Mighty Swindler Gloves of the Afflicted

Mighty Swindler Gloves of the Afflicted lie heavy on the table, their coppery lacquer catching lamplight as if coins had learned to sigh. The back of the hand is braided with tiny brass plates that flicker with every twitch, and the whole thing wears a weathered red leather that crackles when flexed, like a book spine opened too often. A sigil is etched along the knuckles—a cracked mask over crossed maps—glowingly grim in the lamp, the Afflicted’s mark whispered in markets and alleys. Inside, the velvet lining bears the scent of rain and campfire, and the fingertips feel almost too smooth, as if they’ve memorized every touch you’ve ever known in this corner of the world. When you slip them on, the gloves don’t hum so much as murmur, a sideways current along the nerves that tells you to keep your head down and your stories closer. The glove’s lore is a shop-woven rumor, stitched into the city's memory by people who trade in silences. They say the Afflicted—survivors of a plague that never truly left the docks—saw more than debt in a swindler's eye; they saw a way to survive by turning misdirection into a craft. The Mighty Swindler is said to have been worn by a hand that could lift a purse and replace it with a counterfeit shimmer, leaving witnesses with nothing but a scent of cinnamon and doubt. Some nights, in half-lit taverns, bards tell of a glove that bends time just enough for a word to slip past a watchful guard, or for a buyer to forget a price long past settled. In the world’s bustling frontier markets, these gloves become more than a costume piece; they are a tool kit for negotiation and survival. They quiet the tremor in the wrists of a chance-taking trader, coax a smile from a hostile witness, and let a pursed-brow creditor hear you out long enough to slip a counterfeit truth into the room’s air. They’re prized by keepers of secrets and folk who trade in favors, because misdirection is a currency all its own. The user learns to read the crowd’s tells—the weight of a purse under a coat, the way a lip tightens over a lie—and the gloves help you tilt a room toward whatever story you wish to tell. Market rumors keep their price in flux, and Saddlebag Exchange—that dusty, caravan-lit square where traders meet under sails and canvas—tunes the numbers to its own rhythm. A clean pair might fetch enough silver to tide a week, or be exchanged for an odd bottle, a folded map, and a whispered debt repaid in tips and favors. People gamble on provenance, on the glove’s last owner, on whether the current story will outpace the lie it promises. The gloved hands don’t shout; they lean in, offer a sly nod, and leave you with the sense that you’ve just bought yourself a chance to tell a better, sharper tale. Perhaps tomorrow another buyer swears the glove chose them.