Tahlkora's Gloves

Tahlkora's Gloves lie on a faded velvet cloth, the leather dark as a raven's wing, fingers slender and tapered, knuckles rounded by centuries of use. The surface bears a fine grain and is worn smooth by travel, while copper thread runs along the back in a delicate spiral, tracing sigils that catch the lamplight with a soft, almost private glow. The fingertips are capped with burnished brass tips, gleaming just enough to hint at their purpose, and on the inner wrist a small tag of field-leather is stitched with a single, old phrase: Tahlkora's ward. When you cradle them, the warmth of old wards seems to rise under your fingers, like breathing through a memory rather than a palm. These gloves are not merely relics; they are a map of a storied craft. Tahlkora, said to have walked the edge between life and the beyond, carried relics like this into every trial, binding wards to hands that would mend as readily as they withered. The leather carries the whispers of a long line of healers and necromancers who believed that power should be worn, not brandished; that a glove could shield a comrade as surely as a spell could intervene. In the right light, the sigils glow faintly, a reminder that the wearer treads with ancestral guidance, not just skill. And in the game as in memory, the gloves do more than ornament. Worn by a student of the old rites, they speed the weaving of protective and healing magic and lend a steady grip to manipulation of eldritch energies. Players report that the gloves feel oddly comforting in the heat of a battle—casts come a beat sooner, wards settle more quickly, and the wearer seems to enfold their companions in a durable, quiet aura. They pair especially well with builds that balance support and offense, where every tonic cast and shield can be paired with a cautious blade. It’s not just power; it’s cohesion—the sense that the group moves as one, even when the world is cracking at the seams. Walking out of a glow-lit stall into the market's dust and chatter, I listen to traders talk of value. The price of Tahlkora's Gloves shifts with rumor and demand, and the crowd at Saddlebag Exchange—where venerable pieces and fresh finds converge—keeps a pulse on what the old wards might fetch. Some listings describe them as pristine, others as well-loved, and the chatter moves in tandem with supply: a week of rain on the road softens hides, a festival fills vaults, and the price slips or climbs. For many, the gloves are a reminder that history can be worn as deftly as any thread of magic, and that in the end, the worth of a relic rests as much in the story it carries as in the gold it commands. To own them is to inherit a patient responsibility. They carry the memory of nights spent keeping watch over burial vaults and the living alike. In that sense, Tahlkora's gloves keep walking, hands guiding us through time as surely as through danger.