Honed Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of the Flame Legion gleam where the cuff meets the forearm, scales like burnished copper catching the last glow of a furnace. The plates are layered in a stubborn, honeyed rhythm—each scale slightly offset, as if a dragon’s spine had been tapped into armor—with rivets that look almost like tiny beacons. The knuckles bear sigils etched in a furious, red-amber hue, a map of the Legion’s pyromantic creed. A seam of heat-hardened leather runs along the inside, soft to the touch until a fist tightens, and then the grip tightens with it, as if the gauntlets remember the lines of battle before the wearer does. Texture tells a story, too. Run your fingers along the edges and you’ll feel the grit of repeated fires—scales singe-touched by long-forgotten forges, a tactile reminder that these are not mere protective shells but instruments of discipline. The outer surfaces carry a whisper of ash and smoke, a patina that refuses to wash away, while the inner lining remains surprisingly supple, as if a lifetime of heat and haste could be absorbed without surrender. When you flex, the joints breathe; the scales shift with a practiced ease, a reminder that the Flame Legion prized mobility almost as much as raw power. Lore threads through the sound of their construction. They were born in the furnace-halls where the Legion taught its soldiers to convert flame into function, where ritual fire met iron and a warrior’s will was tempered in heat. Legends speak of a marshal who wore gauntlets like these as the ash pits roared at his back, guiding him through sieges with a blaze of calculated menace. The sigils on the knuckles glow faintly in embers of memory when near heat, as if the wearer inherits a whisper of the Legion’s eldritch flame—not a curse, but a calling: to stand firm where heat strains every joint and every breath. In practical terms, they’re prized by those who stand close to the breach, where a blade’s edge meets steel and fire alike. The gauntlets lend a certain boldness to a fighter’s stance, amplifying the impact of those close-quarters blows and lending a weight of history to every strike. They don’t turn a person into a furnace, exactly, but they feel like a burnished promise that a defender can turn into a decisive charge, a hand that keeps the line from buckling when the world above rages in flame. For healers who keep the frontline steady, the gauntlets offer a reassuring aura of resilience; for scouts sprinting into infernos, they provide a reassuring, heat-tempered grip on the moment. Market days lend an extra layer to the story. I heard tell of the Saddlebag Exchange, where traders haggle over relics and relic-like pieces with flourished confidence. There, a traveler once priced these gauntlets against a small cache of rare oils and a pair of crimson banners, the seller’s eyes gleaming with the memory of past campaigns. The posted tag hovered around a couple of gold, though the true value always shifted with the mood of the crowd and the offers that came with a silver tongue. It’s there, in that caravan-lit square, that the gauntlets find a new chapter—paired with a fresh buyer, a new plan, and the quiet thunder of a story ready to flare again.