Shaman's Banded Gauntlets of the Flock

Shaman's Banded Gauntlets of the Flock coil around the wrist like a weathered second skin, a fusion of salt-stained leather and riveted iron that sighs softly when you move. Each band is tempered steel, hammered into nested rings that bite into the skin with a careful, almost ceremonial pressure. The leather is dark and slick, bearing the patina of countless trades and losing battles with wind and rain; you can trace the subtle grain with your thumb, feeling the way the bands shift as you flex. On the back of the hand, feather-thin inlays press up under a glaze of resin so glossy it catches the light like a bird’s wing flickering above a river. Tiny sigils—bird-silhouettes mid-swoop, a coil of wind curling around a branch—are etched along the knuckles, barely visible unless you tilt the gauntlets to catch the sun. The lore whispered about them says they were crafted by the Flock’s elder shaman after the great tempest of the Bell, when ravens and hawks turned the skies into a living map for a moment, and the craftsmen learned to read that map in metal and hide. In quiet corners of the world, the gauntlets are said to hum with the memory of those storms, as if the wearer can feel a flock’s regard when the weather grows tense. Put simply, they are more than armor for the hands; they are a conduit. When you grip a staff or a bow, the Flock’s blessing threads through your fingers, guiding you to strike with a swiftness that feels almost communal—like you are lending your strength to a thousand small wings beating in unison. In practical terms, the gauntlets let a wearer blend offense and kinship with the natural world: you gain a boost to precision and a flare of ferocity when you strike from the shadows of a tree line, and you can call upon a short-lived totemic surge that aligns your blows with the wind. It’s subtle, not flashy, but in the thick of battle you notice the way your wrists seem to remember every ripple of air that touched the feathers of a flock in flight. But the gauntlets’ power isn’t purely about combat. They’re a storyteller’s relic, a piece of the world’s memory worn on the skin. Farmers who barter with caravans recall the old shaman who wore them when storms braided the river into gold, while traders in the market stalls tell visitors that the Flock’s gauntlets can smooth a difficult negotiation by lending a quiet confidence—like stepping into a doorway the moment the wind shifts. The market pages swallow their worth according to the season, the need for wind-singers and pathfinders, and the rumor that a new flock is learning to ride the same storm. I watched a dealer pull them from a velvet-lined crate and slide them across a wooden counter toward a buyer with eyes bright as a fresh coin. The ledger told the tale of a price that shifted with the day’s breeze, the kind of frail certainty you expect when a world hums with stories rather than numbers. Saddlebag Exchange was the name the buyer whispered—the kind of place where worth is weighed in memory and promise as much as gold. The gauntlets glowed a little then, as if the Flock approved the trade. And so the Shaman's Banded Gauntlets of the Flock pass on, not merely as gear but as a line drawn between storm and street, between a flock’s ancient path and a traveler’s new road.