Ravaging Cabalist Gloves of the Flock

Ravaging Cabalist Gloves of the Flock lie against the glass like a secret kept too long, their deep-black leather gleaming with a satin sheen that catches candlelight and makes the room feel suddenly smaller, more intimate. The back of each glove is etched with a feathered motif—quills that seem to ripple under the skin, as if birds were pressed into the hide and then released to whisper their stories. A row of tiny brass rivets crawls along the knuckles, and the cuffs flare a touch, revealing a lining of burnished crimson velvet that smells faintly of resin and old parchment. On the palm, a sigil—a winged sigil—burns a soft, ember-warm glow when the wearer shifts their grip. The texture speaks of careful care and rough journeys alike: the leather is supple enough to wrap a hand around a hilt, rigid enough to keep its form under pressure, and somehow cooler than the surrounding air, as if the glove itself were a listening conduit to the skies above. Lore binds the glove to the Flock, a cabalist faction whose name is whispered wherever birds answer to human commands. These gloves are said to have been pressed from the concealment of a weathered aviary, blessed by a conclave who believed flight could be summoned through discipline and ritual. To own them is to carry a memory of watchful eyes and sudden, decisive swoops—the sense that you are being measured not just by your own will, but by the flock you keep at your side. It’s a romance and a warning: the Flock teaches you to move with the wind, and the wind, in turn, tests you with every gust. In the world’s weaving, the gloves are more than ornament. They are a conduit, a subtle amplifier of intention. Worn by practitioners who blend arcane craft with tactile precision, they bend a touch of wind magic into the rhythm of a spell, guiding a projectile or a feint with the same patient care you’d keep when training a new raven to perch on your glove instead of your shoulder. In combat, the Ravaging Cabalist Gloves of the Flock feel like a quiet alliance: you can feel the feathers’ memory guiding your strikes, your crowd control, your sprays of energy, as if the birds themselves are filing your charges and signaling your success. They emphasize finesse over brute force, favoring calculated bursts that unfold like a well-timed wingbeat rather than a single, loud flap. The market hums with their legend. I found the usual chatter in the caravan stalls and masterworks of the trade—the kind of talk that makes even the most delicate item sound inevitable. Saddlebag Exchange, though, told a different kind of truth: the gloves hover around a tidy premium, a handful of gold on most days, with the price slipping when caravans run light and the birds aren’t singing as loudly as the coins clinking in the till. It’s a strange math—value measured not only by power, but by the story you carry when you shoulder the weight of those feathers. And so you trade, you wait, you listen for the flock, and you wonder who wore them before you, and what darkness or mercy they found learning to fly again.