Ravaging Worn Scale Gauntlets of the Afflicted

Ravaging Worn Scale Gauntlets of the Afflicted press against the wrist with a dry rasp, the scales themselves like weathered shingles overlapping with stubborn patience. They are mottled a storm-tinted green, the patina dulled to a matte, almost aquatic brass in certain angles of light. The plates bite into the leather cuffs, and every joint creaks with the memory of a hundred narrow escapes. The back of each gauntlet bears a line of etched sigils—not pristine runes but weathered reminders—faded to the color of old coin gold, as if the story they tell was scratched in by rain and stubborn fingers. The lining is a patchwork of salt-stiffened cloth, the scent of iron and brine lingering like a distant warning, and along the knuckles a whisper of something sharp and ancient—proof that these were worn by hands that learned how to bargain with danger. They carry the weight of a name, the Afflicted, not merely a label but a burden passed from collector to collector, and from wearer to wearer, as if to remind the world that some bargains with fate leave scar tissue behind. Lore clings to the gauntlets as surely as rust clings to iron. They are said to have emerged from a coastal enclave where healers and outlaws once shared a single tether—the old belief that what afflicts a person can be made to serve another’s purpose, if the right hands know how to ask the right questions. The Afflicted whose mark these carry did not die easily; rather, their misfortune was welded into the scale-work, turning a feint, brittle defense into something hungry. When the wearer moves, the sigils flicker in and out of focus, as if the past behind them leans closer, listening for a voice that might still bargain for mercy. In field lore, the gauntlets are praised for their grip on fear as much as for any defensive stat—they seem to anchor the body to a moment when hesitation could become fatal, and they reward a hand that chooses to push forward. In practical terms, they change the rhythm of a fight. The weight suggests a more deliberate cadence, a skillful hand that can harness sinewy strength into crushing resolve. Some wielders report a steadier application of pressure on foes, a better channel for condition damage and sustain, and a subtle resistance to the chaos that follows a brutal skirmish. They feel like they narrate a battle’s tempo—the moment you think you’ve misread the field, the gauntlets remind you to commit, and to draw the line between caution and ferocity. The world only grows more dangerous as you walk it, and the Ravaging Worn Scale Gauntlets of the Afflicted answer back with a history you can wear as well as your armor. Pricing, too, has become a story. In the dim-lit lanes near the harbor, traders at Saddlebag Exchange tell tales of a price that fluctuates with tides and rumor: what the Afflicted have touched, what the harbor bears away, what a collector can bear to lose in a single season. Today, the ledger speaks of them in a measured gold—enough to test a new route, enough to tempt a cautious buyer into a gamble—while a veteran buyer mutters that the true cost is always a memory one cannot unbuy. The gauntlets remain, stubbornly alive to the road, a relic that still braided into the world’s ongoing chase for worth, memory, and the next edge to chase.