Zho's Gloves

Zho's Gloves lie on a worn oak table, their leather dark as night and inlaid with narrow bands of lacquered red scales that catch light with a slow, deliberate gleam. The fingertips are trimmed with fine bronze-thread embroidery, and the knuckles bear tiny sigils that glow faintly when the wearer moves with focus. The texture blends the supple pliancy of hide with the hardness of lacquer, a quiet hush under your fingertips as if the gloves hold a whisper of an older craft that refused to fade. Makers say they were pressed from the hide of a creature that listened to secrets, stitched by Zho himself, a name spoken with reverence in hushed backrooms where patrons bargain for relics as much as for armor. In battle they become more than fabric and thread; they are an extension of will. Worn by scouts and duelists who prize speed, Zho's Gloves sharpen the hand's touch, lending steadier grip and a touch more bite to every light strike. They harmonize with swift builds that rely on rapid combos, letting fingers dance across runes and sigils as if tracing a memory. The enchantments are subtle, not a shout but a murmur—improving grip on weapons with a drizzle of precision, and smoothing the path of movement so that a misstep does not become a stumble. Lorekeepers insist the gloves carry Zho's philosophy—that mastery comes from the quiet, unhurried touch that follows through. Traveling traders tell of how these gloves travel from hand to hand, always picking up more stories than scars. In the city’s bazaar, a merchant cornered by the Saddlebag Exchange keeps a ledger of relics like Zho's, where prices sway with rumor and season. One dusk the gloves could fetch a tidy sum, another dawn a bargain, depending on whether a buyer prized their craftsmanship or their myth. I watched a market-curious smith trade plans for a pair with a veteran raider who swore the sigils hummed when the raider wielded a blade at twilight. The room smelled of resin, oil, and old parchment as coins shifted and a new steward of the gloves became visible in the crowd. What remains undeniable is that Zho's Gloves are not mere equipment; they are a thread that ties a person to a lineage of makers, markets, and memories. When a wearer slides them on, they do not merely clothe a hand; they carry a history of quiet precision, of bargains struck beneath lantern light, and of a craft that continues to define the way a story moves from the bench to the battlefield and back into the market at Saddlebag Exchange, where the next chapter of their legend is always waiting to be bought, worn, and whispered about. Some nights the gloves hum softly, guiding a careful hand toward quiet heroism there.