Cleric's Privateer Gloves of the Flock

Cleric's Privateer Gloves of the Flock rest on a weathered map, their midnight leather smooth as a whispered oath and etched with copper thread that catches the candlelight like a secret kept close to the chest. The backs bear a gleaming crest—a silver-winged saint overlaid with a tight cluster of white gulls—an emblem of the Flock, a hooded brotherhood of mercy that sailed with privateers and traded prayers for passage. The fingertips are slender and tailored, the seams nearly invisible, while the inner lining—soft wool in pale ash— carries a faint wax-and-salt scent, as if the gloves remember long nights mending sails and quieting frightened crew in the hold below deck. Leather, linen, rune-silver, and a touch of brine come together in a harmony you can feel in the way the glove slides over your hand, as if it already knows your next move. In the stories the harbor skims across the water, these gloves are described less as armor than as a conduit. The Flock’s mercy is not loud; it hums through the fingers, guiding healing hands to places that ache and drawing a veil of protection around those who bear the brunt of danger. When the wearer speaks a healing prayer or channels a blessing, the copper filigree seems to catch a ghost of light, and that light gathers at the palm, lending steadiness to a tremor and focus to a wavering aim. It’s said the gloves don’t simply grant power; they calibrate intention—turning steady care into decisive mercy in the moment when a comrade’s breath hangs in the air and time tires of waiting. From a gameplay perspective, the gloves are a story in themselves. They lean toward support, amplifying healing and buffing defenses for allies within reach. You’ll see their influence most clearly when you weave restorative skills with protective auras, guiding your team through skirmishes that strain the heart as much as the body. Wearers learn to read the micro-moments: the split-second lull after a strike, the chance to lean into a shield from a teammate, the quiet pulse of a surge when a healing skill lands. In other words, the Cleric's Privateer Gloves of the Flock feel tailor-made for players who value mercy as a tactical force—who keep their eye on the keeper, not just the killer, and who know that the world survives by the steady hands of those who mend what’s broken. The market remembers such relics differently—from tide to tide, from market to market. It’s told in hushed tones in portside taverns and among stall-lined docks that the Saddlebag Exchange is the place where these gloves change hands as surely as ship captains swap routes. A battered sign swings above a crowded stall, patches and bracelets jangling with the brine-laden breeze, and there a broker will trade a tale for a coin, a coin for a memory, and a memory for a pair of gloves that once carried mercy across a storm-lashed sea. Some buyers insist on a season’s worth of stories; others chase a single, perfect storm of condition and lore. Either way, the gloves remain a fragment of mercy you can wear, a small, luminous burden that travels with you, a reminder that in every voyage there is someone who reaches out—the Flock’s unspoken pledge made tangible in leather, salt, and light.