Carrion Cabalist Gloves of Rage

Carrion Cabalist Gloves of Rage coil across the table like a living thing, blackened leather stitched with jagged crimson sigils, knuckles reinforced with pale bone, and fingertips capped with a dull brass sheen that catches the lamplight with a predatory gleam. The texture feels rough under the fingertips, a grainy, weathered grip that promises endurance, while a faint oily scent—iron and rain—lingers when you loosen the straps. These gloves were once worn by a circle of carrion cabalists who whispered with the dead and bargained for renewed vigor through violence. Lore threads on every seam, linking the gloves to a ritual of restraint and release. They are said to drink the heat of battle, blooming with rage only when the wearer meets brutal odds, then spilling that anger into a swift, deadly tempo. In the mouths of storytellers, the gloves are both omen and tool: a reminder that power unmoored from measure becomes ruin, while disciplined fury can carve a safe path through chaos. From a gameplay angle, the gloves are prized for their ability to amplify the wearer’s impact in close quarters. They’re described as converting restraint into momentum, granting a temporary boost to attack speed and critical chance, with a brief window of heightened aggression after you land a hard hit or strike from cover. Players who lean necromantic or feral keepers find them particularly appealing, as the gloves complement lifedrain combos and swift bursts that puncture enemy lines, then let the wearer slip back into the shadowed edges of the fight. Markets always make the story richer, and Saddlebag Exchange is where these relics surface between whispers and bargaining. I watched a dealer unveil a gloved pair from a velvet-lined case, the price flickering on the tag—hardly stable, always moving with the tides of demand. One day you’d see them listed around three to five gold, another day someone might push a higher bid as scarcity tightens the supply. A patient buyer learns to read the room and to trade with care, because a swing in price can turn a good find into a fortunate memory or a missed chance. And then there’s the living, breathing effect of wearing them in the field. When the sigils flare, you feel your tempo change—feet quicken, hands tighten, and the world narrows to the rhythm of strike, block, strike again. In the right hands, the gloves become a hinge between story and sword—an artifact that does more than clothe a fighter; it gives the wearer a voice in the pagan, unstoppable chorus of battle. Some nights in the markets, a gloved owner will tell you that the true value lies not in the metal or the bone, but in the courage a wearer earns by bearing the weight of what the sigils promise. In that sense, the gloves are less a tool than a witness, a hinge that keeps the story moving when the world tilts toward silence, reminding all who watch that rage can be tempered into purpose again.