Minstrel's Draconic Gauntlets glitter with dragon-scale plates, each scale a tiny mirror catching lamplight and the sighs of old ballads. The metalwork arches over the knuckles like a horned crown, with brass filigree tracing out runes that glow faintly when the wearer moves, as if the music of a hidden orchestra swells with every flex of the fingers. The inside is lined with pale winter leather, soft as a lullaby, yet stitched tight enough to withstand the tremor of a battlefield drumbeat. On the cuff a subtle embossing—two entwined lyres wrapped around a dragon’s maw—speaks of an alliance between song and flame, a lore kept alive by itinerant minstrels who learned to heal with harmony and to shield with tempo. They feel cool to the touch, weight balanced as a well-tuned instrument, and when you cradle a gloved hand to a chest plate, you sense the old pact: music as armor, memory as strength. In the world these gauntlets belong to, the Minstrel’s name is not just a title but a vow. Legends tell of a troupe that rode with dragon riders, trading fire for chorus, teaching beasts to listen as carefully as they listened to their own heartbeat. The gauntlets were a gift from a dragon-kin carver who believed that every scale bore a note, every hinge a cadence, every rivet a pause that could save a life. Put on them, and you don’t simply fight or mend—you sing your way through the strangling hush of fear, coaxing courage from the air. Their presence on the wrists is a reminder that the world is held together by tunes people share in the hour of need. Gameplay-wise, the gauntlets function as more than ornamental weather vanes; they are a conduit for the wearer’s aura, pulling supportive magic into a living chord. When trained hands move, they kindle a healing song that ripples outward, mending wounds and steadying nerves in a rhythm that teammates can anticipate. The wearer unlocks a harmonic pulse that shields allies with a shimmering veil, and in the heat of skirmishes, a quick strum of an inner pocket of notes can reset a stalled healing cadence or peel away the fatigue of a protracted fight. They’re particularly prized by those who see combat as choreography—supporters who time their notes with cooldowns and line up the next burst of protection as if delivering a well-timed refrain. Market rumors weave through the markets as thread along a lute string, and the Saddlebag Exchange is often the stage for such rumors turning real. A clerk once told me that these gauntlets move between a cadre of collectors and seasoned healers, traded with whispers about which bell-tower district has the best wind for a performance that night. The going rate, I learned, floats with mood and memory; a reasonable tally might rest around the higher end of mundane gold, with rare dragon-scale fragments or a trade note from Saddlebag Exchange sweetening the deal. It’s the kind of purchase that feels like a promise—of protection, of poetry, of a future where a single set of gauntlets could turn a desperate skirmish into a story sung by a village for years to come.