Armor (items)

Stitched by a Skywarden who never earned her wings. Press jump again in the air.

Two more jumps in the air. The Shardwaste gives these to people it wants to watch fall.

Warm in the sun, loud in the dark.

A stone older than the Flame, cut with a mark like an open door. It remembers whoever stands beside it.

Essence-forged. Grown claws slide off it.

Keeps the rain off and most of the teeth.

Flameguard pattern. The visor was made by someone who hated seeing.

Pigment-forged. It hums near the Grown.

Loud on stone.

Delvers wear these to kick ore loose.

Light as ash.

The hares near Aldhearth grew back in a hurry. Their skins still want to run.

A candle behind glass, bolted to a helmet. Delvers swear by it and at it.

Rime-glass scales, stitched with frozen sinew.

Warm. Always warm. Delvers sleep in it.

Woven from the static of the Shardwaste. Your hair stands up.

Worn by those who went into the Unlit Reach and came back quieter.

You can see your breath inside it.

It has no eyeholes. You see anyway.

They leave frost prints.

They leave no prints at all.

The king of a drowned town wore it when the water came. He is still wearing it, somewhere.

They step half into the Wane with every stride, and come back.

A lantern welded to a helmet. Crude, bright, beloved.

She was a queen before the Second Crown made her its own. The crown remembers the first part.

Delvers say you can hear the Ember Sea in it, like a shell.

Heavy, warm, and nothing down there has teeth enough for it.

Embersteel plates over a lining of ember dust and basalt felt. The Ember Sea takes you for one of its own, for a while.

Lantern-bearers of the Unlit Reach wore it where no other light reached.

Glass from the rifts' deepest floors, still folded the way the rift was.

The guard of a throne the Wane sat on. It kept the throne; it did not keep the king.

Grown bone, the hardest there is, taken from the great ones of the bands below.

Forged in the White Flame's cold fire, the one the Pale Queen kept.

Beaten out on the skin of the buried sun. It is still warm, and always will be.

Black glass from the bottom of everything. It gives back no light, and keeps a little of yours.

Sergeant Hale’s. He stood his post. His family kept these anyway.

A little crooked, with a feather from the marsh. It was made by somebody whose hands remembered how.

Iron and a pane of glass, sealed with pitch. The pearl-divers of Hallowmere wore these, before the sea came up to meet them.

Lantern-bearers of the Unlit Reach wore it where no other light reached.

Glass from the rifts' deepest floors, still folded the way the rift was.

The guard of a throne the Wane sat on. It kept the throne; it did not keep the king.

Grown bone, the hardest there is, taken from the great ones of the bands below.

Forged in the White Flame's cold fire, the one the Pale Queen kept.

Beaten out on the skin of the buried sun. It is still warm, and always will be.

Black glass from the bottom of everything. It gives back no light, and keeps a little of yours.

Lantern-bearers of the Unlit Reach wore it where no other light reached.

Glass from the rifts' deepest floors, still folded the way the rift was.

The guard of a throne the Wane sat on. It kept the throne; it did not keep the king.

Grown bone, the hardest there is, taken from the great ones of the bands below.

Forged in the White Flame's cold fire, the one the Pale Queen kept.

Beaten out on the skin of the buried sun. It is still warm, and always will be.

Black glass from the bottom of everything. It gives back no light, and keeps a little of yours.