Cleric's Rogue Gloves of Scavenging

Cleric's Rogue Gloves of Scavenging rest on the table like a secret meant to be kept. The leather is the color of a shadowed chest, soft and pliant yet stubborn at the knuckles, with a whisper of brass inlay along the backs of the fingers. They are fingerless, the fingertips left bare for delicate work, and the wrist is cinched with a fine seam of gold thread that glints when a candle is tilted just so. A narrow pouch sits at the inner forearm, stitched with meticulous care, as if the wearer might slip a coin or a fragment of relic into it and walk away unchanged. On the palm a sigil is etched in worn relief—a stylized book crowned by a dagger—glowing faintly under moonlight, a reminder of the strange alliance between healing hands and hidden routes. The texture tells a story, too: smooth enough to slip through a crowded market, rugged enough to tug open a stubborn chest, and perfumed with oil, old ink, and the faint, sweet sting of incense. Lore whispers that the gloves were forged by clerics who learned to walk with rogues, to mend wounds while quietly securing the world’s quieter prizes from ruin and neglect. In the field, the gloves feel like a second breath. They whisper of scavenging not as scavenger-hunting greed but as salvage paired with mercy: a way to retrieve holy relics from a shattered chapel without trampling the last prayers underfoot. Their practical edge is real—an aura that sharpens the wearer’s knack for finding and freeing loot from locked boxes, sacks, and the hidden caches carved into ruined walls. They suit a hybrid approach, letting a healer blend into a corridor of shadows long enough to glimpse a cache, then step forward to mend a companion’s wound before the glow of the sigil fades. The gloves become a character in a larger story of the world’s slow reclamation: monks and thieves, healers and hands that know how to turn a found rosary into a repair kit, a salvaged relic into a beacon for those still searching. It’s not just what they carry, but the cadence they set—timid step, quick twist, careful prayer, swift pocketing of a shard that once mattered to a fallen saint. Saddlebag Exchange is where that narrative meets the billfold. In the sun-warmed lanes where satchels spill out stories as much as goods, the Cleric's Rogue Gloves of Scavenging attract curious glances and sharp bargains. A well-rolled pair—bright with moonlit sigils and a whisper of repaired wear—finds buyers who prize the blend of mercy and misdirection, the sense that a single glove can tilt a field of salvage in the right hands. Prices drift with the crowd, but a fair exchange at Saddlebag often lands somewhere in a modest range, enough to honor the hand that made it and the road that still calls the wearer onward. Traders barter with quiet respect, acknowledging that some relics carry more than metal and thread: they carry a story, a blessing, and the promise that even in ruins, generous hands can still guide the way.