Cleric's Privateer Gloves of Rata Sum

Cleric's Privateer Gloves of Rata Sum rest on a worn oak counter, their ivory panels catching lamplight with a soft, pearlescent glaze. The back of each hand is stitched with a lattice of silver thread, forming sigils that glint like faint constellations when the room sighs with old magic. The fingers are wrapped in a supple leather that feels almost buoyant, as if it remembers tides even when laid ashore. The cuffs bear small brass gears and a line of aquamarine enamel, a nod to Rata Sum's love of prisms and calculations. Beneath the surface, the lining carries a whisper of the clerics who protected caravans and privateer crews along the coast, a lore etched into every seam. They are the sort of gloves you wear when your hands must mend both flesh and sails, when you heal a man while a storm drums on the hull. Mechanically, they slide into the hands of a healer or support, intensifying the potency of healing skills and lending a longer touch to boons. Players speak of the way the gloves seem to draw a thread of light from the wearer, weaving it into a heal over time or a burst of cleansing energy at the exact moment of need. That dual identity—cleric and privateer—gives the item a peculiar weight, as if it remembers both prayers and oaths sworn on shifting decks. Put on with a cloak of sea-gray wool and a belt of polished brass, the gloves feel like a pact you make with the weather itself. Now, to walk through a market as dusk folds over Orr's harbor, you notice how the world treats such artifacts. In the small stalls of Saddlebag Exchange, whispers rise when a glint of aquamarine catches the eye and you see the tag swinging with a measured chime. Their price is never fixed, because the market holds onto stories as tightly as it holds onto gold; buyers trade tales as much as coins. On a brisk winter morning I watched a dealer offer twelve gold coins for a near-mint pair, only to shave two off after a careful brush of the leather and a look at the engravings. The seller nodded, and we settled at nine, the gloves slipping into a bag scented with resin and salt. That is the rhythm of Saddlebag Exchange: a bargaining ritual that rewards patience and a good eye for wear—the kind that says, This item has weathered storms and saved lives. To the world beyond the stall, Cleric's Privateer Gloves of Rata Sum are a lifeline for healers who sail through urgent crises, a tool that turns quiet touch into a tide against grave danger. They remind us that gear is not just about numbers; it is a chorus of choices—a map of who we were and who we strive to be when the sea wants to break us and the ship stays afloat. Some evenings, I swear the gloves hum softly, as if the past still tenders a warning.