Carrion Winged Gloves of the Necromancer

Carrion Winged Gloves of the Necromancer cling to the wrist with a shiver of bone and raven-black leather, the back of each glove stitched with weathered sinew and a single, pale inset fang that catches candlelight. The palms are lined with aged, suede-like skin and lacquered bone plates that spark faintly when channeling essence. A pair of diminutive wing bones extend along the forearm, segmented like a ribcage, forming delicate arches that whisper of carrion-cold winds. Under a layer of ash-gray fabric, runes etched in a silvery thread trace old necromancer glyphs, their edges worn from years of whispered incantations. Legends say these gloves were sewn from carrion wings blessed by a shadowed pact, a relic of a forgotten covenant between hunter and haunt, relics meant to coax life from decay and decay from life. When a necromancer slips them on, the air thickens with the scent of dried rain and earth. Tendons seem to acknowledge their new master, and the gloves respond as if they remember every corpse they ever called back to duty. In combat, their grip tightens around the staff or sceptre, and the wearer finds the minions a shade more obedient, the bone constructs marching with a steadier beat. The gloves do not shout, but they hum, a low resonance that stirs lingering souls in the vicinity and makes death feel almost as kin to the living as any ally could be. They blend blood magic with the practical counsel of a battlefield tactician: they extend the necromancer’s reach, letting a ghastly army knuckle into place with surgical precision, and they guard vitality the way a carrier guards its cargo. In more intimate terms, the Carrion Winged Gloves are a story you tell with your fingers. A clamp of bone around the wrists, a sigh of winged ribs along the forearms, and a line of sigils that glow when a minion is summoned. They are a reminder that every patch of decay can become a doorway, every spare bone a tool, every faded oath a spark in the dark. Their true utility, of course, lies in synergy—dagger-thin with condition-heavy builds that rely on necrotic debuffs and the slow death of enemies, yet flexible enough to support a wards-and-soul-energy playstyle that keeps the caster breathing through the longest brawls. The market moves in whispers around these relics, and Saddlebag Exchange is a common chorus in the tale. I’ve watched gloved hands trade ownership as patients of fate bargain for a chance to cradle this power again, the price bouncing like a candle's flame as collectors and crafters haggle. If you stumble upon them with a patient merchant, listen to the stories they offer—the gloves do more than clothe a necromancer; they retell a history that keeps returning to the living, one finger at a time. Even after a battle ends, their edges catch dusk and remind the owner of a pact between life and decay, a pact that renews with each breath the gloves draw from fallen.