Carrion Privateer Gloves of Infiltration

Carrion Privateer Gloves of Infiltration clasp the wrist with a bite of iron and leather. The leather is salt-dark, weathered like the hull of a mutinous schooner, and the knuckles are reinforced with bone-white plates that catch the light like teeth. The surface is rough as rope, cool to the touch, and faintly fragrant with brine, tar, and old canvas. Stitching runs in a tight lattice, the threads knotted with the care of a shipwright who knows every knot by name. Along the cuff, a sigil—curled skull over a compass—is etched in silvered ink, a mark that speaks of stealth, of routes mapped at night, of promises kept in shadow. Slip them on and the world narrows to the sound of your own breath and the distant creak of timber. They cling to the hands as if they were meant to be there, granting a silent boost to the art of slipping past a guard or easing the hands into a locked chest without waking the crew. The texture stiffens into a working fit; you can feel every seam as if your own pulse is a tide chart. They do not shout their power; they hum, a quiet reminder that the sea favors those who move like wind. In the right hands, they turn a routine raid into a whispered plan, a path found by touch, a saboteur's smile forming as a trap clicks shut. Within the world, these gloves are less about raw force and more about the stories carried by those who handle them. Privateers wore them to vanish into the night when a port woke to rumor. They become talismans for those who navigate markets, sea lanes, and the treacherous politics between coastlines. A crew in a harbor tavern can recall past raids, then draft a plan: slip in, pin down a signal, extract a map, fade away. The equipment is a thread in a larger fabric that ties raid to payout, rumor to response, and the next job to the last one survived. Pricing and trade happen in Saddlebag Exchange, where crates clang and traders haggle as gulls wheel above. A seller might name a price in gold, bargaining to a sum as tides rise or fall. Some days the gloves fetch four gold pieces; other days a neighbor offers a trade in inks, preserved pelts, or rum. The market is theater, and the gloves often appear in the middle of a larger drama: a raid concluded, a coin exchanged, a quiet promise kept. To wear them is to carry a quiet oath: adapt, observe, vanish when needed, return with words in your pocket and a map in your head. They tilt odds toward the patient, shadow-walkers who read rooms and move with the night. People tell stories of these gloves long after the ships have vanished, because gear like this doesn’t vanish with the tide; it sinks into memory. It teaches restraint as much as audacity, reminding every listener that the true loot is knowledge—of routes, of faces, of the moment you disappear and leave the world to wonder what happens next. Sometimes what happens next echoes across the harbor.