Berserker's Cabalist Gloves of Melandru

Berserker's Cabalist Gloves of Melandru lie on the display like a promise and a dare, the leather a deep, sentient brown that catches glints of light as if it remembers every battle it has witnessed. The palms are reinforced with stitched plates of a pale, bone-like material, not heavy enough to weigh the hands but stubborn enough to resist the rasp of steel. Runic sigils loop along the back of the gloves in threads of emerald and bronze, small glyphs that flicker when the wearer’s breath quickens. The cuffs are trimmed with a soft, moss-hued suede that smells faintly of rain-soaked forest, and the fingers end in tight knuckles of reinforced leather that still allow a fighter’s fingers to open, close, and strike with brutal precision. It is a paradox you can feel immediately: the gear seems to cradle rage and cradle renewal at once, as if the gloves themselves were braided from both a war cry and a lullaby. Lore whispers that these gloves were forged by a cabal of mystical smiths who walked the line between Berserker fury and Melandru’s patient, green-saturated patience. They did not teach rage to a man or woman outright; they taught it to listen—listen to the rustle of leaves, to the sap’s slow climb through bark, to the breath that steadies a heart in the moment of strike. When worn, the sigils glow faintly after a clash, like dew collecting on fern edges. It’s said Melandru herself approved the pairing: a weapon’s edge tempered by a calling to endure, to guard, to heal where the wild places begin to lean into memory. In practice, the gloves feel like a living hinge between two kinds of strength. You notice a quiet precision in the grip, a sense that your stay-where-you-are moment can stretch into an explosion of movement without losing footing in the soil you stand on. They reward a choice to press forward, but they also reward restraint—an unusual harmony for something branded Berserker. The Cabalist threads bind the wearer to the forest’s rhythms: your strikes carry a fraction more weight when you’re tapping into a bracing, green-taint vigor, and you sustain with a stubborn resilience when you’re rooted in Melandru’s cadence. It’s not merely about raw power; it’s about a balance between wrath and renewal, a narrative you tell with every swing and step. The market of the known world is a restless stage for such relics, and the price tags move with the wind like leaves in a storm. I watched as a dealer named Lira laid out the gloves on a velvet cloth, the fibers catching the glow from a lantern overhead. The value was a negotiation by breath and memory, a bargaining that wandered through stories as much as numbers. By the time the Leather Gate chimes rang outside, Saddlebag Exchange had become the chorus of the day: traders swapping rumors about nearby groves, veterans recalling how they clawed their way through a ruined siege, and a price that settled somewhere between curiosity and conviction. I walked away with them tucked in a padded sleeve, a quiet vow pressed into the leather: to fight with fury, to heal with hands that remember the soil, and to carry Melandru’s blessing into every fight that waits beyond the trees.