Gloves 2.0

Steven pushed through the fog to The Salty Hammer, the docks’ salty bite sharp in the air as the forge’s glow flickered ahead. The clang of metal slowed as he stepped in, greeted by a burly blacksmith—Jorn, his apron stained, sweat beading on a weathered brow. “What ye want, lad? I’m about to close,” Jorn snapped, his voice taut with the day’s grind, tension coiling in his bones. Steven held up a hand, calm. “Just lookin’ to unload some bear claws—heard ye might buy ‘em. No use to me, so I’ll let ‘em go cheap.”

Jorn paused, hammer hovering mid-strike, then shuffled over, his gruff edge softening. “Show me,” he grunted. Steven reached into his magic pouch—past the Dragon Egg still nestled safe—and pulled out the Bear Claws, setting them on the counter with a dull thud. Four curved talons, thick and intact, gleamed in the forge light. Jorn ran a calloused finger along one, nodding. “Not bad—whole, no cracks. Good haul.” He squinted, then offered, “40 copper—fair price, I can grind ‘em for grips or inlays. Take it?” Steven nodded—cheap was fine, quick coin for claws he’d otherwise toss. Jorn slid the copper over, pocketing the talons.

The blacksmith leaned in, eyeing Steven’s frame—the Stormgull Flyer set hinting at a fighter’s build. “Ye look like an adventurer—what weapons ye use?” Steven grinned, slamming his right fist into his left palm. “My fists.” Jorn’s eyes widened, a spark flaring in his tired gaze. “Fists, eh? Always wanted to craft somethin’ for a brawler—somethin’ unique. What d’ye say, kid—want a piece no one’s got?” His tone turned sly, a “take the bait” glint in his stare. Steven’s curiosity piqued, his D-rank pulse quickening. “What’d ye have in mind?” he asked, leaning closer.

Jorn’s eyes sparked with a craftsman’s zeal as he leaned over the counter, his gruff voice brimming with excitement. “Gloves, lad—brawler’s gloves, built for yer fists. A mix o’ leather and metal—small, thick plates over the knuckles, so ye can smash without breakin’ yer bones. I’ll even let ye pick the materials—got plenty to choose from.” He waved a meaty hand toward a cluttered workbench, shelves sagging with hides and ingots, a blacksmith’s trove ready to shape Steven’s next weapon.

Steven grinned, his D-rank pulse quickening—gloves to match his Saiyan Fury, custom-made for punching through trolls and worse. Jorn rattled off his stock, each option a piece of the puzzle:

Metals in Stock:

Iron - Basic, sturdy—dull gray, heavy but reliable, cheap and unyielding. Good for raw power.

Steel - Refined iron—shiny silver, stronger yet lighter, a classic puncher’s pick.

Bronze - Warm, reddish-gold—tough with a slight flex, takes a polish, a warrior’s gleam.

Mithril - Rare, silvery-blue—feather-light, hard as hell, a premium edge that cuts costs on weight.

Stormforged Iron - Dark gray with electric streaks—forged in thunder, resists shocks, a wild spark.

Tidebone Steel - Pale, ocean-bleached—steel infused with fishbone dust, light and corrosion-proof.

Obsidian Alloy - Black, glassy sheen—sharp-edged hybrid, brittle but brutal, a striker’s bite.

Kraken Fang - Jagged, dark metal from kraken beaks—light, wickedly tough, a sea-born rarity.

Leathers in Stock:

Cowhide - Thick, brown—standard tough, a bit stiff ‘til broken in, cheap and steady.

Saltwolf Hide - Silvery-gray—dense and warm, resilient with a soft bite, coastal grit.

Mistvine Leather - Pale green—supple, flexible, tough against slashes, a dodger’s friend.

Wyrmskin - Mottled green-black—scaled and sturdy, a touch rigid but fierce, dragon-kin toughness.

Ironhide - Dark brown—scarred boar leather, heavy-duty, takes a beating without tearing.

Abyssal Octopus - Inky-black—silky yet unyielding, slick and rare, a stealthy grip.

Kraken Leather - Deep teal—thick, pliable, premium tentacle hide, tough as the deep.

Ashbark Leather - Ash-gray—woven tree fibers turned hide, breathable and tear-resistant, earthy flex.

Jorn tapped a steel ingot, smirking. “Pick a metal for them knuckle plates—iron’s cheap, mithril’s pricy but light. Leather’s the base—cowhide’s basic, kraken’s top-tier. Mix ‘em how ye like—somethin’ to make yer fists sing. What’s yer call, kid?” Steven’s mind churned, picturing gloves that’d amplify his brawling soul—leather to flex, metal to smash.