Berserker's Cabalist Gloves of Melandru

Berserker's Cabalist Gloves of Melandru are carved from chestnut leather, the surface scarred with a map of past skirmishes. The back of each glove bears Melandru's sigil—a pair of branches curling into a wolf's head—etched in a gleaming coppery foil that catches torchlight and hints at stories only the wild knows. The palms are reinforced with bronze knuckles, rivets shaped like leaves that catch every glint of sun or campfire glow. The lining is a soft moss-green fur, whispering softly as you flex your fingers, and the cuffs fasten with braided cords that carry the scent of rain-soaked pine. The texture marries rough road-worn hide with a silken pull of a healing charm, a tactile reminder that fury and nurture can share the same hands. If you tilt the gloves toward the light, you’ll sense the lore threaded through them: a pact forged where Berserker hunger meets Cabalist restraint, a tempering of raw power by Melandru’s patient, living forest. The gloves aren’t merely worn in battle; they seem to negotiate a kind of balance, as if a hunter’s roar could be softened by a whispered vow to protect what survives the hunt. In the wider world, they’re said to knit a frontline bruiser into a hybrid storyteller—one who can drive through enemies with blunt force and then steady a partner’s breath with a touch of forest-reviving magic. In practice, wearers report that their strikes land with more intent, while a gentler current of green magic threads at the edges of their gold, offering moments of regeneration even amid the thickest skirmishes. It’s not flashy, but it’s profoundly practical: a blade that sings, and a shield that gathers the rain you’ve just splashed through. The gloves feel most alive when the world seems to tilt—a storm cracking the canopy, rain turning to a curtain of silver, and the party pressing forward as if the earth itself were urging you on. In those breaths, the Cabalist angle flares just enough to steady the team: a subtle uptick in sustained damage, a touch of lifeforce returned between heavy hits, and a resilience that lingers like mist on moss. They are the sort of gear you don’t loudly praise on the battlefield, but you notice the moment you slip them off and realize your hands are still calm, still sure of their own strength. Market talk unfolds as you walk through the winding lanes of the city, a bartering hum rising around the leather-tanned hands. Vendors trade stories as much as coin, and the price of such a fusion of fury and forest shifts with demand and dye. Saddlebag Exchange appears in a nearby stall’s lantern glow, a glossy catalog of current listings where people post polished photos and careful notes: “Berserker's Cabalist Gloves of Melandru, moss patina, excellent condition.” Prices drift on the breeze—sometimes a handful of gold, other times a longer line of coins, dependent on dye, condition, and the tale a buyer is willing to tell. In the end, the gloves aren’t merely equipment; they’re a hinge in the world’s ongoing story, where battle meets blessing, and a wanderer’s next step is measured in breaths and bound leaves.