Berserker's Chainmail Gauntlets

Berserker's Chainmail Gauntlets rest on the table, their hammered steel catching the light and scattering it into a dozen pinpricks of brightness. The chainmail peeks from beneath riveted plates that guard the knuckles, while a weathered leather palm and wrist strap bind the whole thing together. Red enamel tracing winds along the knuckles like an old fire, and a small sigil—an angular berserker's blade bound by a thundering storm—fades in and out as the metal cools. The texture is cold, almost breathing in your hands; a whisper of chain clicking against itself as you flex your fingers, a reminder that these gauntlets were built to keep you moving, not simply to keep you upright. Lore says they were forged for a raid-born pact, worn by the berserkers who rode into tempests with iron will, the sigil a vow that violence can be tempered by steel and discipline. Grip them and you can feel the balance: protection at the forearm, agility in the fingers, and a surprising lightness for something so plated. In combat they turn blows into controlled bursts of force, letting the wearer punch through armor and escape a bind with a practiced twist of the wrist. They belong to a class of gear designed for relentless offense—the Berserker’s mark on the world, a badge that travels with mercenary bands, skirmishers, and those who chase glory as the wind chases a flame. In the wider tale of the realm, they are not mere hardware but a chapter you carry into every clash, a reminder that even the fiercest storms leave their traces on the hands that end them. They hum softly with each practiced strike. Markets around the frontier always hold a quiet debate over these relics. I heard a smith's apprentice tell a hunter that a well-kept set could fetch a windfall, while a rougher lot might be traded away for a song. At Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling patchwork of stalls and caravans, the chatter turned to value the moment the gauntlets appeared on a trader's table. The broker didn't hint at a price so much as offered a map: a potential bargain for a buyer who reads signs as if they were runes. They carry a story of weight and purpose, and a buyer will pay for that, not just for the metal but for the memory of the berserkers who once carried them into a storm. And alongside the metal, traders swap war stories and tips on maintenance, as if every tale might extend the gauntlets’ life a little longer. By dusk, the gauntlets had slipped back into a leather satchel, the kind that travels with merchants and misfits alike. The road-worn sigil glowed faintly as if it remembered the first strike and the last breath. In the end, their true worth isn't measured in gold so much as the way they anchor a life: the moment you decide to press forward, gloves tight, hands hot with resolve, ready to turn a stumble into a stride and a roar into movement. In the quiet, they wait for another storm to prove themselves.