Berserker's Sneakthief Gloves of the Grove cling to the wrist like a second skin, supple mahogany leather dark as a forest pool, with leaf-vein etchings in a lighter green that glints when the sun hits them just right. The backs are stiffened with a whisper-thin plate of burnished bronze, not bold enough to crack a rush, but enough to catch a raindrop and hold it to reflect a tiny shard of light. The palmed surface carries a fine, braided texture—grippy enough to keep a dagger steady yet soft enough to let your fingers feel through a lock’s dust like a librarian caressing a book. On the inside, a lining of moss-tinted cloth breathes with the wearer's pace, releasing a faint, earthy scent that speaks of forests long untraveled. Across the knuckles run small runic sigils, half-hidden by shadows, the Grove’s emblem curling around them as if vines had learned to write. They are a paradox: berserker's raw urge tempered by the Sneakthief’s patient thumb, a blade that sings when it should stay silent, a glove that makes your footfalls lighter because your hands move with intent rather than impulse. In the field, their charm shows up not as a triumphal shout but a quiet hinge. Worn by scouts slipping through thornbush littorals or by outriders who need to pull a lever, bypass a trap, or palm a coin purse without rousing a scream, the gloves feel like a pact with the grove itself. The leather remembers every tug of a quick grappling hook, every half-step onto a hidden stair, every whispered word exchanged in a camp’s dark corner. The Grove’s lore—an older, wiser engine of roots and memory—seems to seep from the stitching, nudging you toward restraint even as your heart wants to rush. It’s a gear piece that invites a larger story: one of pilgrims who learned to be invisible so they could defend what mattered, of a forest faction that values silence as much as strength, of a world where the best blow lands when no one sees it coming. Meanwhile the market hums with its own gravity. Traders speak in measured breaths about demand for Grove-touched gear, and at Saddlebag Exchange the gloves move between hands like traded relics—priced for those who can read the telling gleam in a buyer’s eye and the cautious nod of a seller who doesn’t want to tempt fate. A well-kept pair can fetch a respectable sum, while a worn specimen tells tales of long races through rain-soaked lanes and narrow escapes that earned a gloved hand a second chance. They are more than equipment; they’re a memory of the grove’s whispering guardians. If you ever find yourself gliding past a shadowed doorway with a telling silence in your steps, you’ll know these gloves belong to the moment when power and prudence decide to walk together.