Honed Conjurer Gloves of the Lich

Honed Conjurer Gloves of the Lich cling to the hands like midnight velvet, the surface a quilt of obsidian leather braided with copper sigils that glimmer when a spell stirs. The fingers are tapered, with knuckles reinforced by pale bone inlays, and the cuffs glow faintly with a cold-green rune-ink that shifts as if a cold wind passes through your wrists. Soft to the touch, the gloves feel both ancient and freshly sharpened, as if they could cut the air to release a whisper of the beyond. They were stitched by hands long since vanished, rumored to be those of a master conjurer who swore fealty to a lich, binding his memory into the gloves' seams. When you flex your fingers, a subtle crackle of frost threads through the leather, and a trace of shadow clings to your sleeves, as though the gloves carry a quiet, patient hunger for the next unbound audience. In the glow of a lamplit bazaar, I watched a hooded figure adjust the cuff and test a spark over the sigils. The gloves don’t merely dress the hands; they bend the spellwork toward a crueler, more intimate precision. A conjurer’s offerings—bone-wraiths, shadow fetters, spectral blades—seem to answer with a murmured efficiency, as if the Lich’s long memory lends discipline to every gesture. Wearers report steadier resource management, a longer window to dictate the tempo of combat, and a greater tolerance for risky, name-taking gambits that hinge on summoning as much as striking. The lore threads through the battlefield like a pale thread of frost. Tales say the gloves were woven from the remnant cloak of a scholar who refused to forget the names of the dead, then pressed into service by a necropolis faction that pledged fealty to a far older sovereign of frost and bone. In the world, such relics become more than armor; they become a link to a network of pacts and memories. When a veteran conjurer wears them, you glimpse a story that is less about power alone and more about the echo of decisions—what you summon, what you release, what you decide to bind. Pricing, naturally, travels on the Saddlebag Exchange, a ledger-like market where traders trade rumors and prices as if they were talismans. Today the gloves sit among scarred foci and ceremonial robes, their value marked high by rarity and the whispers of necromantic lineage. A careful buyer knows to weigh the artifact’s gleam against the cost of keeping a dangerous pact in one’s own palm. The gloves, after all, demand a consent that is as much about restraint as it is about force. So they rest on a market shelf and in a conjurer’s palm, a reminder that power in this world is a delicate balance between memory and action, between what you conjure and what you choose to keep silent.