Honed Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of the Afflicted

The Honed Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of the Afflicted catch the light with a slow, damp gleam, the scales overlapping like a dragon’s armor worn by a ship’s captain after a long voyage. Each plate is ridged with micro-grooves, polished until they feel almost wet to the touch, as if seawater still clings to them. The leather cuff is a deep, worn brown, padded and supple, and along the forearm runs a sigil—the skeletal handshake traced in copper thread, a mark that seems to breathe when the wind shifts. They sit heavy on the wrist, heavy enough to remind you that you carry more than you hold, that every strike is a choice. Locals murmur a lore that threads through every coin spent on them: forged in the shadow of the Afflicted, by a smith who tended plague-ridden soldiers and folded their lingering energies into steel. The name on the package is more than heraldry; it is a memory, a warning, a promise. Supposedly the gauntlets were tempered in brackish air and cured with resin from ships that sailed through storms others swore they heard in their bones. When worn, the gauntlets seem to carry a faint, damp heartbeat—like a crowd of small, patient things thrumming inside the metal—urging the wearer to press on, to close gaps in the line, to press the edge home before doubt can form a closing arc. In gameplay terms, they drift from mere equipment to something more narrative: a frontline companion that lends resilience while sharpening the moment of impact. They feel like a pact between your fists and the world—a little more force behind each hammering blow, a touch more control when staggering foes are pressed back. The scales catch brine and the echo of clashing armor, giving a tactile sense of damage that translates into how you time your strikes and when you unleash a heavy hit. Warriors tell stories about the gauntlets guiding their arms, about how parry becomes a deliberate act rather than reflex, how survivability rises just enough to finish the job in a close-quarters duel. They are the kind of relic that makes a skirmish feel like a page from a saga rather than a routine slog. The morning market at Saddlebag Exchange gave them their next chapter. I watched a weathered broker lay out a parchment with the gauntlets resting on a cloth that had once been red and now smelled faintly of tar and resin. The bargaining was a practiced dance: a hunter’s eye weighed the wear, a product of storms and sea salt; I offered a cache of rune shards and a small pouch of emerald chips, while the owner countered with a price hovering around two gold and a handful of silver. The deal closed with a quiet nod—the gauntlets changing hands as if it were simply cargo, though the buyer left with a story stitched into the metal. As I walked away, I felt the history settle on my wrists, the Afflicted’s pulse a steady rhythm guiding my next steps.