Carrion Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of Scavenging

Carrion Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of Scavenging lie on the table like a relic pulled from a corpse-fed dawn — scales black as wet slate, layered in a precise, fish-scale rhythm that hints at a smith who learned patience from carrion birds. Each plate is etched with tiny, frost-dim glyphs that glow faintly when touched by a stray spark, as if the gloves remember every scavenging errand they’ve ever weathered. The leather beneath is stitched with pale sinew that tightens like a second skin, and the reinforced knuckles wear a ring of bone-white tips, worn smooth from countless prying fingers and the careful prying of hides and sinew. The texture shifts from cool, metallic chill to a stubborn grip as your hand closes; it feels almost alive, a creature of salvage that has learned to clutch both blade and rope with equal mercy. The scent is a memory of damp markets and ash-filled alleyways, a trace of resin and old blood, as if the gloves themselves have walked more miles than most bodies ever will. Lore threads curl around them like recrafted smoke. They’re said to be forged by a smith who traded with scavenger kin who haunt the margins of ruined camps, binding their knowledge of carcasses to metal and hide. Some tell of the gauntlets being infused with a shard of carrion’s resilience, a token that the scavengers wore to remind the living that life persists in scraps and scraps persist in life. Whether truth or rumor, the gloves carry the weight of those who never waste a scrap, who turn desolation into something usable, even beautiful in its utilitarian grimness. In the heat of a salvage run, these gauntlets reveal their true purpose. They strengthen the wearer’s grip as you peel back torn canvas, wedge a spike through leather that has long since fused to rust, and coax the leanest ribbon of sinew from the carcass’s inner cavities. They don’t just protect the hands; they sharpen the eyes for opportunity: a stubborn seam that hides a cache of glints and rivets, a cracked enamel that reveals a pathway to a hidden brace. When paired with the scavenging discipline, they seem to whisper that every ruin has a voice, and every voice is worth listening to—especially when that voice is telling you where to pull a story from a pile of bones and rust. Market whispers ride the wind as I wander toward the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders and storytellers barter more than metal. A broker fingers the Carrion Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of Scavenging like a seashell, weighing risk and reward in a swift, practiced motion. The price dances in old gold and silver tales, a rhythm that shifts with demand and the day’s numbers, and the stall’s chalkboard bears a rough note: a tidy sum for a usable set, more for a pristine, lore-bound example. In this market, a kit like these gauntlets can fetch around a gold or two in ordinary times, with rarer engravings or blessed runes nudging the number higher, especially when caravans speak of them with a reverent share of awe. The exchange hums with a faith in salvage — the belief that even carrion can be turned into something that protects a hand, feeds a camp, and keeps the story of resilience alive. So they travel on, these gloves, from market to ruin and back again, a quiet testament to hands that won’t quit, even as the world wears away.