Zhed's Gloves

Zhed's Gloves lay under a lamplight, a pair of inky-blue leather sleeves that seem to hold a quiet storm within their seams. The surface is smooth as moonlit obsidian, yet when you rub a finger along the back you feel a whisper of grain, like tiny waves traveling under a dark lake. Copper threads stitch the edges, catching the glow and tracing a delicate, almost musical pattern around the knuckles. The cuffs press close to the wrist with a gentle, functional heft, and the palm pad is slightly raised, as if designed to grip with less effort when the world grows slick with rain or ash. There’s a sigil hidden in the lining—a double helix of flame and quill—that only reveals itself when you tilt the glove to the light, a sign that these hands once belonged to someone who spoke in both heat and ink. Lore has it that Zhed, a name whispered in markets and alleys, was less a man and more a bargain broker between metal and moonlight. Some say he forged more than blades—he welded agreements into iron, binding fates with the same care he took in tempering steel. The gloves carry that memory: outwardly mundane, but inside, a patient kind of magic that warms the fingers when the air goes cold and stiff with winter ash. If you listen closely, you can hear the hint of distant forges whenever you slide them on, as if Zhed’s workshop is tucked along your own pulse, ready to lend a steady hand to slippery situations or heated confrontations. The lore doesn’t promise glory; it promises reliability, the sense that even in a world of bright spellwork and booming engines, there are hands you can trust. In gameplay terms, Zhed's Gloves feel like an old friend who knows your next move before you do it. They’re described by veterans not only for their appearance but for that quiet, practical edge they bring: a sharper grip around weapons, improved handling in tight spaces, and a hushed resistance to the burn and sweat of long skirmishes. It’s as if the gloves carry a craftsman’s patience—you notice it when you engage a delicate mechanic, pick a lock, or coax a stubborn hinge to release its stubborn sigh. Fire ligthed by sigils in the lining seem to nudge your fingers toward precise motions, so you can execute a series of steps with confidence, be it after a long ascent or in the midst of a chaotic skirmish. They’re a rare kind of equipment, one that feels less like a stat line and more like a companion who understands the pace of your hands. The price of such a relic drifts through the market like a rumor carried on a market breeze, and it’s often centered around the Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants and collectors trade stories as much as gear. A thread there might float with a posted silver or two, or a tale of a glove that would not loosen its hold on a buyer’s fate, and in that way the gloves become a living artifact—wanted not only for their look, but for the way they remind you that someone once trusted their hands to shape a dangerous world.