Rampager's Conjurer Gloves of the Afflicted

Rampager's Conjurer Gloves of the Afflicted rest on the wooden counter, their surface a deep, oiled leather the color of midnight rain. The knuckles are reinforced with narrow brass plates carved with jagged sigils, and the cuffs spill a threadwork of pale sinew that catches every flicker of torchlight. When you lift them, a subtle warmth travels up the wrists, as if the gloves remember every conjuring they ever witnessed, every whispered bargain struck in the shadow of a plague-bright city. The Afflicted tag seems to move, as though the letters themselves were breathing, a reminder that these gloves were stitched from memories as much as from hides. The texture blends smooth gloss with a stubborn, stubborn grain, and a faint scent—an antiseptic, resinous tang—lingers on the skin, the kind that makes a hunter think of long nights and distant clinics. In the hands of a skilled conjurer or a rampager who likes to blend force with finesse, they do more than cover the hands. They seem to whisper of a tempo of battle, nudging the wearer toward crisper timing and a more precise touch. Wearers report that the gloves draw out a measured cadence in their strikes, a balance between power and control, and they seem to extend a fraction of grace to every spell that leaves the fingers. It's not merely aesthetics; the gloves cradle a latent current that buffs Power and Precision, while sharpening the mind to thread in quick, clean application of conditions. In crowded skirmishes, they help the wearer thread a risky weave—placing vulnerability, bleeding, or torment with a calm, surgical touch—without sacrificing survivability. Lore people say the Conjurer gloves were forged in the same foundry that housed plague wards, then tempered by a healer who walked through infected wards without falling to despair. In the telling of it, they carry the memory of those rooms: the patient’s breath, the hiss of heated glass, the soft clack of tempering tools. When a conjurer channels spirits or the twin winds of air and earth, the gloves glow faintly, as if to remind the wearer that every puff of wind and every spark of stone carries a story. The world, too, seems to lean in—at dusk on the edge of a market or before a dawn raid—remembering their spectral allegiance to the afflicted. Market talk follows the familiar rhythm of scarcity and demand. A broker at Saddlebag Exchange prices a pair with careful arithmetic, a few gold pieces on the line and a shimmer of rare materials in the bargain. A buyer laughs softly and notes that the current listing might swing with the week’s plague rumors or the next dungeon drop. The gloves don’t just sit on a shelf; they live in a ledger of choices, traded for courage, for certainty, for a memory kept warm by the flame of a campfire and a long road home. In that way, a pair travels farther than any map could prove, stitching lives together through shared risk again.