Materials (items)

Copper, melted and made honest.

Beacon iron, poured into a useful shape.

Essence, forced back into a shape.

Bread is bread, even in the First Kingdom.

Grown round by something generous.

Sunberries burn bright in a town’s fire. That is why the ports still trade them.

Cut straight, the way the old kingdom liked it.

Half a tool.

Burnt wood. It holds a spark longer than you would think.

A basin cut in one piece from the stone, always full, always cold. It heals whoever came down to it by their own way, once a visit.

A long counter with a bowl at one end for coins. Nobody has ever seen who fills the shelves, or who empties the bowl.

Scraped from a burst blister. Keep it away from torches, and from yourself.

Skeletons shed these. They do not seem to miss them.

The Wane grows orcs tusks first. Everything else comes later.

Each scale is a word in a language nobody has finished writing.

A pebble of the Wane itself, set hard. Held against a power, it asks the power what else it could be.

Glass, blown thin. It remembers what was in it last.

The flowers of the open land keep a little of the sun. Brew them.

A cave mushroom that makes its own light. Delvers eat them raw, which explains a lot.

It only grows where nothing is underneath. It weighs almost nothing.

Something that lived before the Wane, pressed into stone. Collectors in the ports pay well.

Light in the hand, cold in the forge, and it rings like a bell when struck.

A stave barrel full of oil, its bung tarred shut. Let fire touch it and it bursts into a pool of burning oil.

Black powder in an iron-hooped keg. Fire or a blast sets it off; it breaks what your pick would break, and the keg beside it goes next.

Someone’s boot. Not a pair.

A splinter of the first White Flame. Cold to hold, and it never melts. Captain Brand, Quartermaster of the Watch in Aldhearth, trades the Pale Queen's hoard for these. It stays with whoever carried it out.

Cold to the touch, and it stays cold. The Great Flame leaned away from it.

Aurel’s steward signed three hundred years of receipts with this. It leaves a ring of frost on the table.

Rock that kept some of the first fire. It is warm in the hand, and warmer the longer you hold it.

Embersteel never quite cools. Smiths in Aldhearth keep theirs in a bucket of sand.

A splinter of the dark that rings. The Choir Caverns are full of their singing.

The stone under the stone. It was bedrock, until someone dug.

Black, cold and very, very old.

Stone the Wane has touched. It looks unfinished, as if someone stopped drawing it.

Delvers stack these where they camp, so the next ones know that someone came this far.

Handle with gloves. Eat with friends, so somebody can fetch water.

Brick fired with a thread of iron in the clay. The Grown claw at it and leave nothing but the smell of hot stone.

Stone caged in embersteel and set with amber. The old Wardens built their well-houses of it; the wells still stand.

Iron teeth for a floor. They know the weight of a Grown from the weight of a friend, which is more than most guards do.

A crossbow the size of a cart, wound by the Home Stone’s own heat. It does not miss often, and it never shoots at a face it knows.

Amber that holds a little of the Home Stone’s light. The Grown hate it the way moths love it.

Cast with the old warning-note of the beacon line. When the rock starts to knock, it rings by itself.

A gate of iron bars, hung on hinges that only open for the names it was told.

The Grown carry it in them, deep down: Wane gone hard and golden, like resin on a wound. Smiths prize it.

An iron-headed bolt for a ballista. Heavy enough to pin a Grown to the wall it came through.

What the Ember Sea leaves in the rock when it cools: a red grit that stays warm. Lay a line of it and warmth runs along it like a rumour.

Iron plates round a crystal that remembers its twin. Stand on it, jump, and the shaft is one step.

Glass the Ember Sea made of its own sand. It is still warm in the middle.

Sap from roots that drank a sky that is gone. It smells of rain on a day that never came.

A splinter of the Choir Caverns. Hold it to your ear and it hums the note it was cut from.

Spun by the Hushwings in the Still Dark. It makes no sound at all, even when it tears.

The Grey Fold’s outlines, rubbed off the rock. Draw with it and the line looks unfinished.

Drops of the First Kingdom’s slag, cooled round in the smoke. The miners counted their wages in them.

Spores caught in old sap in the Fungal Vaults. Some of them are still trying to grow.

A pebble from the Echo Wells. Drop it and you hear it land twice.

Black stone from the Blackwater Steps. Wet it and it bleeds ink.

