In an age when the smiths of Ulthuan still worked wonders that would be forgotten before the world grew old, the artisan Meiryn laboured a lifetime upon a single suit of plate. The result was the Armour of Meiryn, ithilmar shaped so perfectly and polished to so deep a lustre that a striking blade finds no purchase upon it, sliding away as rain slides from smooth glass. It weighs upon its wearer no more than a fine robe, yet turns strokes that would cleave common steel in two.
The princes of the High Elf Realms count it among the great heirlooms of the Phoenix King's courts, bestowed only upon champions of proven worth. To wear the armour is to carry the pride of a vanished mastery, a reminder of the heights the elves once reached and can no longer attain, for the secret of Meiryn's craft died with him and has never been recovered.
Such a treasure draws covetous eyes across the seas. The corsairs of Naggaroth have raided Ulthuan more than once with the armour among their prizes, and the elves have spent rivers of blood to keep it in the light. Its bearers wear it knowing it is not merely protection but a relic of their people's fading golden age — beautiful, irreplaceable, and worth dying to defend.
The reliquary continues
