Carrion Cabalist Gloves of the Dolyak

Carrion Cabalist Gloves of the Dolyak catch the light as if a ghost had folded itself into leather. The back is a pale, bone-white plate of carved shell, edged with sickly ivory stitching, while the palm is a matte, weathered brown of tanned hide scored with tiny runic grooves. A line of red thread winds along the knuckles, sealing in a whisper of old magic. They feel cooler than expected, almost damp, like something that keeps its chill even in the brightest sun. Lore says they were born in the shadow of a caravan led by a cabalist who bound carrion spirits to the heartbeat of a Dolyak, the slow, stubborn beast the desert winds love to rest on. When you tilt them toward the light, you can swear you see a grainy memory in the bone inlay, a memory of marches through reed-choked ruins and a soft, distant bell of obligation. The gloves carry a scent of antiseptic and rain-swept stone, as if the wearer has spent days tending to wounds that won’t quite close. On the field, the gloves do more than comfort a wearer’s grip. They hum with a patient energy that seems to align with the cabalist's craft—invoking a kind of tether to the carrion you couldn't quite see, but could feel. In the thick of a skirmish, a wearer might notice a faint aura that dampens the worst blows and threads life back into the fight: a subtle lifesteal, a boon to lingering afflictions, and a spark that allows a trained necromancer to sharpen the potency of conditions like Bleed and Poison. They also pair neatly with a minion-supporting build, extending the reach of a bone-warded companion or a skeletal scout that shoulders more of the frontline than a lone swordsman could bear. The true charm, though, lies in the way the gloves invite a player to think narratively: what does a cabalist do when marshalling carrion to defend a caravan under a moonlit ruin? How does a Dolyak's patience become a weapon and a memory at once? The gloves insist you tell that story as you play. Prices drift in the market like heat shimmer on a desert road, and in towns the Saddlebag Exchange is where whispers turn into offers. I’ve watched a bargain unfold there, a trade that felt more like a transfer of stories than of coin: a handful of chaffing coins, a forgotten amulet, and a ledger find traded for the Gloves of the Dolyak, the page of the exchange turning to reveal a notation about demand marking its value. It’s not simply a piece of gear; it’s a hinge—a way to walk through a ruin with a memory on your knuckles, a way to remind a caravan that even the carrion can become guardians when the right hands hold the thread of fate. And if you listen closely, the Dolyak itself seems to nod with you, as if approving a pact sealed in bone and oath. It is a story you carry with you as you ride from ruin to ruin.