Rampager's Privateer Gloves of the Lich

Rampager's Privateer Gloves of the Lich gleam with a salt-silver sheen, their dark leather ribbed with rivets that catch the light like barnacles on a hull. The cuff unfurls into a skeletal flourish, bone-colour inlays tracing a map of sea routes, while the knuckles are capped with brass plates shaped to resemble the teeth of a prowling shark. A thread of teal thread winds through the stitching, as if the wearer has threaded the tides themselves. When you slip them on, the texture is cool and almost alive, as if the sea had pressed a hand to your palm and left a quiet, watchful watchman there. The Lich emblem—an austere skull encrusted with green runes—glows faintly when you draw near a marked tidepool or a cursed shipwreck. Lorewise they are said to have been forged in the shadowed forges where privateers kept their most loyal crew’s knives, blessed by a necromantic blessing to touch both wind and water, offering a shielded grip on sea-wrought misfortune. In play, these gloves are not merely ornament; they hum at the edge of a fight. They improve the archer’s sidekick of speed and the foot-soldier’s nimble fingers; when you land a critical hit, a sliver of lifeblood flows back, the lifesteal echoing through your wrists as if the Lich itself were taking a sip from your knife-hand. They pair especially well with swift, relentless melee bursts, turning a hot streak into a longer blaze. Their stat flavor favors the Rampager’s identity—raw power, agility, and a ferocious edge—without pigeonholing you into a single role. In crowded harbors, they let you ride the line between offense and survival: you strike hard, you feel a tug back to safety, and if a foe tries to crowd you, the gloves’ grim motif seems to whisper that retreat is a misdirection, not a retreat at all. And then the market speaks in a chorus of coins and rumor. I’ve watched them traded in the open market as crews haggle in taverns and warehouses, the price flipping with tides of demand. Some days Saddlebag Exchange posts a steady rhythm—their buyers hungry for a touch of necromantic panache—while on others the gloves drift through the market with a few pieces of gold as their only escort. The exchange is the ledger of the sea: a place where a privateer’s gear becomes both talisman and tool, where the Lich’s cold smile meets the roar of cannonfire in the same breath. If you find them, you don’t merely own an item; you become a link in a larger, wind-battered story, one where every hand that holds the rampage also keeps a secret from the depths. Old mariners boast that the gloves forgive missteps only after you have learned to listen to the sea’s quiet teeth. If a tide pushes you toward a rival captain's gunline, they remind you of your purpose: strike, endure, and honor the bargain between seamanship and sorcery. In those moments, the Lich blesses your resolve. The voyage continues, unafraid.