Berserker's Scallywag Gauntlets of the Pack

Berserker's Scallywag Gauntlets of the Pack rest on the scarred wooden counter, their leather a weathered tide-soaked brown, stitched with pale sinew that glows faintly when the lamp catches the brass buckle. The knuckles are plated with tarnished brass, scalloped edges like the teeth of a sea-worn trap, and the cuffs bear the faded sigil of the Pack—a coiled shark entwined with a dagger—worn soft by salt and time. The surface wears a patina of legends, with scuffs that map battles fought aboard creaking schooners and midnight raids on supply depots. The inside smells of oiled leather and distant gunpowder; the fingers press into the palm with a sculpted comfort, as if the gauntlets were made to cradle the exact moment of a brutal strike. They whisper of a captain who treated the ocean as a chessboard and his crew as willing blades; of schemes hatched in moonlit holds and paid for in blood and coin. Put on these gauntlets, and you feel not just protection but invitation—an edge to any reckless charge. They bend you toward aggression; the more you press, the more your strike seems to find its mark. In combat, a berserker's style trusts momentum, and these gloves feed it: a savage snap in your wrists, a brighter flare of ferocity when you land a hit, a stubborn vitality that seems to draw breath from the spray. They pair well with close-ranged weapons, turning a quick, brutal assault into a message written in partner blows and shared danger. In the world beyond the dojo and the tavern, such gear isn’t merely equipment; it’s a thread in the larger tapestry—an emblem that a scallywag once walked this path and that the Pack’s blood isn’t wholly spent. Hunters in harbor towns nod when they see the patchwork stitching and the worn brass, recognizing that wearer and weapon share a kinship: the willingness to press forward when reason tells you to retreat, the hunger for the next prize that lies just beyond a guard’s reach. Prices drift like sails in harbor winds, but the tale around these gauntlets knots itself into the ledger of Saddlebag Exchange, where seasoned merchants settle values with the careful regard of men who know the weight of a story. A patient haggle there can fetch more than coin—traceable memories, a map worth poring over, a bottle of spiced rum that carries the taste of a raid still echoing in the throat. I watched a buyer lay down coins and a cache of weathered charts, the stall-keeper tallying with a compass that never lies, the gauntlets tucked into a canvas pouch and slid into the buyer’s sleeve as if they belonged to the next voyage. The price isn’t only metal and hide; it’s the memory of raids, the promise of precision in a brawler’s hands, and the lure of a percussive finish to any skirmish. In that exchange, the gauntlets move from artifact to tool, from legend to weapon, from one scavenger’s grip to another’s, and the sea—the old, patient sea—keeps turning.