Ritualist's Ancient Ritualist Gloves rest on the palm of a weathered glove-wright’s table, their leather a sun-worn espresso shade that has seen more dawns than most tables in the market square. The surface bears a network of fine cracks like old parchment, each one catching candlelight and throwing it back as if the hide itself remembered a dozen different rites. Copper rivets pin the seams, catching a glint of light when a hand lifts, and along the cuffs a row of sigils—small, precise, almost breathing—are etched with a careful, patient hand. The inner lining, a silk-washed deep red, whisper-soft against the skin, contrasting with the rugged exterior that feels both protective and alive, as if the gloves might shiver slightly if a whisper of wind brushes the leather just right. At the wrist, a fringe of dark thread dangles, a reminder of the loom-wrought ritual that stitched them into a single artifact: a relic meant to guide a ritualist as much as to guard their hands. Old lore laces through their texture. They’re said to have been woven in the quiet hours between the fall of night and the rising of dawn by a circle of ritualists who walked the edge of memory and memory’s edge. The gloves allegedly carried an oath-mark—an invisible seal pressed into the grain—so that whoever wore them would be steadier when summoning sigils, drawing wards, or handling relics that hummed with long-held secrets. In murals and worn tomes, they appear with a scholar’s calm and a caravan guard’s resolve, the kind of artifact that makes a passerby imagine a corridor of doors where each door opens to a room where a small, precise ritual can save a life or end a peril. In the moment-to-moment of gameplay, those same gloves read like a quiet invitation to a particular sort of story. They’re not just armor for the hands but a symbol of a path—of intent, focus, and a readiness to bind power with care. Players who favor ritualist aesthetics often slip them on to ground a build that leans into precision craft and careful timing, letting the wearer feel a tactile reminder of the rites they mimic or reinterpret. The gloves become a tell, a detail that says: this is someone who respects the ceremony behind every cast, no matter how small the fight may be. Market days always bring a chorus of deals around such relics, and Saddlebag Exchange is where the exchange becomes a narrative itself. I watched a trader lift the gloves from their glass case, the light tracing the sigils as if they were constellations waking at dusk. The tag swung between two gold and a few silver more or less, prices flickering with the mood of the crowd—the kind of nimble arithmetic that only a traveling bazaar can teach. The dealer explained in a low voice that the gloves’ value depended on who last held them and what stories they carried, a reminder that in these markets, history itself can be collateral. When I finally walked away, the gloves tucked safely into a sack, I felt the weight of their past press into the present—a quiet insistence that some relics are not merely worn, but walked with, step by deliberate step, into the next chapter of the world’s long, ritual-rich tale.