Sheena's Gauntlets cinch around the wrist like a midnight tide, steel plates lacquered with a matte blue-black patina; the edges are softly chipped from years of use, and the knuckles bear rounded contours that feel almost friendly to the touch. A copper thread runs along the back of the hand, catching the light when a torch is held just right, and along the forearm a line of runic sigils flows in a wavy script, faint as smoke yet always present to the careful eye. The leather lining within is worn smooth, perfumed with oil and pine resin, a scent that tells stories more reliably than any plaque. A small brass plate near the cuff bears a looping name—Sheena—in a script that travels between eras, as if someone carved it in a century and another read it in a later one. When you cradle the gauntlets in your palm, the metal hums with a chill that isn’t cold so much as alive, a quiet pulse that ticks with your breath. Lore, it is whispered, binds to these gauntlets as much as the metal to skin. They belonged to Sheena, a courier-huntress who mapped paths through winter and the hungry nights between towns. Some say she tempered the steel in a tide-washed cliff forge; others claim the sigils are a pact with crossroads guardians—world-shifting symbols promising swift mercy to those who know when to step back from a blade. The truth may be murkier than the rain, but the artifact’s aura remains: a tool that asks you to earn trust with your hands, not merely by striking harder but by guiding your courage through a climb or siege. In practice, the gauntlets feel like they belong to a larger story, the kind that unfold on a battlefield and in a quiet workshop alike. They stabilize a fighter’s grip, sharpen instinct, and invite a bolder tempo in melee. With them, you notice the rhythm of your parries, the way you can lock eyes with an opportunity and seize it without losing ground. They don’t turn battles into poetry, but they tilt the scales toward the wearer who has learned patience as well as punch. They pair well with relics that favor control and armor, and they thrive when your plan hinges on getting close, absorbing a hit, and swarming the moment with counterattacks. Market days bring gauntlets to curious hands in satchels and the Saddlebag Exchange. A few merchants speak of provenance—the quill marks of the shipwright, the ink of a map-maker—and the price shifts with story. Some buyers seek them for themselves; others barter them as a meaningful gift to a partner who carries risk, memory, and hope. It’s not just a piece of equipment, but a compact of history, forged to be worn by someone who wins by steadiness, not by noise. It is this pairing of craft and myth that makes the piece live, asking whoever wears it to walk a road that tests nerve and gentleness in measure.