Armaments:

In Everwealth, relics of war are not curiosities; they are myths cast into iron, curses hammered into gold, legends too heavy for the earth to bury. These armaments are not forged merely to kill, but to embody a covenant between power and consequence. Each is remembered by name, whispered in sagas, and feared in equal measure by kings and commoners alike. The Falling Star, a morningstar of Pyrrhium, drinks momentum with every swing until it crashes like a fragment of the heavens, but should the wielder miss, that same fury shatters bone inward. The Witchplate Armor, a black suit of Mire-Iron finery, deceives with its knightly grandeur even as briars of cursed metal coil inward, knitting valor into a slow, bleeding tomb. The Crucible Spear, wrought around a phoenix’s remains and caged in gold and silver, burns with borrowed divinity, healing its wielder even as it devours their soul. There are others: blades that still hum with the voices of their makers, helms that dream of battles yet to come, shields that have never broken but whose bearers always do. Such relics are not abandoned to time; they are sealed in crypts, guarded by covens, or locked in the vaults of faith and crown. To wield one is to become a story, but in Everwealth, stories are written in blood.