blood, as if they remember every handshake and bargain struck in the dark. Lore threads them to the old merchanter clergy who walked storm-worn coasts, trading prayers for passage and stealing a fraction of life from any who crossed their line. The Scallywag tag is a wink to those who flirt with danger: sailors who double as saints when they need a favor, scouring wrecks for relics. Wrapped inside the gauntlets is a core of vampiric energy, a soft, pulsing glow that neither heals nor harms on its own, but harvests a whisper of life from each strike. The effect is not dramatic in the moment but accumulates across a fight, turning a rough skirmish into a measured exchange—your vitality traded for another’s dwindling strength until the tide runs back into your favor. In practical terms, the Cleric’s Scallywag Gauntlets of Vampirism are a study in balance. A patient fighter can time their hits to siphon a sliver of health from foes, smoothing over stumbles in a long alley or a cramped dungeon room where healing options are scarce. The texture of the glove—slick with sweat and old resin—gives a tactile reminder that this is not mere ornament but a tool sharpened by hardship. The vampiric core also acts as a quiet brake on reckless aggression, nudging a skirmisher toward conservative pacing: a little bite now, a little breath later, until the opening comes and the lifeblood is returned in kind. Market stories color the path the gauntlets travel. In the coastal markets, where the Saddlebag Exchange keeps showy wares and stubborn price tags, a pair like these moves more on rumor than on coin. A dealer might name an unrealizable sum, then slip a careful note about a future drop in demand, the way tides recede before a storm. Yet for the right buyer—someone who understands the patient craft of vampiric balance—the gauntlets fetch a steady trade: not simply a weapon, but a covenant between danger and relief, a wearable oath that the next strike will be paid in a portion of the next life drawn close by necessity. But the true value isn't the price tag so much as the way a single wearing changes the rhythm of a night's patrol, a healer's shift, or a captain's silent vigil. In the right hands, it isn’t merely armor; it is a compact with the world at the border of mercy and malice. Its legend lingers wherever waters breathe.