Berserker's Apprentice Gloves

Berserker's Apprentice Gloves catch the light like a flame trapped in leather, a folded story of heat and hurry. The crimson hide is smooth yet stubborn, soft where skin would mind the bite of a blade, firm where your fingers need to strike. The knuckles are bolstered with shallow copper plates that gleam when you move, as if they were teeth catching a lantern’s glow. Along the back of each finger, tight stitchwork spirals in a pattern that looks almost like a map of a battlefield—the kind you’d trace with a fingertip before stepping into the fight. The cuffs pull in with a deliberate flare, not for show but to cradle the wrist as if the glove itself knows the moment you’ll unleash what lies inside. And there, etched into a small, almost shy sigil on the palm, is a whisper of magic: not a spell, but a promise that patience can become ferocity when the moment calls. Lore threads weave through this gear as surely as the leather threads through its seams. These gloves belong to the Berserker’s lineage—an apprentice tier in a long line of fighters who learned early that rage must be tempered by timing, and timing by practice. If you listen closely in a quiet corner of the city, you’ll hear tales of a stern mentor who walked the dusty ring with a whistle and a coin purse, teaching fledgling fighters to temper their impulse with precision. The apprentice gloves carry that memory, a half-smirk of old masters who believed that a young berserker could be both furious and focused, a storm that knew exactly where to land. In play, they don’t just sit prettily on a shelf. They are a signal flare in a melee-heavy life: power meets precision, with ferocity humming beneath the surface. Wearing them, you feel your strikes carve cleaner paths through armor and eels of resistance alike, your crit chance nudging upward as your momentum builds. They are not the heaviest hammer in the smithy, but they are the kind that teach a young fighter to strike with intention, to read the room, and to let the roar out only when it will carry you forward rather than scatter your aim. In squads, their presence is a shorthand for a build that leans into those quick, clean bursts—the kind that turns an even skirmish into something decisive. The world around them corroborates the feeling of value. Traders in the city’s floating market talk about the gloves as a curious blend of training-tale and practical gear, and the Saddlebag Exchange—that winding, back-alley bazaar of old gear and fresh wants—becomes a chorus of whispers when these gloves surface. A pair like this can travel between hands at a price that reflects both their care and their potential: enough coin to feed a day’s rations, and maybe a little pocket change left for upgrades or runes, depending on the buyer’s needs. A buyer will haggle, a vendor nods, and suddenly the gloves aren’t simply worn—they’re worn-in, seasoned with the footsteps of the person who bought them, and the countless moments they’ll shape together. Strapping them on is to step into a larger story—a story of a young fighter who learned to turn a spark into a blaze, a careful craft into a resolved strike. In the world these gloves inhabit, every move you make is a sentence, and every roar you hold back is a word that will someday be spoken aloud in the right moment.