Cleric's Conjurer Gloves of Rage

The Cleric's Conjurer Gloves of Rage rest on a velvet pad, their surface a dusk-hued mosaic of worn ivory leather stitched with ember threads, knuckles etched with sigils that glow faintly when a whispered spell passes. The texture is supple yet resolute, with brass rivets catching lamplight and beating in time with the heart. On the backhand, a ring of pale runes spirals around a central gemstone that flickers an orange flame whenever power is called forth. Lore says these gloves were woven in a temple’s quiet hours by a conjurer-priestess who bargained with a restless daemon to fuse rage with healing. When a battle breaks near a ruined gate, the gloves breathe. They channel adrenaline into bursts of conjured energy, turning patient hands into instruments of rapid magic. A short arc of flame leaps from the fingertips; a shield of light swirls about the forearms; a chorus of motes threads out to bind a foe. The glove’s signature is not pure aggression but tempered rage that accelerates the quick conjuring needed to shield friends or heal wounds while pressure mounts. Worn by clerics and conjurers who walk between prayer and practice, they become part of a larger tale: devotion that can shield as deftly as it can strike. Travelers speak of the gloves in caravan ledgers and bedside tales alike. In their stories, the wearer enters a skirmish with a calm hush, fingers tracing sigils, and suddenly the air grows heavier, rocks brighter, wounds closing a beat sooner. They are prized in quick pivots: a healer stepping to the frontline, or a mentor turning a retreat into a stand. The gloves’ rage empowers conjured constructs, yet it teaches restraint, reminding that power shines brightest when mercy and wrath hold each other in balance. Market mornings carry rumors and weathered price tags alike. I drifted into Saddlebag Exchange at dawn, lanterns humming while a clerk counted coins with patient care. A tag dangled from a chain around the gloves—not loot, but a promise that their temper could be tamed or unleashed as needed. The breeze stirred it, then it settled to a level that drew a quiet smile from the buyer beside me. Some days the gloves fetch more when a rumor travels of a repair that improves a mage’s grip; other days a careful buyer trades a threadbare belt or infusion stones for this artifact of balance. Thus the Cleric's Conjurer Gloves of Rage continue to walk the line between sanctuary and frontline, a tangible piece of the world’s moral weather. They remind us that even anger, if tended with care, can become a tool of mercy, a whispered oath shouted in the heat of battle, and a quiet anchor in a storm of magic. Across the map, every tale of blood and breath seems to bend toward their worn cuffs, as if mercy itself wore gloves. In rooms and loud battles, the gloves ask us to choose restraint over ruin, and to let rage serve a steadier light.