Ravaging Swindler Gloves of the Lich wrap around the fingers like a second skin: ebony leather pressed to the skin, supple yet unyielding, with knuckles embossed in bone-white sigils that catch the light and glow a pale frost when moonlight slides across them. The texture feels simultaneously soft and deliberate, as if every stitch was laid down by a hand that has learned both grace and mischief. Copper rivets catch a faint shine, and the back of the hand bears a weathered crest—an arcane chevron braided with sinewy thread—that seems to breathe with a cold pulse. When you slip them on, the leather settles in a way that makes even the most careless hand movements feel precise, like a lock being coaxed open from the inside. The fingertips are trimmed just enough to allow delicate work, the kind that requires a quiet smile and a quicker lie, and the inside smells faintly of old leather and rain on stone. Lore has it that the gloves were woven from the shadows of a lich’s forgotten cult, then gifted to a roguish swindler who learned to talk with coins and knives in the same breath. They say the sigils are not merely decoration but a pact—a whispering of old bargains that grants the wearer a throat full of truth to tell and a hand that can snatch what fate would rather keep. They hum with a cold energy, a reminder that power here comes with a price: a thinning of illusions, a sharpened edge of risk, and a reminder that deception, once learned, never fully releases its grip. In actual play, the Gloves of the Lich feel less like armor and more like a companion on a larger, wandering road. Their presence shapes how you approach encounters: a deft misdirection to open a fight, a shadowed grip that helps you slip past a guard with breath to spare, and a lifeblood thread that returns some vigor after a hard-fought exchange. Rumors speak of a synergy with necromantic or thief-driven builds, where the gloves’ sigils seem to drink in the chaos of battle and spit back a sliver of vitality to the wearer. They’re not about brute force; they’re about the art of moving through danger with a grin, knowing the world is watching, waiting for you to slip. Market days bring their own drama, and Saddlebag Exchange is where you most often hear the stories behind the price. A weathered trader with ink-smudged fingers once laid them out on a velvet cushion, the glow of the sigils catching patrons’ eyes as the sun slid down the market awning. The exchange murmured in agreement about their rarity, then coaxed a price that sat somewhere between a few silver and a threadbare fortune. A weary collector traded a chipped amulet and a broken ring for a chance at these gloves, while others merely traded glances, calculating how many more errands they’d run before they could afford a bid. The gloves moved on, leaving footprints of rumor, a rumor that follows any wearer who dares to walk the line between cunning and peril. And so the Ravaging Swindler Gloves of the Lich remain a story you can wear, a piece of the world balled into leather and magic, a reminder that in a place where names are barters and bargains bite back, some hands are meant to be hidden—and remembered.