Cleric's Rogue Gloves of the Pack lie on the workbench like a quiet relic: pale leather, soft as dawn silk, stitched with gold thread that catches lamp light and keeps memory of oath-bound hands. The back follows a graceful arc for a thief's light step, while the palm bears a lattice of fine webbing and rune-ink sigils that glow pale blue when a blessing is whispered. A row of micro-pouches edges the cuff, each sealed with a snap, as if the wearer carries a small kit of tools, herbs, and charms. The texture is a deliberate paradox—smooth enough to touch a patient, rugged enough to snag a hinge, the whole thing carrying a scent of resin, ink, and travel. This is more than cloth and leather; it is a compact covenant, a token that mercy can be delivered with a steady hand and a ready pocket. Old caravans claimed the sigils align with star routes, guiding a healer through unforeseen nights. Its origins lie with a long-lost cross-order that believed mercy must travel with discretion. Clerics who learned to tread softly and hear a heartbeat in ruined temples created gloves to bind healing and cunning. In market whispers they say the gloves were issued to scouts who could ward a door and lift a latch, a symbol that protection need not shout to be powerful. When night blooms and footsteps approach a closed door, the sigils glow with patient light—a reminder that light can grow in the darkest corridors. In play the gloves feel like a stitch between two crafts: healing and evasion. Wielded by a thoughtful strategist, they enable a caster to slip a renewal into a rogue’s dash, threading cleansing light through danger. They lend a precise touch for applying bandages while remaining nimble enough to dodge a spear thrust. Their elegance lies in the way they rebalance risk and care: a portable toolkit that keeps a healer's intent even as the world grows loud. In battles or exploration, the wearer becomes a conduit—repairing faltering fronts, closing wounds as traps are sprung, and keeping a party moving toward dawn. The gloves refuse ostentation, but they carry a quiet gravity: a reminder that courage can be practiced on a patient bedside as well as in a skirmish. Market chatter threads through the story, and Saddlebag Exchange often carries that whisper beside the gloves themselves. The price is spoken softly, the kind of number you hear only when a caravan's fire sparks and a dealer leans close. Some days the gloves fetch a modest sum, enough for a night’s shelter and a pocketed herb; other days the tale grows taller, and the gloves carry the memory of their maker. Either way, they travel with mercy and stealth, a wearable reminder that a well-placed blessing is portable and elusive as rumor. When dawn finds the hand again, the Cleric's Rogue Gloves of the Pack remain not only gear but a quiet pledge: healer, confidant, pathfinder, traveling with those who choose mercy and speed.