Carrion Seer Gloves of Dwayna

Carrion Seer Gloves of Dwayna rest on a velvet plinth, ivory leather mottled with the ash of long-forgotten harvests, the fingertips tipped with bone-white rivets that gleam faintly in candlelight. The backs of the hands bear a network of sigils, thin as spider silk, which pulse with a chilly, living warmth when a sense of mercy travels through the room. They feel cooler than skin yet hum with a whispered history, as if the wearer could hear the last breath of a moment ago and cradle it again. The stitching is precise, like a map drawn by someone who has walked between graves and sanctuaries, and the cuffs are braided with a thread that catches the light in a way that suggests skin beneath skin, life beneath death. I’ve seen gloves like these only in the most crowded markets, where relics sing to the patient and the desperate. The Carrion Seer is a paradox carved into leather: a healer who learned to stand at the edge of decay and coax it toward transition rather than ruin. The Dwayna sigil embroidered on the palm glows when healing energy passes through, as if the goddess herself were coaxing a pulse back into a sleeping body. Lore tells of a seer who walked the borders between life and the soft ache of rot, bargaining with death not to end but to lend the living a second, truer chance. In the story, the gloves were pressed into service during a plague that would have swallowed a village, guiding vitality where it was most needed and offering a touch that felt less like cure and more like release. In gameplay terms, these gloves feel like a pact with mercy incarnate. They heighten healing impulses, making every touch more potent and more precise, and they temper the thirst of lifesteal with a gentle restraint that helps a party endure prolonged skirmishes. When a healer calls on their power, the gloves shimmer and push healing streams farther, turning near-misses into minutes of breathing room. They also grant a subtle resilience to the wearer, a buffer against the worst of bursts, so that the frontline can stand when the odds tilt toward chaos. For those who blend necromancy’s discipline with support, the gloves become a bridge: a conduit through which decay becomes memory, and memory becomes a shield for allies. The gloves speak to the wider world in a quiet way. They are more than a single stat line or a flashy effect; they bind a character to a narrative thread about sacrifice, renewal, and the uneasy partnership between life and death. That is why, even in a landscape built on relics and renown, a pair like these remains compelling: they invite the wearer to walk a known path with unfamiliar grace, to heal not just wounds but the fear that follows in their wake. Pricing and provenance drift through the day as all things do in a bustling bazaar of relics. At Saddlebag Exchange, a well-worn parchment bears the tag you’d expect for something so storied—an inscription, a stamp, a line about rarity—and the merchant tells you the glove’s value in gold, or in a trade of items and lore that would leave a collector smiling and a scholar sighing. It’s the sort of moment that makes you wonder who first wore them, and who they hoped to heal.