Cruel Chain Mail of Ikalak
| Type | Armour |
|---|---|
| Discovered By | Gareth Highvale |
| Discovery Date | 2024-08-16 |
| Discovery Location | Priotness, East Continent |
| Abilities | Prestige +5 |
| Current Owner | Gareth Highvale |
Description
The Cruel Chain Mail of Ikalak is a fearsome piece of armor, forged with an ancient and brutal design. The interlocking rings are made of a dark, almost obsidian-hued metal that gleams with an unnatural shine in dim light, hinting at a sinister enchantment. Each ring is sharp and jagged, not merely functional but designed to inflict pain on those who wear it as much as on those who strike it. Along the edges of the armor, small, barbed spikes protrude, resembling cruel thorns, making even the act of donning it a dangerous endeavor.
Etched into the surface of the chain mail are intricate, angular runes that glow faintly with a deep crimson light, the telltale signs of Ikalak’s dark magic coursing through the armor. These runes shift and writhe as if alive, their movement subtle but menacing. The shoulders are reinforced with plates of darker metal, shaped like the claws of a monstrous beast, and the chest piece bears the sigil of Ikalak—a bleeding eye, surrounded by jagged, swirling lines that resemble cracks in a shattered mirror.
When worn, the armor feels unnervingly cold to the touch, and it seems to weigh heavier than ordinary chain mail, as though burdened with the suffering of those who have perished in it. The wearer can sense a faint whispering emanating from the armor, the echoes of the souls trapped within its cursed rings.
This is no ordinary armor; the Cruel Chain Mail of Ikalak is a malevolent artifact meant for those who revel in brutality and darkness.
History of Owners
Gareth Highvale, August, 2024 - Present
Tale of Discovery
Gareth Highvale, a young noble and knight of Shadowdale, was no stranger to danger. He had led his men through the darkest corners of the continent, battling both monstrous creatures and the restless dead. This campaign had brought him and his company to the far south, a desolate and untamed region beyond the protection of his homeland. Here, beyond the borders of civilization, even the ground seemed poisoned by dark magic, and the air carried the scent of decay and ancient curses.
The region of Priotness had long been abandoned to the wilderness, its forgotten ruins crumbling beneath the relentless assault of time. Few dared venture this far, for the land was plagued by twisted beasts and roving undead that no blade seemed to stop. But Gareth was not one to shy away from his duty, and so he led his men deeper into the cursed lands, seeking to cleanse the corruption and restore peace to their southern allies.
The sun had long set when they reached the heart of Priotness—a decrepit fortress, overgrown with thorny vines and shrouded in a thick fog. His men were exhausted, their faces pale with unease, but Gareth pressed on, driven by the unshakable sense that something awaited him within the broken walls.
As they searched the ruins, Gareth was drawn to a half-buried stone staircase, leading deep into the earth. He descended cautiously, his sword at the ready, while his men lit torches to illuminate the narrow passageway. The air grew colder with each step, until finally, they emerged into a vast underground chamber.
At the center of the chamber stood an ancient altar, adorned with faded carvings of long-forgotten gods. Upon the altar, draped in shadow and dust, lay a suit of armor unlike any Gareth had ever seen. The dark chainmail gleamed faintly in the torchlight, its rings smooth yet foreboding, and the shoulders bore the unmistakable shape of beastly claws. Crimson runes shimmered across the surface, shifting ever so slightly, as if alive with some hidden power.
A strange stillness filled the room as Gareth approached the altar, his breath catching in his throat. Suddenly, a voice seemed to echo through the chamber—not from the mouth of any man, but from the very stones themselves. It was soft, yet filled with authority, like the whisper of the gods.
"The gods smile upon you tonight, Gareth Highvale," the voice intoned. "Fate has put this special gift in your path."
Gareth’s pulse quickened. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out to touch the armor. It was cold to the touch, unnaturally so, and as his fingers brushed the dark metal, he felt a surge of power course through him—a power both exhilarating and terrifying.
He lifted the armor from the altar with a reverence reserved for sacred relics. His men watched in awe, their faces reflecting both fear and admiration. Gareth knew instinctively that this was no ordinary armor. It was something ancient, something dark—yet it had been placed in his path by the gods themselves.
"This is a gift," Gareth whispered, more to himself than to his men. "A gift, and a responsibility."
As he donned the armor, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and the faint whisper of souls seemed to echo in his mind. But beneath the weight of the chainmail, he felt invincible, as though no blade could pierce him, no curse could harm him.