Cleric's Tempered Scale Gauntlets of the Guardian

Cleric's Tempered Scale Gauntlets of the Guardian gleam with a patient, tempered light, each scale a tiny plate of lacquered emerald metal laid in overlapping rows that catch both sun and lantern with equal reverence. The back of the hand bears a looping sigil that glows a soft, steady green when danger closes in, while the inner lining is a supple, warm leather stitched with copper threads that smell faintly of rain and old parchment. The texture is a curious duet: the scales feel cool and glassy to the touch, yet the edges bite with the memory of a serious purpose, like a blade that never forgets how to guard. They look as if they’ve walked out of a reliquary and onto a field, the sort of relic that insists on being worn rather than displayed. Lore has it that these gauntlets were forged in the quiet fires beneath a temple where healers and wardens shared a single vow: protect the fragile as you mend the broken, and mend what you protect in turn. The scales, some say, were salvaged from a creature whose skin could weather storms of magic, tempered by chants until they sang with a patience only the steadfast could hear. Placed on the arms, the gauntlets settle with a measured, ceremonial weight, as if a small fortress has been strapped to the wrists. There’s a calm contained within their presence, a steadiness that steadies breath and steadies aim. In the heat of confrontation, the rune-work responds like a quiet chorus: a shimmer along the knuckles, a hush of light along the forearm, and a subtle reinforcement around the wearer’s shield. The Guardian’s lineage—that blend of knightly care and field-spun piety—finds its voice here, because the Cleric’s Tempered Scale Gauntlets are less about raw power and more about channeling it with restraint. When healing or protection is called for, the gauntlets seem to pause time just long enough to cradle a moment of mercy, guiding it into the hands that need it most. They don’t merely buff abilities; they braid the wearer’s actions into a larger tapestry—one where a single shielded ally might buy precious seconds for a fallen comrade, and a well-timed cleanse can spare someone a chain of wounds that would have outpaced a hurried court healer. In the world’s deeper stories, these gauntlets ring through ruins and siege-lines alike, a constant reminder that guardianship is a living bargain between wounded hope and hard-won courage. I’ve watched a party clamber through a collapsed temple, the Cleric’s Tempered Scale Gauntlets pulsing in the wearer's grip as a blast from a catapult chewed at the air. The glow steadied the group, not with bravado but with a soft promise: we are not alone in this ruin. The relic’s job was scarcely noise or boast; it was the quiet act of keeping a line intact long enough for a healer to reach the wounded and the shielded to find a safe corner in the storm. Saddlebag Exchange is where such a thing becomes tangible, a marketplace where worth is weighed not just in metal but in stories. The gauntlets carried a tag that suggested a value in gold, tucked into a folded parchment under a brass coin—an asking price that traders marked down with a sly smile when a storyteller offered a trade rather than coin. The clerk whispered that a fair deal could be struck for those who understood what it meant to bear the weight of another’s breath. In that moment, the Cleric’s Tempered Scale Gauntlets of the Guardian ceased to be mere armor and became a shared oath, a link in a chain that runs from ruin to refuge, from quiet temple fires to crowded, wind-worn roads.