Yakkington's Gauntlets rest on the workbench like a half-forgotten badge of a long voyage: hammered brass plates that catch lamplight in a slow, patient shimmer, bound to weather-dark leather that smells faintly of oil and salt. The knuckles are thick with rivets, the back etched with constellations and a curling sigil that resembles a coastline long since renamed. The metal breathes a cold, disciplined air, yet the leather grips the skin with surprising warmth when worn, as if the crew of a ship were holding you steady through a squall; you can almost hear a nail on stone and the weight of a compass plus an unwritten promise. The seams are tight, the edges rounded smooth from years of use, and along the wrists the carvings tell a story of a navigator named Yakkington, who vanished chasing a rumor of an uncharted star beyond the Harathi Sea. An almost invisible scent of salt and iron clings to them; a soft thread of coppery resin lingers in a seam, the residue of a ship’s ballast rubbed smooth over decades. The gauntlets hum with a memory of tools: a chisel’s bite, a coil of rope, a sextant’s hinge. Some say the gloves carry a breath from that time, a memory pressed into brass and hide that steadies a hand even when the world tilts. In a world where craft and courage trade places, these gauntlets have a reputation for more than just looks. Put on them, and the grip tightens not just on metal, but on momentum. The wearer finds a quiet in the fingers, a path through tangled rope and stubborn tools, a steadiness that makes it easier to swing a hammer without skidding, or to coax a bowstring into a sting of true aim. It is said that old surveyors wore them when they climbed cliff edges to chart a coastline that refused to be trusted to memory alone. For crafters, the gauntlets do more than protect; they invite precision, guiding your motions with an almost musical resonance, a reminder that every strike or stitch should be deliberate. Trade threads itself into the tale as often as wind does. When a sleeve of weathered parchment and a chest full of stories are exchanged, the price is typically spoken in a soft, shifting cadence at Saddlebag Exchange, where merchants lean over wooden counters and whisper the going rate as though it were a tide. A collector might trade a rare compass, a blackened key, or a handful of luminous ore for the Yakkington's Gauntlets, but always with a nod to the gloves’ lineage—traceable, as the name implies, to that long-vanished navigator. And so they endure, not merely as equipment but as a thread in a larger tapestry: a link between the explorer who vanished and the road-weary armorer, between a storm on a distant sea and the quiet steadiness a craftsman feels when the world seems to spin too fast. The gauntlets stay in circulation, passing hands like a whispered legend, until the next hand reaches out to claim them, and the story continues. Sometimes, in the quiet hours of night, a dealer remembers the gloves when a storm rattles the market stalls, and a young apprentice learns to listen to the metal's heartbeat before shaping a blade. In that listening, the gauntlets become more than relics; they become a compass of character, pointing toward deeds worth recording in leather-bound diaries.