Errol's Gloves

Errol's Gloves rest on a scarred wooden table in the back room of a cluttered workshop, where the air tastes of oil and old leather. The leather is a muddy bronze, thick and soft all at once, with a seam of pale stitching along the knuckles. Brass buckles glint like beetles in a lantern glow, and the fingers end in tight, precise cuts, as if designed for a hand that never wants to lose its grip. A subtle embossing runs along the cuff—a tiny, looping insignia of an overlong scrawl that reads like a whispered rumor: Errol, the tanner who vanished after a raid. The texture holds a history: the smoothness one wears when the day is going well, the slight grain when the night turns hard. Slip them on, and the world seems to tighten its focus. The gloves cradle your hands with a quiet, almost loyal warmth. They seem to nudge your strikes toward cleaner, surer lands, a gentle increase to Power and Precision that feels more like confidence than raw power. In the thick of a skirmish, you notice their memory—the way the leather catches at your wrists when you swing, the way your fingers settle into a rhythm that makes your next move inevitable. They’re prized by scouts and skirmishers, those who live by quick hands and quick thoughts, and they have a way of turning a quiet victory into a story you’ll tell over a campfire. In the markets where leather and luck mingle, Errol’s Gloves trade hands with a rumor and a price. The asking numbers drift with the steam of kettles and the echo of caravans, rising when a siege tightens and falling when a caravan returns light. Traders speak in careful breaths about their value, and the Saddlebag Exchange becomes the measuring stick—the ledger where one buyer’s fevered bid and another’s steady, patient offer cross paths. A knight-errant may swap a bracers for the gloves if the stars align, while a woods-walker might trade them for a handful of luminous ore and a tale about a hidden trail. The market, like the glove, has a history of grip and release, of keeping faith in both the buyer and the memory of the crafter. To wear Errol’s Gloves is to wear a fragment of a larger story—the borderlands where raiders and traders meet, where a craft’s reputation is earned with every seam that holds under strain. You feel the loom of the world—scouts departing at dawn, lanterns bobbing over a plan, the soft clink of coins slipping across a market stall—when you slide your hands into them. They remind you that gear isn’t just equipment; it’s a thread of continuity in a world that keeps moving, stitching together the past and the present one careful stitch at a time. So I keep them close, not as a trophy but as a map: a reminder of Errol, of the old routes, and of every choice a wearer makes when the night grows long. Its memory keeps guiding the next bold choice.