Carrion Seer Gloves of the Citadel

The Carrion Seer Gloves of the Citadel grip the wrist with a chill that tastes like iron and ash, blackened leather carved with bone-white filigree that traces the back of the hand in delicate, almost nervous lines. The knuckles are capped with pale inlays that catch the light like frost, and a sigil of the Citadel is etched on the cuff in silver thread that seems to shimmer whenever a warding breath passes by. The texture is cooler than ordinary leather, a tactile whisper of damp crypts and long-forgotten wards; the inside is lined in a deep, somber velvet that brushes like a memory against the skin. When you slide them on, there’s a faint rasp, as if the glove remembers every hand it has ever warmed, every oath it has kept. Lore insists these gloves were born in the shadowed corridors of the Citadel, where seers walked the line between plague and prophecy. They were said to be woven from the sinew of old oath-breakers, stitched with hexed thread that binds the wearer to the marrow of the place. Some tell of a caravan healer who traded cures for a chance to read the whispers of the dead; others say a council of night-blooming scholars carved the sigil into the cuff so the wearer would never forget what the living owe to the fallen. The gloves carry that memory—the patient patience of a seer who listens to breath after breath of the infirm, the way a hand laid over a fevered brow can steady a room without uttering a single word. In gameplay, their power feels like a quiet, inexorable tide. They seem to pull the wearer toward the edges of life and death, amplifying a necromancer’s toolkit in subtle, stubborn ways. Touch a foe, and a ripple of life-forged energy threads back to you; channel a lingering condition, and the gloves tighten their grip on your lifeforce, granting resilience when it matters most. They pair especially well with builds that hover at the boundary between control and sacrifice, where minions, minuscule curses, and patient, planned damage become a single, harmonized act. It’s not about a single blow, but about the glove’s patient insistence that every near-death moment can be a turning point, every shadow a doorway to a more measured, devastating presence on the battlefield. The market chatter around them has a soft drumbeat, a rhythm you hear most clearly in the morning markets and late-night bivouacs. Prices drift with stories: a rumor of a sealed ledger in Saddlebag Exchange, a whispered bargain struck between a traveler and a collector, and the slow, stubborn climb of supply that follows a rare drop or a vanished courier. Saddlebag Exchange becomes part of the glove’s rumor, a place where prices are weighed as carefully as fables, where seasoned vendors compare notes and connoisseurs test the weight of a relic against the value of a memory. In that ledgered space, the gloves gain a second life, traded not merely for coins but for the promise that the wearer will carry a fragment of the Citadel’s quiet vigil into the fray. So the Carrion Seer Gloves of the Citadel remain more than armor. They are a story worn on the skin, a relic that binds history to hand, and a reminder that power in this world is often a patient, listening thing—the kind that asks you to endure, then lets you act with a calm, almost ceremonial certainty.