Cleric's Cabalist Gloves of the Afflicted

The Cleric's Cabalist Gloves of the Afflicted rest on the desk like folded night, their midnight-hued leather catching lamplight and throwing a warm glow across the grain. The palm and fingers are bound in supple hide, stitched with fine copper thread that gleams as if caught in a quiet flame. On the back of the hand, sigils burn faintly—silver runes curling around the knuckles in a pattern that recalls a warded chapel and a patient’s whispered prayers. A row of small plates, etched with runes, protects the joints, while the wrists are laced with a scarlet cord that smells faintly of resin and rosemary. The lining, a soft velvet, is worn smooth by years of patient contact; a damp tang from tinctures lingers at the seams. An amber inlay near the thumb seems to pulse with a heartbeat whenever healing is urged into the air. These gloves are not mere equipment; they are a relic of a healer who walked with cabalists through plague wards, marrying mercy to craft until the Afflicted themselves learned to trust the hands that offered care. Its every stitch holds a quiet promise. Locals tell of the order that forged them—a fragile kinship between sanctuary and secrecy. In cramped wards, clerics would slip on the gloves to press back fever and hush the worst of pain, their sigils flaring with each measured breath. The lore suggests the gloves carry two memories: the touch that mends bone and sinew, and the ache that comes from years of bearing others’ grief. When held, they glow a pale blue in the presence of affliction, and some say they pull stray sickness toward the palms, binding it with old wards. In the world, their use is less about brute force and more about turning a moment of crisis into a lull—placing a shield over a dying breath, cleansing a wound enough to begin healing, guiding a group through the worst of a storm. In moments of quiet, someone might remember a healer's voice guiding a patient back from the brink. Even the market around such relics has its own drama. Traders whisper of provenance—the glove's age, its caretaker, the sanctity of its sigils—and a fever that never fully left its owner. Saddlebag Exchange bears witness to their demand. A pristine pair is listed for three to five gold coins, more when the sigils glow or the amber seems alive; less if the scrolls beneath are frayed. A careful buyer weighs history against usefulness, counting silver against candlelight and favors owed. When a seller speaks of the gloves, it is rarely only price talking; it is a confession about a ward that held, a patient saved, a promise kept. Ultimately, the gloves are less a tool than a witness, a memory of a community that chose to hold the afflicted close and walk toward dawn together, mercy traveling with hands that listen more than they strike, through fever and famine alike.