Cleric's Seer Gloves of the Afflicted

Cleric's Seer Gloves of the Afflicted lie on the table like mottled parchment, their pale ash leather smoothed by long years of caretaking and careful use. The backs bear a lattice of fine stitching, silver thread catching any light and scattering it into a dozen little constellations across the knuckles. The fingertips show wear, suede-soft and slightly darker from whispered experiments and patient-touch; the seams along the index and middle fingers are reinforced with a whisper-thin cord of white gold, as if to keep faith with every patient’s tremor. A cuff of muted violet velvet hugs the wrist, where a tiny bronze clasp—shaped like a sigil of the Seers—keeps the gloves from slipping during midnight vigils. If you tilt them to the window, you can almost hear the old chapel’s bellows sigh, as though the gloves themselves remember every vow ever spoken to heal the afflicted. There is lore threaded into the texture, a lineage of healers who walked through plague-soaked streets and stood at bedsides when fear curled behind a patient’s eyes. These gloves were not merely for protection; they were a conduit. It’s said the stitches hold a memory of compassion, that the leather remembers the weight of sorrow and turns it toward a cure. The Afflicted, a name spoken with reverence, are not only the wounded but the stories carried by those who tend them—feverish whispers, feverish prayers, the stubborn belief that some malady can still be coaxed toward dawn. When you wear them, you wear that history, even as you press your skin to another’s to wash away a ghost of pain. In practical terms, the gloves are more than ceremonial relics. They feel made for the precise cadence of healing and seer-run foresight—the way a cleric might anticipate a patient’s needs a heartbeat before the diagnosis becomes visible. In the heat of a moment, the gloves seem to hum with an inner syllable, nudging the wearer toward the right action: a careful bloom of healing power just as a ward tightens around a scared breath, or a blessing extended to keep a stubborn condition from spiraling. They’re coveted not just for their aura, but for their usefulness in the world’s shifting theaters of care and conflict. They amplify a healer’s touch, temper the fragility of a ward with restraint, and lend a patient, measured look to those who would intervene before panic takes root. The gloves make the wearer feel less like a crusader and more like a steward—someone who holds the line between despair and the possibility of relief. They’re the kind of gear that earns a story in return: a late-night vigil in a rain-lashed alley, a dawnward march through a fever-slick street, a whispered prayer after a rescue. Prices drift, as markets are wont to do, but they are a thing of both value and memory. I heard a trader speak softly of a pair trading hands at the Saddlebag Exchange, where stories and goods mingle under lantern light. A fair price there isn’t just coin; it’s a ledger of provenance, a nod to the glove’s long road from chapel to caravan, from patient to protector. Some say the gloves carry a debt to those who suffered, a quiet obligation to heal what remains and to remember what was endured. If you ever find your path crossing with Cleric's Seer Gloves of the Afflicted, you’ll sense the same patient gravity that lingers after a whispered vow. They are not simply equipment; they are a page in a larger chronicle—the kind of artifact that refuses to be forgotten, even as its wearer moves forward into the next quiet struggle toward dawn.