Apothecary's Exalted Gloves

Apothecary's Exalted Gloves slip over the wrists like a well-worn verse of leather and glass. The back is deep chestnut leather, stitched with a spiderweb of bronze thread, each knuckle capped by small brass studs that catch the lantern glow. Along the dorsum, shallow recesses cradle tiny glass vials—orb-shaped, tinted green, corked and ready for tincture or tinder-dousing alike. The interior is a whisper-soft plum velvet that warms the skin with every flex, and the air carries a steady scent of rosemary, camphor, and rain-threaded resin. The sigils along the cuffs glow faintly when the fingers bend, a quiet pledge of precision and care, as if the gloves themselves remember every herb and heartbeat they’ve ever touched. Legends cling to these gloves as if they were dew on a leaf. They were said to be forged by an old apothecary who stood between plague and prayer, who stitched resilience into the leather and sealed it with alchemical wax so that any healer who wore them could coax a cure from stubborn herbs and stubborn fears. In the hush between a patient’s breath and the next stir of the cauldron, the Exalted rank on the leather reads less like a badge and more like a vow: a promise that craft and courage can outpace time, a reminder that a single skilled hand can tilt the balance between despair and renewal. In the market of memory and trade, they are spoken of with a mixture of reverence and pragmatism, as if the world itself weighs their worth in tinctures and tale. In gameplay they become more than a pretty embossing on rare fabric. When you equip them, the gloved hand seems to coax the tools of crafting into motion—the tiny vials in the fingers align, and a healer’s repertoire feels suddenly swifter, almost inevitable. They don’t just decorate a build; they heighten it. Potions brewed at a campfire seem to take on a cleaner edge, the application of a healing elixir gliding from palm to ally quicker and surer, and the lingering buff of life-infusions seems to linger a fraction longer. For those who lean into alchemical playstyles, the gloves are a compass and a kettle in one: they remind you to pace, to blend, to balance, turning a tense moment into a measured ritual rather than a frantic sprint. The Saddlebag Exchange, ever the pulse of the road-weary, threads this item into a living economy. A seasoned trader will point you toward a price that reads in gold coins and the soft clink of copper—enough to remind you that rarity carries responsibility as much as power. The whispers around a pristine pair place them somewhere in the mid-to-high range, often quoted between a handful of gold and more, depending on the sigil’s alignment and the leather’s patience. A patient buyer might barter with a cache of rare herbs or a relic vial, as if trading not only silver for silver but memory for memory. In the end, the gloves feel less like armor and more like a portable archive of cures: a tangible link between a healer’s hands and the world’s frailties, preserved for the moment when care is most needed.