Cleric's Rogue Gloves of the Eagle

Cleric's Rogue Gloves of the Eagle rest on a dusty counter, a rare thing to see in a world of iron and ash. Their surface is supple, tan leather aged to a honeyed patina, with a winged pattern stitched in gold thread winding across the back of the hand. The fingertips are protected by a delicate mesh of fine chain, barely perceptible until you test the grip of a scroll tube or the notch of a lock. A small talon-shaped clasp, iron-dark and feather-light, secures the wrist, while blue sigils glow faintly where the leather meets the sky-blue threadwork, like distant lightning trapped in a prayer. The glove’s interior smells of pine resin and something sweeter, a touch of sanctity that clings to the wearer as if they had just stepped from a rain-washed chapel into a city street. Born from a rare convergence of orders—the temple’s healers and the rogue’s guild—the Cleric's Rogue Gloves of the Eagle speak of mercy with a swiftness. The lore tells of a priest who walked a siege-laden road, healing as he threaded his fingers through the threads of danger, never slowing the progress of a single wounded soul. The eagle, guardian of watchful skies, was the sigil that bound the two crafts together: quiet, precise, and merciful. When the gloves are worn, the wearer feels a wisp of wind at their wrists and the sense that eyes — keen, searching — are watching through the feathers of the emblem. It is as if mercy and stealth share the same breath. In use, the gloves feel less like armor and more like a narrative unfurling at the fingertips. They grant a clinician’s steadiness for those moments when a healer must reach through a skirmish to cradle a stubborn wound, yet they loosen a thief’s grip on shadow when the world grows loud. Light threads of energy ride with each motion, enabling faster channeling of restorative abilities while subtly sharpening the wearer’s awareness of threats and openings. In skirmishes where a camp is under siege, the gloves turn the wearer into a bridge: a conduit for cleansing boons and a quiet hand that can slip past patrols to tend the flagging, bleeding captain behind the front line. The Eagle’s gaze makes the route feel visible even in chaos. Pricing, as markets would have it, drifts with rumor and loot drops. A traveler might barter for a fair price at Saddlebag Exchange, where old gear is weighed against uncommon components and stories of recent rescues. A polite clerk might name a price that reflects its uncommon lineage, or an audacious buyer could sweet-talk a discount because the sign reads ‘gloves of mercy and misdirection.’ Either way, the glove remains a compact legend, ready to slip back into the world and guide another step toward safety, another quiet mercy thrown into the maelstrom. Some nights, as lanterns gutter and streets grow quiet, gloves once split between paths now press forward, mending the world one careful touch today.