Mimic Gloves

Lore

There are some who speak only with their hands, and others who speak louder through silence. But those who wear Mimic Gloves speak in ways that defy straight paths and honest echoes.

Crafted from the hides of small cave-dwelling creatures known as echobats, and stitched with soot-dyed silk that absorbs more than just light, these gloves carry no visible enchantment. They pass easily for any worn pair—creased at the knuckles, oiled from use, maybe even patched at the palm. And yet, when a voice is whispered into their grip, the air listens.

The enchantment is a subtle one. Mimic Gloves do not create sound, nor do they preserve it in any fixed form. Rather, they shape it—taking a whisper, a hum, a muttered phrase, and allowing it to twist, stretch, fragment, or repeat. A skilled user can cradle a sound between cupped palms and hurl it like a stone across a silent hall. It may bounce from stone arch to corridor wall, arriving as a snicker in the rafters or the hiss of argument behind a locked door.

The trick is not only in throwing the sound, but in throwing intention. A trained spy might simulate a two-person conversation in a sealed vault. A bard might cast the sound of applause across a room just as their performance begins. Children have frightened each other for decades with the illusion of voices rising from wells or door cracks. And in wartime? More than one commander has chased ghosts through tunnels chasing sounds that led nowhere.

Though the gloves are sold openly in some markets—particularly in bardic cities where such minor enchantments are commonplace—true mastery takes patience. The wearer must learn to breathe into the gloves, to feel the way their own voice curls in the space between their fingers. New users often struggle to control range or pitch, sending a whisper straight into their own boots rather than over a wall. But with time, the hands learn to echo.

Despite their many uses, Mimic Gloves are rarely considered dangerous in the traditional sense. They cannot injure, blind, or bind. They do not enchant the mind. But sound, placed well and timed just so, has caused more chaos than most spells ever could.

It is said that in the deep places, beneath old keeps and ruined observatories, the air still carries fragments of things once whispered, flung like stones and forgotten. Not spells, not ghosts—just echoes, circling still, waiting for another voice to join them.