Carrion Conjurer Gloves of the Flame Legion

Carrion Conjurer Gloves of the Flame Legion rest on the table like a pulse of heat caught in leather, their surface split with fine cracks that glow faintly where the ember sigils lie. The leather is a deep, almost obsidian brown, rubbed smooth by years of handling, yet still stubbornly grainy at the edges where age has eaten away at the sheen. Brass plates shimmer along the knuckles, etched with curling runes that look alive when you tilt the gloves toward the light; they throw off a coppery glare as if tiny flames were behind the stitches. On the back of each hand a sigil is stitched in copper thread—an angling flame wrapped around a skeletal fist—that breathes a soft orange glow when heat brushes the room. The cuffs are tapered and reinforced with a mesh that hums with warmth, and the scent of resin and smoke clings to the glove’s surface, as if you’ve walked through a brazier’s ash just moments before. These gloves carry a heavy, crackling memory. They’re relics of the Flame Legion’s carrion conjurers, practitioners who sought to fuse fire with the dead’s stubborn will and to coax flame from bone and ash. The lore is a quiet chorus in the room—tales of late-night circles drawn in embers, of skeletal hands being coaxed into glow and then into movement, of a ritual where the living fingers of a skilled conjurer coaxed revenants to answer a single breath. The gloves are more than leather and thread; they’re a ledger entry from a world where power is measured in sparks and the quiet ache of long-forgotten bodies, and every scar in the leather reads like a whispered warning: respect the price of fire when it touches the quiet. In the heat of a fight, the gloves don’t shout so much as they align. Veterans swear they’ve felt a subtle tightening of the bond between caster and minions, a smoother rhythm to the summons and a sharper edge to the flame-carved commands. It isn’t a raw power upgrade so much as a tuned conduit—the wearer becomes better at coaxing the Legion’s fire into service, guiding bone and ember with a steadier, surer hand. A conjurer wearing them might marshal a few creaking, bone-colored sentinels, quickening their pace with a spark of flame at the tip of each gesture, or whispering a more persistent glow into an especially stubborn revenant. The gloves remind you that magic is a conversation between heat and heart, a negotiation where every pause costs a breath and every breath leaves a trace in the ash. The market thirst for such relics, though, isn’t a purely mystical thing. It hums with the ordinary economics of explorers and traders, and that hum reaches the saddle-streaked aisles of Saddlebag Exchange, where a hawker’s voice pitches the gloves against a ledger of gold coins and traded stories. A tag flaps in the breeze, and the price talks in terms that seasoned buyers recognize—not merely the metal and thread, but the history pressed into the seams. Some buyers swap tales as they shoulder the gloves into a satchel; others bargain with patient eyes, knowing that a relic like this doesn’t just unlock a skill, it unlocks a path through ash and flame, a clue about a past world that still flickers at the edges of every campfire. By night’s end, the gloves feel less like gear and more like a hinge—between heat and memory, between the dead and the living, between a trader’s ledger and a conjurer’s oath. They exist where the world’s darker corners keep their secrets, and in wearing them, a story continues to burn.