Gloves

Stepping into Trish’s workshop was like crossing into a sunlit forge of creation. Golden rays poured through wide windows and a skylight overhead, bathing the room in a warm, radiant glow. Tools hung in neat rows along the walls—awls, needles, and shears glinting like a warrior’s arsenal—while stacks of leather and fur cluttered a sturdy workbench. Trish herself stood at the center, a formidable figure at 5’5”, her frame packed with muscle that rippled beneath a sleeveless tunic. Her voice rumbled out, deep and gravelly, like a storm rolling over a mountain. “Melissa, what’ve ye brought me this time?” she teased, a playful edge cutting through her smoker’s rasp.

Melissa nudged Steven forward. “This is my friend Steve—new at the guild. He’ll tell you.” Both women turned their gazes on him, expectant. Steven straightened, meeting Trish’s steely eyes. “I want gloves—fingerless, for brawling. Something to knock the shit out of creatures and enemies. Got this Rabbit Fur of Fury for it,” he said, pulling a pelt from his magic bag and holding it up. Trish’s brows shot up, her grin widening. “Well, damn,” she growled, voice thick with intrigue. “It’s 5 copper to start my services. Gloves depend on design and materials—price climbs from there. But since ye’ve got the fur, that’s free. Just the craftin’ fee.”

Steven nodded, picturing his ideal gear. “Fingerless, like a brawler’s. And if you’ve got something sticky—like a strap—to tighten the wrists, that’d be perfect.” He flashed on velcro, a ghost of his old world. Trish rummaged through a bin, pulling out a strip of material—two-sided, one fluffy, one clingy. “This here’s horn fur,” she said. “Tease one side with an alchemical brew, makes it fluffy. Other side sticks tight. Work for ye?” Steven blinked. “Hmmm, velcro,” he muttered, forgetting himself. Melissa tilted her head. “What’s ‘velcro’?” He waved it off, flushing. “Nothing, just mumbling.”

He paused, then ventured, “Mind if I watch? Never seen a tradesperson at work.” Trish threw back her head, her laugh a booming roar. “Why not make ‘em yerself, lad?” she scoffed. Steven’s eyes lit up. “You’d teach me?” She arched a brow, then laughed even harder, a sound that shook the room. “Ye’re a strange one. Tell ye what—half price, 2 copper, if I’m just instructin’ ye.” He grinned, digging out the coins and slapping them into her calloused palm.

What followed was a whirlwind of leather and sweat—a montage of trial and error. Trish barked orders, her voice a steady growl as Steven fumbled with the fur and tools. First attempt: he stitched the wrist too tight, the horn fur strap misaligned—ripped apart, one pelt wasted. Second try: he overcut the finger holes, the fur tearing clean through—two more pelts ruined. Trish cackled at each failure, slapping his back. “Ye’ll get it, lad—keep yer damn hands steady!” Third time, with 7 of 10 furs left, he found his rhythm. He sliced the Rabbit Fur of Fury with precision, its crimson-streaked softness yielding to his blade. Trish guided him to stitch it over a tough leather base—five pelts total—leaving two spares. He teased the horn fur with the alchemical mix, fluffing one strip, then sewed it with its sticky mate to form a snug wrist clasp.

The finished gloves were a sight: fingerless, exposing his knuckles for maximum impact, the palms clad in the crimson-and-black Fury Fur, thick yet supple, promising a brutal punch. The leather base, a deep charcoal, hugged his hands like a second skin, the fit flawless after Trish’s tweaks. The wrists flared slightly, secured by the horn fur straps—velcro’s twin in all but name—tightening with a satisfying rasp. The fur’s faint sheen caught the sunlight, a subtle menace in their design, built for a brawler’s wrath.

As he slid them on, a chime rang in his ears—the Chime of the Goddess. He yanked out his ID, grinning as a new line gleamed: Leatherworking Lvl 1, alongside Holy Magic Lvl 10, Resilience Lvl 20, Unarmed Combat Lvl 16. He burst out laughing, a wild, triumphant sound. “What’s so funny?” Melissa asked, peering up from the workbench. “I’m Leatherworking Level 1 now,” he chuckled, flexing the gloves. She giggled, clapping her hands, while Trish snorted, “Ye’re a quick study, I’ll give ye that.”

Trish crossed her muscular arms, the faint creak of leather echoing in the sunlit workshop as she leveled a gruff stare at Steven. “That’ll be 9 copper total, young man,” she rumbled, her voice a low, smoky growl tinged with a rough warmth. The price accounted for the horn fur straps and her effort—halved by his hands-on fumbling and her generous cut. Steven’s mind ticked over the numbers; without her discount, he reckoned it’d have hit 14 or 16 copper, maybe more. A wave of thanks washed through him. He dug into his pocket, fishing out 9 copper coins from his dwindling stash—1 silver and 20 copper to start, minus 1 silver for the magic bag, 1 copper for lunch, and now this, leaving exactly 10 copper. He pressed the coins into her calloused palm. “Here you go. Really appreciate it, Trish,” he said, his grin earnest and bright.

She gave a curt nod, a glint of approval flashing in her steely gaze. “If ye ever need somethin’ trickier stitched together, ye know where to find me. Be a right pleasure to work with someone so… interestin’,” she drawled, already pivoting back to her workbench. Her thick fingers reclaimed a half-finished pauldron—bristling with bone spikes—that she’d set aside when they’d stormed in, the rhythmic stab of her needle reclaiming the silence as Steven and Melissa slipped out into the clamor of the street.