Shaman's Reinforced Scale Gauntlets

Shaman's Reinforced Scale Gauntlets gleam with a nested surface of dusky scales, like reptile armor stitched over weathered leather, their knuckles pitted by salt and wind. The plates are a mosaic of iron-gray and sea-green iridescence, edged with copper rivets that catch the light as the wearer tightens their grip. The cuffs are padded with bone-white leather, soft yet stubborn, so that fists land with steadiness rather than jolt. Along the back of the hand, sigils — a looping totem, a talon, a spiraling storm — are etched and lacquered in a way that suggests a shallow living memory. When you slide them on, they settle with a creak that sounds like a tide turning on a beach, and you feel the weight of a story ready to be told. In the lore of the coast, these gauntlets are said to have been tempered by a caravan shaman who walked between storms and markets, trading whispers as often as copper. The scales supposedly came from a guardian leviathan that slept beneath the cliffs, giving its armor to the shaman’s hands to keep rhythm with the weather. Worn by those who bid focus while their companions scout and barter, they are believed to harness a quiet hunger for balance: a fist that strikes with the weight of the sea, a palm that remains open enough to catch a falling charm or a comrade’s hand. To wear them is to acknowledge the weather’s mercy and its warning, to hear a distant drumbeat that only the resolute can truly hear. In gameplay terms, they function as a sentinel’s gift to a frontline builder. The reinforced scales deflect glancing blows and lend a steadiness to overhead swings, so a hammer or greatsword is less punishing on recoil. The sigils glow faintly when a battle turns, guiding the wearer to time their blocks and strikes for maximum resilience. Practically, they shine most in roles that slide between offense and protection: a veteran archer who wants brute leverage behind a shot, a shield-pryer warrior who must press forward, or a herald whose words become a lance of energy when the gauntlets’ runes awaken. They also pair with certain shamanic trinkets to boost endurance in the heat of a siege, turning stubborn momentum into forward motion. At Saddlebag Exchange, a sun-warmed stall still smells of tallow and salted fish, and a price tag glimmers in worn ink: around one gold in good condition, more if the sigils flare when held up to the lamplight. A buyer chats with the seller about provenance, a small trade made with a wink and a nod, as if the gauntlets themselves were mediating the deal. The coin passes, and the gauntlets travel once more, tucked into a weathered courier’s sack, ready to walk into the next tide of events. They are not merely armor; they are a hinge between journeys, a relic that makes a fighter’s story feel inevitable, that a storm will eventually be weathered, and that hands, brave enough to reach, can carry more than weight.