Berserker's Apprentice Gloves

Berserker's Apprentice Gloves sit on a worn boards of a market stall, catching the late afternoon light with a stubborn, almost hungry glow. The leather is a deep, sun-warmed brown, rubbed to a soft satin that graces the skin without slipping, and the fingers are stitched with tight, confident seams that look as if they’ve learned to anticipate every swing before it happens. A narrow stripe of crimson runs along the back of each hand, like a thread of quiet anger threaded through the stitching, and the cuffs are reinforced with pale, bone-white padding that glows faintly when the air grows thick with adrenaline. Brass rings kiss the wrists, etched with a storm sigil that seems to shimmer when the wearer leans into a roar of battle-ready momentum. If you cradle them, you can almost hear the quiet murmur of an oath whispered by a mentor long ago: train until you break, not until you crack. The tag inside bears a faded mark that reads apprentice, a reminder that this is not the end but the beginning of a path carved in steel and sinew. Lore threads through the leather like a seam you forget is there until you catch its sheen in the corner of your eye. These gloves were not forged for a lone hero, but for a young recruit who learned the ways of the Berserker from a master who believed in the power of restraint as much as the bloodied thrill of the strike. The apprentice wore the gloves on drill days that stretched into evenings, when the drumbeat of the surrounding camp seemed to echo the pulse of the wearer’s own courage. In stories told around campfires, they say the gloves remember every clash, every parry, every breath held at the edge of a charge. The wearer learns not to waste a moment, to find the precise instant when fear becomes focus, and to channel that energy into a single, devastating turn of the wrist. In gameplay terms, those lessons translate into a tangible rhythm. The gloves are said to amplify the wearer’s momentum—the longer you chain attacks without interruption, the more the runes along the cuffs flare, feeding a burst of vitality and raw ferocity at just the right moment. It’s a tactile reminder that power in this world isn’t granted all at once; it’s earned, piece by piece, with every crack of leather and every echo of metal. When you slip into a berserker stance, the gloves feel like an extension of your own will, guiding your hands to weave through targets, to slice through shields, to keep the line from breaking when the world feels ready to fracture. Market days bring the business of myth into plain sight, and today I listen as a trader explains the price in a voice seasoned by many seasons of exchange. The gloves are not cheap, not rare enough to be mythic, but rare enough that a good ledger can still bend toward legend. He checks a parchment ledger, then glances toward a rail-thin buyer who keeps his coins close and his eyes closer. The figure under the awning—saddlebag slung, eyes scanning for a fair deal—mentions Saddlebag Exchange by name, a network where merchants bring stories and items to the same table, traded by trust and reputation rather than mere gold. The price lands somewhere in the seven gold range, depending on mood and demand, a mark that makes sense to a market that remembers the days when apprentices dreamed of gods of war and learned to barter with the same quiet fury. I walk away with the sense that these gloves do not simply clothe the hands; they carry a history that will press forward the next line of legends in the world’s ongoing, thunderous story.