Carrion Privateer Gloves of Melandru

Carrion Privateer Gloves of Melandru coil around the wrists like weathered kelp, the leather weather-beaten and tea-stained, with knuckles exposed through intentional slashes of faded bone-gray material. The back of each hand bears a lacquered panel etched with Melandru's sigil, a raven-soft raven-wing motif, surrounded by salt-crusted rivets that gleam when the sun catches them. The edges are stitched with green-tinted thread, a nod to the forest's breath, and a small brass clasp keeps the fingers at rest, as if urging the wearer to slip into the shadowed lanes between shiphold and mangrove. They smell faintly of tar and brine, of long voyages and quiet forests pressed together in one package. Whispers tell of a privateer crew who raided the coast and, after a blistering storm, left their spoils at the edge of a sleeping forest. A circle of druids named Melandru tempered their greed, binding the gloves to a pact that would let a sailor harvest carrion without fear of rot or curse. So began the Carrion Privateer, a paradox of sea-weathered cunning and woodland patience. On the cuff, the sigil glows faintly when the wearer respects life’s balance, a reminder that even scavengers are bound by a larger rhythm. Those who wear them discover they are more than a pretty salvage piece; in practice they harmonize with a playstyle that skitters along the edges of danger. They grant resilience in marsh runs, increase the ease with which one cleanses and purifies the path, and carve out a niche for scouts, healers, and thieves who must blend into both fogbank and forest. In any party that moves between shipwrecks and treetop trails, the gloves let you grip slick rigging, pluck herbs that heal, and preserve a field of play long enough to outpace a pursuer. They’re not merely armor but a narrative device, inviting the wearer to pivot from piracy to protector, from loot-hunter to steward of Melandru’s balance. On the bustling boards of Saddlebag Exchange, a few caretakers of memory and merchant-skills trade tales and prices as if they were shorelines. Carrion Privateer Gloves of Melandru usually float in the market between modest gold and more ornate variants, with wear and adornment dictating whether a buyer pays closer to two gold coins or climbs toward four. On a bright morning you’ll see a posting that reads like a diary line: 'restored to seaworthy gleam, blessed with moss-wet patina.' People haggle gently, never breaking the rhythm of the tide, because a good pair like these has always been part lore and part utility. And as you watch the trade wind through Saddlebag Exchange, you feel the glove’s history slide from page to palm, a tangible thread tying shipwrecks to root-bed. Perhaps that's the glove’s lasting charm: not just what you wear, but the way it carries you between two worlds when you need to slip from deck to dusk. Its pockets murmur with history, inviting the curious to listen. In every tide-washed thread, a legend waits to be worn.