Carrion Cabalist Gloves of the Citadel

Carrion Cabalist Gloves of the Citadel lie on a shadow-dark counter, their leather weathered to the color of dried blood and old bark, the grain catching candlelight like a confession. The surface is rough with a patina of age, yet the seams are tight and the finger tips capped in small, bone-colored talons—not metal so much as carved marrow, pressed into tempered steel. Runes etched in crimson thread coil along the back of the hand, faintly warm to the touch, as if the cloth remembers rites spoken long ago in crypt-lit corridors. The lore is whispered in market stalls: these gloves were forged for the Cabalists who served inside the Citadel’s necromantic wards, gloves that could cradle decay and coax it to serve a purpose rather than simply rot. A scent of damp crypts and resin clings to them, the feel of leather trained to endure shadow and time, like a keeper of secrets that prefers silence to boasting. Put on these gloves, and the world tilts a fraction, not toward a brighter future but toward a more deliberate one. They are less a symbol of raw power than a channel for intent, a reminder that every gesture can be coaxed into a ritual if one knows the old language of bone and rot. In the field they lend a certain atmosphere to the wearer—an aura that makes allies lean in with caution and enemies reassess the hazard they’ve stepped into. They suit a necromancer’s aesthetic, a ritualist who treats every encounter as a page in a ledger of decay, or a revenant who wants a tactile connection to the stories that cling to the Citadel’s walls. The gloves invite and reward patient play: they hint at minions tamed with whispered wards, at curses parsed with careful hands, at broad strikes punctuated by a quiet, almost ceremonial grace. In the world’s wider economy, the gloves are more than a fashion statement; they are a narrative investment. The cabal of traders and chroniclers who drift between caravans and river markets know that anything tied to the Citadel’s necromantic bent carries weight, and that weight translates into rarity in the hands of someone who respects the lore. Saddlebag Exchange—the open-air bazaar where storytellers and merchants bargain with both coin and creed—frequently carries listings for the Carrion Cabalist Gloves of the Citadel. A pristine pair can fetch a handsome sum, while a well-worn but lovingly preserved set still commands respect and a price that climbs with festival fervor or new myth about their origin. The magic, if you will call it that, is as much about the story as the stat line; buyers seek not just a gain in power but a tangible link to the Citadel’s patient, decayed grandeur. Sellers charm with phrases like “the Citadel’s breath captured in leather,” and buyers listen for the sigh of rot that suggests the gloves have worked their way into a legend. So they slide onto a forearm and suddenly you are walking a corridor that existed before you, where every step is measured in memories as much as in movement. The Carrion Cabalist Gloves of the Citadel remain a hinge between history and practice—a tangible thread that tugs at both the fabric of the world and the sleeves of the wearer, stitching the present to a time when decay could be coaxed into purpose.