Berserker's Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of the Lich

Berserker's Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of the Lich lock onto the forearm with a brutal, gleaming architecture: layered iron scales overlap like a dragon's back, each plate etched with faint runes that glow a dim, necrotic green in torchlight. The knuckles are crowned with serrated tips, blades of leather binding seam-sides where the scales’ edges kiss the skin. The interior fibers feel almost alive, a faint warmth that prickles the wrist when a charge of adrenaline runs through the wearer. On the outer curve, a thin crest of bone-like filigree winds around the cuff, a relic from a long-forgotten trial where a wraith king’s handwriting was pressed into steel. Legends say the gauntlets were tempered in a lich’s own grave-fire, the breath of the unused dead soaking into the metal until it learned to bite before it could think. When you hold them, you hear a whisper of marches long halted, as if the armor remembers every enemy felled by a roar of iron and open-handed fury. In the field, the effect unfolds like a single-page epic written in heat and armor. Berserker’s gear, by design, rewards aggression, and these gauntlets embody that philosophy with a necromancer’s twist. The scales’ hardness translates into unyielding defense for the reckless charge, yet the runes pulse with a hungry energy that fuels raw, untempered power. Practitioners who wear them claim a moment when the world blurs—the moment the gauntlets seize the moment, converting fury into a suppressive lattice of strikes. The necrotic sigils lend a lifelike edge to every blow, as if the wielders borrow a fraction of the Lich’s own hunger, feeding on the momentum built by slammed shoulders and shouted war-cries. It’s not just a matter of hitting harder; it’s about letting the weaponized bone and scale drink from the fight, turning a brutal gust into a sustained storm. Where other gear speaks of guard rails and measured tempo, these gauntlets whisper a dare: push past your limits, and the world will bend to your next swing. The gauntlets’ presence also threads through the world’s memory, stitching old battles into new skirmishes. Armorer guilds speak of a covenant that bound fighting prowess to necromantic resonance, a pact that allowed a berserker to move like a storm and still feel the armor’s cold bloom against their skin. In ruined keeps and shadow-haunted markets, merchants trade hints of such relics as if they are seasons’ weather—unpredictable, valuable, and capable of changing the course of a fight in a breath. That’s why travelers and locals alike keep a wary respect for the Lich’s gauntlets: they promise not only grit and grit’s reward but access to a deeper, older current of power that threads through every clash. On a sun-worn table at the Saddlebag Exchange, a trader’s sign flickers while the gauntlets rest in their worn wooden case, scales catching the light like a row of sharpened teeth. A price is named in careful coins and stories—barter, a warrant, perhaps a tale of a necromancer’s last mistake whispered to bind the deal. The exchange is noisy with the clink of metal, the shush of parchment, the sigh of leather, and, for a moment, the Lich’s gauntlets seem to breathe along with the crowd. They are more than armor; they are a hinge between survival and legend, a weapon that remembers and a relic that forgives nothing.