Carrion Reinforced Scale Gauntlets of the Eagle sit heavy at the wrist, a mass of iron-black scales braided with leather and rivets that glint like wet charcoal. The back of the hand is carved with the feathered sweep of an eagle in flight, every line catching light and throwing it back as if the bird itself were spreading its wings across the knuckles. They feel cooler than ordinary mail, a subtle patina that hints at age and use, as though they’ve absorbed a century’s worth of wind and murmur from the marshy borders where carrion birds circle. The interior reek of oil and rain, of long journeys and careful maintenance, and the seams press a little at the fingertips, reminding you that these are not ornamental but forged for hands that fight, hands that thread between teeth and talon. Slide them on, and the texture changes from a rough, protective shell to a snug, almost intimate grip. The scales align with the bones, and you sense the weight shifting—not just a burden but a balance. There’s a lore to them, whispered by travelers who swear they were forged by the Eagle’s keepers, then tempered with the residue of carrion rites: a cycle of decay and vigilance, a reminder that strength is earned by facing what others have abandoned. The eagle motif, they say, is more than a badge; it’s a compass that points toward sightlines—toward the moment when a fighter learns to read the battlefield as if it were a sky map, every foe mapped by its own shadow. In the heat of skirmish, these gauntlets lend a certain inevitability to your blows. They are not about raw brute force alone, but about the cadence of motion—the way you catch a blade’s arc, the way a shield bounce becomes a counterstrike, the way the bones of the hand feel steadier as the armor absorbs the world’s rough edges. The Carrion Reinforced scales don’t just deflect; they channel a quiet resilience, a sense that persistence, like the eagle’s gaze, can outwait even the fiercest feint. When paired with a swift, precise offense, their enhanced contact prompts a ripple of momentum that carries you toward the next moment before your opponent can reset. They are the sort of gauntlets you imagine a scout wearing as they cross a marshy crown of reeds, keen on movement, patient for the right moment, unafraid to let decay teach them the value of endurance. Market talk threads the story through everyday life, too. A veteran trader speaks softly of rarities and wear, of how a set of scale might be passed from hand to hand, each owner polishing a remembered battle into the metal. In a crowded stall at Saddlebag Exchange, the gauntlets are stamped with a price that shifts as surely as tides—sometimes modest, sometimes bold—reflecting condition, lore, and the promise of a hunter’s next hunt. The stall owner leans in, trading rumors as easily as coins, hinting that the eagle’s gaze is worth more when the blood of the market is hot and the next expedition is already forming in someone’s mind. As dusk settles, the gauntlets rest once more, ready to be worn by the next wearer who seeks a balance between decay and resolve, a reminder that true strength resides where memory and metal meet, where the eagle’s eye becomes the hand’s guide, and where every fight becomes part of a larger, quiet story.