Ravaging Privateer Gloves of Mercy gleam under a smoky harbor lantern: blackened leather salted by sea spray, the grain pressed into stubborn knots that catch the light as you move. Brass rivets at the knuckles glint like tiny anchors, while a tight braid of coppery thread runs along the back of the hand, tracing the line of a tidal wave frozen in stitch. The palm bears a soft, worn grip, its leather patterned with a faded map—routes sketched by hands that learned the edge of reefs and the mercy of sheltering coves—and the cuff is wrapped in rope-like cords, as if the wearer could haul a ship from a squall with a single decisive tug. On the back of the glove, a silver sigil catches the lamplight: a mercy heart flanked by twin sabres, a mark that seems to glow whenever mercy and ferocity are in uneasy balance. In the warmth of the lining, a whisper of parchment-scented leather hints at lore—a note from a quartermaster who stitched these for a crew that survived a storm and a ghost ship, binding salvaged courage into every seam. The item feels older than most markets, as if it carries the memory of the deck creaking under a storm’s breath and the cold certainty of a rescue. Those memories matter because the gloves are not mere ornament. They are said to bridge privateer grit and healer’s steadiness, a rare alignment that makes the wearer’s hands both weapon and sanctuary. In practice, they sharpen the wearer’s ability to tempo between strike and support, lending a subtle edge to healing and cleansing skills while still allowing a bold edge in combat. The Mercy in their name isn’t just sentiment; it’s a subtle aura that appears to tighten the rhythm of a group’s resilience. With the gloves on, you feel the world tilt toward second chances—the way a shield bash can be followed by a rapid heal, the way a sprint to safety can be punctuated by a careful, merciful decision rather than a ruthless finish. It’s the kind of equipment that makes a party feel cohesive, where each member’s choice to risk the next wave is tempered by the knowledge that someone has already prepared a path back to solid ground. Market talk wraps the gloves in further color. In the bustle of the Saddlebag Exchange, a trade-hardened captain might haggle over the price with stories of salvage, storms, and sudden contracts that bloom like sea roses after a drought. The dialogue isn’t merely about coin; it’s about trust—the belief that a single, well-used piece of gear can tell a longer tale of voyage and mercy. Traders spin a ledger of perception: the glove’s value rises when its dual nature—ravaging on the deck, mercy in the hold—meets a buyer who understands that history isn’t just stored in books but worn on the hands.