Berserker's Apprentice Gloves

Berserker's Apprentice Gloves rest on the desk, crimson leather with gold-edged stitching along the back of the hand. The fingers taper to worn tips, the knuckles reinforced with bronze plates that gleam in lamplight, and a cuff seals the wrist with just enough give to feel the ropey strength of a trained fighter. A sigil of a roaring bear runs across the palm, etched and warmed by oil, as if the garment itself remembers every clash it has seen. In the whispered histories of the forgeyards, these gloves came to symbolize the early days of a Berserker—when rage was a dangerous ally and discipline was the true craft. Apprentices wore them to remind themselves that power without control is a blade that cuts its owner first. Some tell of a trainer who stitched the sigil close to the tendon so the wearer could hear the bear’s breath in the rhythm of their own heartbeat, training them to strike with purpose rather than frenzy. On the field, the gloves feel surprisingly light for their fierce look. They seem to coax a steadier gait into a wild tempo, nudging your timing toward the windows of opportunity when your crit chance blooms and your power surges. They don't grant brute invincibility, but they encourage you to weave your attacks—first a quick jab, then a heavier slam, finishing with a decisive finisher—like a story arc you perform rather than a set of numbers you read. Travelers who collect tales as they pass through towns will tell you that leather and lore are sold in equal measure. The market stalls under the awnings of the market square often echo with the same line: a price whispered, a trade considered. If you listen between the clinking coins, you might hear of Saddlebag Exchange, a bustling ledger of what gear has moved that day. A vendor will trade you the Gloves for a modest bundle of silver, sometimes a gem or a trade note, depending on the buyer’s nerve and the seller’s longing for a bargain. To wear them is to step into a larger circle of memory, to feel the old blood of the Berserker's apprentices running in your veins. The gloves are not merely equipment; they are a chapter— a hinge between discipline and impulse, a tool to cast into a wider world where every strike writes a line of the book you’re still learning to read. On a rainy dawn, I watched a young hunter trade a chipped map for a pair that had seen campaigns. The seller spoke of the apprentice's gloves as if they carried a weathered map inside—lines of wear mapping lessons learned in battle. When the gloves found new hands, a small ritual followed: a careful oiling, a whispered vow to honor the craft, and the decision to pursue the next tier only after proving the first steps of courage and restraint. In that moment, the Berserker's Apprentice Gloves were not simply worn; they were passed along, like a story that refused to end.