Carrion Sneakthief Gloves of the Lich

The Carrion Sneakthief Gloves of the Lich slip onto the wrist with a whisper of bone and leather, ivory-white panels ribbed with black seams, knuckles carved into delicate arcs, and fingers tipped with coppery talons that catch the light like the claws of something patient. The texture is cool and springy, a skin that doesn’t quite warm to the touch, as if the wearer borrowed a heartbeat from the tomb. Along the cuffs, sigils etched in ash glow faintly blue when the night air thickens, and a thread of undead lore runs through their leather, whispering that these gloves were forged in crypts beneath something old and hungry. Lore says a rogue necromancer bound a thin strip of lich-magic to hide a thief’s footsteps, letting him vanish between shadows without a trace. They feel heavier in the palm than they look, as if the weight of a dozen whispered negotiations rests there, waiting for the right moment to swing into action. In gameplay, they are more than ornament. Equipping them tilts the balance toward stealth and the sudden, surgical strike, letting you thread between guards, glove-laced fingers stealing glints of coin and stories alike from the pockets of the unsuspecting. They whisper to backstabs, amplifying the surprise that turns a routine heist into a decisive moment, and they mesh with the thief’s toolkit to shed light on the world’s hidden routes—the underground routes, the supply wagons, the vaults that never open to the daylight. They also resonate with necromantic themes each time you press a motion-skill, a reminder that every vault you breach is woven into a larger tale about hunger, order, and the quiet churn of the dead in the city's bones. The gloves do not merely change your hands; they change the way you tell a story with your feet, in the hush between footsteps and breath. When the gloves pass from hand to hand, the discussion of value always follows. In the bustling market around Saddlebag Exchange, a thread of speculation runs like a river under the stalls. Prices rise and fall with rumor, with seasons of scarcity, with the confidence of buyers and the fear of inspectors; sometimes someone will trade a scarred map or a bundle of rare herbs for a pair of these, sometimes coin is the only language that matters. The gloves’ true worth, you quickly learn, isn’t fixed in a ledger but in the world they unlock—the corridors you can pass, the shadows you can inhabit, the listener you become to stories long overdue to be told. Even now, the image of a gloved hand slipping past a guard—the blue glimmer along the cuffs—remains a quiet reminder that a single well-timed step can alter a city's map.