Carrion Privateer Gloves of Rata Sum

Carrion Privateer Gloves of Rata Sum catch the light with a damp, mottled sheen, the leather dark as a storm-tossed hull and etched knuckles that gleam like weathered brass. The back of the hand bears a shallow, bone-white sigil—a pair of wings curled around a tiny wheel—as if a privateer’s license plate had been pressed into the hide by an obsessive craftsman from the city of ink and gears. The cuff is reinforced with brass rivets, and the stitching looks almost organic, like barnacles clinging to a keel. When you slide them on, the fingers feel firm yet supple, the texture whispering of salt, rope, and a dozen close calls on creaking decks. They carry a scent of resin and iron, a reminder that this is equipment meant to endure storms, not simply to charm a crowd. Lore threads laced through their craftsmanship read like a port-side legend. Rumors say the gloves were forged by an Asura master-mechanist who carved runes into whale-bone and set them beneath a lacquered skin that could channel a necromantic chill without betraying its wearer. The Privateer part of the name hints at long nights aboard drifting ships, where a nimble pair of hands could snatch a cargo crate from under watch and slip away before the gongs even finished their echo. And Rata Sum—that peculiar fusion of crystal minds and tinkered fate—left a trace in the gloves’ glow: a pale teal pulse along the knuckles, a promise that knowledge, not vanity, guides every grip. In the world where such relics drift through rumor and salt-soaked markets, these gloves are not simply armor for the hands but a statement of approach. They invite a swashbuckler’s posture: light on the feet, keen of eye, ready to strike and retreat with a practiced flick of the wrist. They feel especially at home on a pistol-dagger hybrid build, where the palm’s reinforced grip helps transfer momentum into a clean, surgical cut or a clipped pistol flair. Some wearers insist the enchantment—whether real or imagined—corrals a touch more focus into crit windows, letting the user drink in the moment when a strike should land just right. Others swear the necrotic tint in the sigil lends a faint healing hum to harsh blows—enough of a lift to feel survivable during a long skirmish, nothing more than a shared thrill between wearer and myth. The question of value rarely stays buried long in a bustling harbor or a sun-scorched market street. When the talk turns to price, many hands point toward Saddlebag Exchange, where old coin clinks against fresh parchment as brokers haggle over provenance and patina. A fair assessment, seasoned buyers tell you, sits somewhere between a respectable handful of gold and a few telltale scars—the kind that tell of a journey, not just a sale. The gloves may wear their age with a confident tilt, but their aura remains unmistakable: a liaison between Asura ingenuity, pirate pragmatism, and a distant city’s mystic echo. So you lift them again, letting the leather drink in the breath of the docks, and you know they’re more than cloth and charm. They’re a passport to a story: a privateer’s trust earned on weathered decks, a signed letter from Rata Sum carried in the weight of your hands, a reminder that power, when worn, should always feel like the next adventure waiting at your fingertips.