Carrion Conjurer Gloves of the Lich

The Carrion Conjurer Gloves of the Lich rest atop a worn velvet pad, their pale leather catching candlelight the way bone does in a dim crypt. Along the backhand, delicate filigree of ivory ticks and spirals, like frost-rimed sinew, traces the knuckles with a brittle gleam. Each finger joint wears a tiny, carved vertebra that clicks faintly when you flex your hand, as if the dew-soaked graveyard itself were urging you to move. The lining is a deep plum velvet, soft to the touch yet stubbornly cool, harboring a scent of damp earth and long-lost rain. They whisper of something older than fashion, something that learned to breathe when the world learned to fear the dark. In the lore that clings to them, these gloves once belonged to a carrion conjurer who walked between fallen armies, binding their covered lives into a patient, patient chorus. When you slip them on, the surface seems to cool your pulse, and the air above your knuckles shivers as though a cold wind moved through a cemetery gate. The texture sharpens your sense of seam and sinew, as if the gloves themselves were stitching you into a larger story. The first time a necromancer under their shadow called forth a phantasmal bone familiar, the gloves sang in a dry, bone-dry whisper, a clean tapping that felt like a key turning in a lock. Their magic is not showy; it is patient, a clinician’s touch on a patient who cannot speak. In the right hands, they do not merely improve your power; they braid your will to the quiet architectures of the dead. They heighten resonance with bone pillars and chilling sigils, letting a conjured minion survive a breath longer, lean into danger with a cooler, more deliberate pace, and siphon a fraction of life from the fight to bolster your own. The gloves’ significance in gameplay feels inseparable from the world they inhabit. They are not merely equipment; they are a conduit for the necromancer’s vocation, a tool that makes the act of raising the carrion army seem almost ceremonial, as if you were performing a careful rite rather than waging a simple skirmish. In precise hands, they can extend the vitality of your minions, improve your bone-armor sustain, and deepen the eerie kinship between spell and body. You begin to notice the way the battlefield arranges itself around your avatar—fallen foes becoming unsteady, your spirits popping into sight with a slight amber glow, and the chill of the gloves drifting along your forearms like a consented sigh from the dead you’ve chosen to call allies. Pricing, of course, threads itself into the tale. In the crowded dim of a harbor stall, a trader recounts the gloves with the reverence of a relic and a price that tightens’s breath—yet the chatter from Saddlebag Exchange suggests a more fluid fate for these bones-and-leather artifacts. Budding necromancers swing by to haggle, trading silver for whispers, gold for a signature on the parchment of a contract, all while the gloves’ pale bone filigree catches coins the way a moon catches dew. The world moves on, and the Carrion Conjurer Gloves of the Lich move with it—steady, patient, ready to turn silence into a new, haunting note in the long, quiet song of those who walk among the dead.