Gold leaf off the Faded Court’s walls, gone grey. It remembers being bright.

A seed of the Magma Gardens. Plant it in lava and it would bloom; anywhere else it only glows.

A tooth of the Gnawers, worn flat on the stone of the Wormways. It still bites rock.

A shard of the Glass Canyon. Light goes in white and comes out in seven colours.

Frost from the Frozen Dark that never melts in the hand. Nobody knows where its cold comes from.

Letters the Wane rubbed out of the Hollow Library, gathered in a bottle. Shake it and you hear whispering.

A coal from the Burning Stair that will not go out, whatever you do to it.

A red root of the Bloodroot Tangle. Cut it and it bleeds, and then it heals over.

A reed from a pipe of the Starless Organ. Blow through it and something far below answers.

Salt from the shore of the Silent Sea. Put a grain on your tongue and you cannot speak for a moment.

Dust from the stone of the Threshold. The wardens say it was ground from the Seal itself.

Stone the colour of old bone, full of pores. It is warm in the hand, as if something were still alive in it.

The bone of a beast of the world before ours. Each piece is as heavy as iron and older than any stone.

The tusks of the old beasts, gone hard as glass. It takes a temper like nothing else: eight of it, and Hild does the rest.

Marrowstone cut square. Delvers like it for walls: it keeps the warm in.

Elder bone carved smooth. It shines a little, like a polished tooth.

Blue-grey stone with the lines of old tides in it. Hallowmere was built of it.

Iron that has lain under the sea since before Nyrath and never rusted. It is the temper of the second tier.

A pearl as big as a plum, grown in the dark. The old kingdom kept its light in them.

Tidestone cut and glazed by the people of Hallowmere. Every one is laid straight.

A pearl in a cage of tide-iron. It burns under water and never needs trimming.

It glows the colour of sea-glass. Bell-keepers brewed it into a draught that holds a breath.

Glass with the green of the deep in it. The air bells were blown of it.

An ember sealed in brass, still warm after a thousand years. The constructs ran on these; a vault door still does.

It rings faintly if you pull it tight.

Stone that was a sun’s skin. It is warm right through, and it gives a little light of its own.

Gold that set like dawn on the first sun. Smiths say it remembers being light. It tempers to V.

Sunstone, squared. A wall of it glows faintly all night.

What the sun burnt and left. Black, dry, and ticking as it cools.

The petal of a cinder bloom. Hot to the touch and sweet to the taste.

A coal shed by one of the Sunborn. It never goes out; it only gets quieter.

Stone that was never finished: lines where its grain should be. It is lighter than it looks.

The grey, set hard. Smiths do not like how it looks back at them. It tempers to VI.

Unmade stone cut into bricks. A wall of them looks drawn rather than built.

A root of the Wane, cut. It is still trying to grow, upwards.

A loose line from one of the Unmade. It wriggles when you hold it, looking for something to be part of.

Black glass from before there was anything to reflect. Look into it and you see a long way down.

Silver that grew in the dark without ever being seen. It shines anyway. It tempers to VII.

Nightglass cut square. A wall of it swallows lamplight.

A point of first light, picked off a wall in the Last Dark. It is cold, and it does not go out.

What the Unlit leave behind: a thread of the dark, given a shape. It is warm, oddly.

Glass melted with sunstone. It keeps a little of the sun in it, like honey keeps summer.

A torn corner of a map. Four of them, put together at a workbench, make a great map.

A grey stone that hums when it is near a strained thing. Smiths say it takes the blow the metal would have.

Plucked and pale. A hen in the pot is worth two in the coop, the farmers say, and the hens disagree.

Dark and strong. The rimefield herders eat it all winter and talk about nothing else.

Lean, from a milkhorn that will give no more milk.

A rootsnout’s best, after the truffles.

What is left when the fire has had its way.

Heavy for its size, and it has been waiting a long time.

Gold on a red ribbon, a little worn where a thumb has rubbed it. “For valour,” it says, and in smaller letters, “and for tea.”

A splinter of Reachwarden. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.

A splinter of Riftglass. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.

A splinter of Throneguard. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.

A splinter of Ossuary. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.

A splinter of Coldflame. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.

A splinter of Sunforged. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.

A splinter of Nightglass. The Master Forge makes a piece of the set from enough of them.