Berserker's Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of Vampirism gleam with a bruised copper overhang, scales hammered from something as old as old wars and stitched to a glove that feels as much like a second skin as a weapon. The texture is rough, almost corrugated, like wind-sanded stone, every ridge catching light with a hunger of its own. The knuckles bear heavier plates, serrated edges that bite at the air, while the inner leather is worn to a whisper under palm and thumb, as if the wearer has spent lifetimes gripping the same grip. Along the cuffs, runes burn with a pale, living glow—scarlet wisps curling from sigil to sigil, a heartbeat you can trace with your eye. When they catch sun or torchlight, they seem to lean closer to you, not merely reflecting warmth but feasting on it, a reminder of the pact that forged them. Lore says these gauntlets were birthed in the furnace of a besieged camp, where berserkers, bloodied and unyielding, bound a captured vampiric spirit to the steel. In exchange for a fragment of their own lifeblood, the weapon learned to drink the life from those it struck, turning each strike into a quiet payment, a living balance sheet of pain and vitality. It is a weapon meant for frontline push and brutal endurance, a badge of ferocity tempered by a slow, patient hunger. No mere artifact, it is a character in itself, a chronicle etched into scales and bone-metal, its glow a whispered rumor among veterans who swear they can hear a pulse when the sun goes down. In battle, the gauntlets feel almost inevitable—a surge of momentum that compels the wearer forward. They enshrine a simple exchange: to strike is to sip; to land a blow is to borrow a fragment of the foe’s strength, which then returns as a steadier breath for the wearer. Wounds heal with each chain of blows, fatigue thinning as the lifeblood of the battlefield pools into the wearer’s reserve. The scales catch arrows, the sigils push back curses, and the hands move with a reckless confidence that can only come from knowing you are sustained by the lives you touch. They are the instrument that makes a charge feel like a turning of the tide rather than a mere shove against it, a tangible promise that the next strike won’t be the last one you can endure. Travelers tell of these gauntlets moving through markets and march routes alike, slipping from hand to hand with whispers of price and provenance. I overheard a tale while wandering a crowded, rain-slick street whose roofs dripped into a bustling corridor of commerce: a vendor spoke of a pair among the wares of Saddlebag Exchange, that caravan-stopping hub where relics and rations mingle under canvas. The gauntlets were priced not as plunder but as a crossroad—between survival and excess, between legend and responsibility. A keen-eyed buyer bartered with the merchant, the leather-stained hands weighing gold against memory, and the deal closed as the sun dipped low and the crowd pressed closer, as if to witness a vow being renewed. As they slid into a crate and rolled toward a fortress on the horizon, the Berserker's Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of Vampirism seemed to carry more than metal and magic. They carried the decision to push, to bleed a little life from the world, and to spend it back again in a single, ruthless breath.