Carrion Banded Gauntlets of Strength

Carrion Banded Gauntlets of Strength rest on the workbench, heavy as a vow. The plates are forged from dusky steel, with bands of pale bone tracing the knuckles like fossilized scrollwork that has watched generations of battles. The leather is stitched with thick copper thread, worn smooth by years of grip, and the surface bears a whisper of oil and rain. A sigil carved on the wrist strap resembles an open maw, a reminder of carrion scavengers that haunt the map’s edge—a lore thread tying these gauntlets to harvesters and the necromancer who taught them to bend strength to will. When you lift them, the weight settles into the forearms, a steady reminder that power demands restraint as much as appetite. The texture is a study in contrast: rough, pitted grip surfaces meet the glimmer of iron bands that catch torchlight. The gauntlets feel almost alive, as if they have learned your breathing and will respond when you hollow your fist. The carrion lore is more than decoration; it speaks of markets where bone and hide were traded for iron, where craftsmen coaxed stubborn metal into something that could shoulder a warrior’s chain of blows. In play they are a frontline boon, not merely armor but a catalyst for aggression. They raise your melee damage and extend your endurance in close quarters, letting you press forward through skirmish after skirmish before the fatigue catches you. They mesh with builds that chase raw power, synergizing with traits that reward bold slams, rapid strikes, and sustained pressure. Wearers report that the gauntlets shift your stance, forcing you to lean into the next swing with a practiced calm, as if you could hear the old carrion markets murmuring instruction between heartbeats. Market memory is part of the tale, too. The Saddlebag Exchange is where stories flow as freely as coin, a place where a lonely scavenger could trade a handful of coins for something that feels bigger than the sum of its parts. I watched a young mercenary haggle over the price, a silver coin glinting as the gauntlets’ weight shifted with the negotiation. The seller spoke softly, pricing in terms of risk and refinement, and the buyer weighed whether the claim of Strength was worth the cost of pride. When the deal closed, the gauntlets clicked against the edge of a fiddle case, and the flame of a new chapter flickered in the buyer’s eyes. They are not merely gear; they are a hinge between old wars and new skirmishes, a reminder that strength must be earned and carried with care, like a relic you refuse to abandon even in the clamor of a crowded square. On the wrist, the fit settles as if the gauntlets chose you. The leather softens, the bones polish, and the steel whispers of promises kept and broken. Such relics carry weight, but every swing reminds you who paid to keep them and who might need them when another gate finally yawns open, in the coming dusk.