Shaman's Banded Gauntlets of Melandru

Shaman's Banded Gauntlets of Melandru rest on the table like a relic weathered by seasons and conspiracy. The leather, dark as a river at dusk, is worked with patient care into broad, overlapping plates that catch the lamplight in a slow, hesitant gleam. Each band is iron-wired, with a pattern of thin runes etched along the edges that seem to rustle when you move your hand—not with corrosion, but with the whisper of leaves in a forest wind. The gauntlets feel surprisingly supple for their armored look, as if the wood within breathes and expands with the wearer’s heartbeat. On the backs of the hands, a shallow sigil of Melandru is carved: a circle of vines curling into a steadfast tree, the whole thing bound by braided cords that smell faintly of resin and rain. It’s the sort of piece that looks as if it could tell a story if you pressed your ear to the leather. Lore threads through that leather like a rider through tall grasses. These gauntlets aren’t mere protection; they were forged in the shadow of Melandru’s groves, where shamans learned to listen to roots and wind. The bands are said to align with the life-drawn lines of the wearer’s pulse, urging the forest to answer when a hand is laid upon bark, when a chant climbs from throat to sky. People whisper that the gauntlets once belonged to a chieftain’s ambassador, who negotiated with the river itself and drew down healing rain for a village drought-stricken by the last fire. Put on, and the wearer does not simply strike or mend; they become a conduit—earth thickening beneath the feet, vines almost replying to a call, moss lifting to ease a partner’s stumble. In the quiet corners of camps and traders’ stalls, the glint of Melandru’s sigil is a memory of rituals and patient hands that never wasted a single thread of life. In gameplay they feel like a bridge between blade and balm. The Shaman’s Banded Gauntlets of Melandru are favored by those who walk the line between defender and nurturer: tanks who lean into eco-murals, healers who want to harden their stance, and scouts who want the forest to be more than camouflage. Wearing them, players often notice a steadier rhythm to combat: a boost to vitality that keeps the body tethered to the land, a clearer channel for healing skills, and heightened resilience when the party presses forward through thorny terrain. They’re not flashy, but they carry a stubborn kind of trust—like a companion that never shies from thorn and rain. The vines on the sigil seem to tighten just enough to protect, to guide, to remind the wearer that strength without care is brittle. The market pulse around such relics has a life of its own, winding through caravans and river towns. At Saddlebag Exchange, a dusk market where traders sort memory and metal, the gauntlets find a moment of conversation. A weathered merchant hums a tune as he lays the leather against the mahogany counter, tracing the sigil with a calloused finger. The price comes not as a number alone but as a story—hints of river mud and forest bark, of long summers and patient healers. It is easy to walk away with coins, yet the true value lingers in the air: the sense that this single piece can bind a moment of shelter to a season of danger, and thus carry its wearer a little closer to the heart of Melandru herself.