Cleric's Banded Gauntlets of Mercy

Cleric's Banded Gauntlets of Mercy sit heavy in the palm, their metal a weathered chorus of brass and iron that catches the candlelight and turns it to a soft, almost holy gleam. Each plate is hammered and cold to the touch, with fine, pale-inlay bands tracing across the knuckles like a map of old prayers. The leather beneath is worn to the texture of well-read parchment, and the cuff is stitched with thread that glints faintly red whenever a pulse of healing energy rises within. Along the outer forearm runs a silver sigil of mercy, braided into the metal and almost alive when you tilt your wrist. According to the temple legends, these gauntlets were forged during a plague that turned cities quiet, when healers bound their vows with iron to keep hope from fraying. They were never simply worn; they were a vow. In the world where courtyards hum with traders and whispers, the gauntlets have always moved with a healer's tempo. When worn, they seem to hum along with your heartbeat, guiding the hands to where warmth is needed most. In combat they keep the healer's stance grounded, funneling restorative energy from pulse to pulse and broadening the radius of comfort. Players report that the gauntlets sharpen the cadence of ally protection—an extra breath for the stricken, a stilled tremor in the wrists that translates into steadier wards. They are not brute force, but a patient instrument, turning quiet mercy into a kind of siege-breaker against despair. They are older clerics say the metal remembers the names of those saved, and each restoration is a thread braided into a larger, enduring weave of mercy. In the field, you feel that storytelling weight: a reminder that even in a skirmish, mercy can be a decisive tactic. The market tells its own tale. I watched a seasoned healer pull a cloth-wrapped pair from a worn trunk, the scratches on the leather telling stories of long marches. At Saddlebag Exchange, the gauntlets drew a crowd—the kind of attention that comes when a piece of history steps off a shelf and into the light. The price hovered around a tidy sum of gold, with a couple of rare sigils thrown in as proof of provenance. Negotiations layered with memory—two journeymen trading tales of battles and baptisms of flame—before the deal closed and the gauntlets rested in a new owner's palm, still warm with the echoes of mercy. They remain more than gear. They are a reminder that mercy can be a weapon, if wielded with care, and that a single pair of gauntlets can anchor a village’s hope when the banners tilt and the night threatens to turn. On long evenings, when the siege lights waver, carriers cradle the gauntlets to their breast and swear the sigil warms to remind them whom they fight for. In the end, the Cleric's Banded Gauntlets of Mercy become more than armor—an emblem that binds a community to a common vow. Its glow lingers long after the fight.