Strong Privateer Gloves of the Lich

Strong Privateer Gloves of the Lich rest on the table, their midnight leather absorbing the glow of a nearby lamp as if it means to swallow the light itself. The back of the hands is a tapestry of fine stitchwork—silver threads tracing a compass rose and a wave-turned-knife—while the palm shows an armored grain, as if the sea itself pressed its own defense into the hide. The knuckles bear small, pale plates that catch a glint when you move your fingers, like barnacles of bone hardened by storms, and the cuffs are lined with frost-blue fabric, soft to the touch but keeping the chill of a long voyage at bay. The whole piece feels weighty with history, as if every pull of rope and every scrap of spray left a signature here, a whispered pact between privateers who vanished into the fog and a lurking, ancient appetite for the dead. Lore threads through the texture. These gloves aren’t mere gear; they are a remnant of a crew that traded with a lich of the Drowned Vault, a captain who swore an oath to weather and ice rather than to gold alone. They carry the memory of rigging in a hurricane and a chorus of curses spoken to bind a ship’s fate to a bargain with a chilling patron. When you slide them on, you feel a cold kinship with that old life: a promise that grip and will will not falter even when the deck tilts toward the abyss. The sigils glow faintly when the storm draws close, as if the wearer’s heartbeat could coax the old magics to wake—a reminder that some bargains never truly end, they only change hands. In the world where people trade these things, the gloves have a practical gravity beyond their mythic aura. They grant a sturdy edge in close-quarters skirmishes, heightening Power and Precision and sharpening critical strikes with the cool certainty of a cutlass in dry heat. They are favored by those who need a secure grip on slippery rigging or the wrists to cast cunning bursts of damage in rapid succession. The armor-plated knuckles aren’t just for show; they absorb the sting of misjudged contacts and keep the wearer’s hand steady when momentum pushes you past the point of reason. And because they carry the Lich’s hush of winter, they sometimes synergize with other necromantic-tinged gear, allowing a careful player to weave lifesteal or condition-damage threads into a single, decisive weave. Market whispers travel along the pier as easily as the gulls. I wandered the market stalls, listening for the telltale clink of a deal in progress, and tugged a quiet thread through the Saddlebag Exchange, where rare items find their price in the language of collectors and scavengers. There, a pristine pair will command a premium, while a battered set tells a different story—one of rough seas and a longer wait for the right buyer. The guile and patience of the trade are as much a part of the gloves’ tale as their making. If you carry them into a voyage or a skirmish, you aren’t merely wearing armor; you’re carrying a narrative—one that says the sea is full of bargains, the undead still whisper in the wind, and the hand that holds the line might also hold the key to something old, dangerous, and wonderfully alive again.