Berserker's Apprentice Gloves

Berserker's Apprentice Gloves sit on the table like a small hurricane trapped in leather—pale-tan hide weathered to a buttery softness, the folds rustling with each breath of the room. The fingers are cut to the knuckle, exposing the calluses earned by a hundred practice swings, and along the back of the hand a jagged seam of crimson thread braids the leather in sharp, stubborn lines. A strip of brass studs glints near the knuckles, not for show but as a memory of iron-sharpened days, when every punch needed to land with a second’s mercy and a first’s certainty. The cuff is snug, lined with a whisper-thick fur that once belonged to a hunter’s winter, and the outer edge bears a tiny, worn sigil—three teeth of a bear, snarling in a circle—almost like a pledge pressed into the leather as if the wearer had whispered it to the hide itself. There is lore stitched into those red seams too, a rumor told in taverns and over campfires: these gloves were forged for a fledgling Berserker who had not yet earned the weight of a full suit, a rite of passage that demanded courage more than armor. They carry the scent of oil and smoke and the tremor of a novice’s hand learning to trust its own raw speed. Put on, they feel like a dare you can’t refuse—gripping the hilt with a confidence that travels from the wrist up through the forearm, turning hesitation into a ready rhythm. In the world where such gloves travel, their significance isn’t merely cosmetic. They belong to the story of the apprentice who learns to trade fear for ferocity, who discovers that one clean strike, delivered with focus, can alter a fight’s tempo as surely as a shield bash can interrupt a plan. For a player, they’re a doorway to a particular playstyle: a power-forward, all engine and no ballast, where increased offense and precision meet the risk of vulnerability. The gloves push you toward a style that prizes momentum—greater crit opportunities, a tighter grip on the weapon, and a fierce, unyielding cadence in the heat of melee. They are not the armor that shrugs off every blow; they are the gloves that remind you the real armor is the will to press forward when the crowd closes in. The market in which such items drift from stall to stall has its own rhythm, and the human heartbeat behind the price is what keeps the story alive. I watched a trader unwrap a fresh bundle, the gloves still faint with spilled oil, and note the tag inked with a price that shifted like a mirage depending on condition and sigil wear. The Saddlebag Exchange—a hive of caravans and crossroads—recorded their value on a parchment that creaked like old timber when a breeze swept through the market. Spare coins clinked as if answering a whispered question about risk and readiness: two gold at a generous day’s price, or a little less if the sigil bore a tail of wear, a reminder that every journey leaves its mark. And so the Berserker’s Apprentice Gloves walk on, from palm to palm, from story to story, worn by hands that learned to move with purpose. They are a thread in the larger fabric—the confidence of a novice becoming a veteran, the vow to press forward even when the arena grows loud with noise and doubt. Each wearer becomes part of a living chronicle, another chapter in a world that remembers a young fighter who trusted a pair of gloves to carry them through.