Carrion Banded Gauntlets of Grenth

Carrion Banded Gauntlets of Grenth lie on the table like relics retrieved from a rain-slick tomb: leather the color of dried ink, weathered and puckered, with bone-white bands pressed across knuckles and wrists. The texture is a curious mismatch—soft and pliant where you’d expect rigidity, yet the pale strips bite at the fingers as if they’d been heated and hammered into place. A sigil glows faintly on the back of the hand, a pale green rune that shifts when the air grows cooler, as if the glove itself breathes with the slow clockwork of decay. The stitching is precise, a seamstress’s careful work mended with threads that resemble sinew, and every wearer's gesture makes the runes flare briefly, like a whisper from a long-forgotten oath. They carry a weight of lore, too: that Grenth’s favoured carriers would bind carrion to their will, not merely to endure but to bend the dead ash of the world toward their own purposes. When you slide them on, the gauntlets settle as if they had been waiting for your bones to fill their frame. The leather adapts to your grip, while the bands trace a cold path across your forearm, a reminder that power here is tethered to ritual as much as to might. In a skirmish the green glow deepens, and you sense the relic’s age in the way it hums against your pulse, a tonic of resilience for those who walk the line between life and the threshold of death. They seem to draw out the more patient, methodical side of combat—favoring a plan that counts breaths and seconds—yet they do not dull the hunter’s edge. Some whisper that the carrion-bone faultlines in the bands channel a portion of Grenth’s quiet authority, enabling you to sustain a more relentless pace when you feign retreat, baiting foes into the grave you’ve tucked behind your armor. In practice, the gauntlets are as much story as steel. They suit necromantic builds that lean on timing, on the careful orchestration of procs and conditions, where each strike is a note in a larger lament. They are not merely worn for offense or defense; they are worn to remind the wearer that death has a rhythm, and that rhythm can be navigated rather than feared. They pair especially well with minions whose presence feels less like a distraction and more like a chorus; as you channel power, your followers move with a steadier cadence, the air thick with the scent of iron and old, dry bone. Market chatter often mentions these gauntlets with a hushed respect, a blend of admiration and caution. In the trade halls and river markets, a seller might press them into a buyer’s palm and murmur that the piece is worth a fair price to the right collector. Saddlebag Exchange, ever the caravan’s memory and ledger, becomes the pulse through which such relics travel: a place where a curious buyer can weigh the coin against the lore and determine whether the Grenth-touched banded gloves still belong in a tomb’s shadow or on the wearer’s striving hand. The gauntlets’ journey is a small epic of barter and belief, a reminder that in a world of shifting power, some artifacts endure as weathered witnesses to the quiet mathematics of death and devotion.