The words that Shadrach had spoken to Jirah the prophet caused a rage in him. Jirah was proud of who he was, a desert prince, a seer, an ambasador amongst the desert tribes a nobleman! But to be told that he was none of that, just a worshipper of demons and misguided solar had pushed Jirah to the edge of his temperment. The words of a fool should not affect a man such as hebut they had. Jirah would no longer talk to the fool Shadrach, but as he had promised to him that he would make him a suit of armour , and on his word to do all that he could to protect creation and the other solars he would make only the finest armour for him.
Two whole days of labour he spent in the smithy of Braxus’s manse, the rage in him fuelling the flames of the forge that no mortal could step inside the forge itself. Then came the visions, the calm and beatiful nature of Harnust destroyed, a healer and priest nailed to a cross as his body burnt by dragon blooded elemental fires. Meyimar a woman of great beauty but a wily warrior of the dawn, risking all to save her family from the fury of the wyld hunt as they sought her in her village home to the north. Only to be struck down by an inablitly to fight, the laughter as the hunt took her head as a trophy and killed all in the village as conspirators. And Tsunachen a simple man of the land newly exalted taken from his family screaming in grief and rage, then silenced by a simple thrust of a blade to his heart.
Jirahs heart broke, three tears for each fell on the breastplate of the armour the pain of their passing like the loss of his own family. He had watched these three through their dreams, and there greatness would be missed. Jirah is called to meet with the fool Shadrach, but his grief had exhausted him. Shadrach presented himself onhis knees before the prophet and begged his forgiveness.
Jirahs only answer, “It is not mine to give.” Nine tear shaped sapphires mark the golden plate over the left breast of the armour. Though they stand out from the plain and unadorned armour they seem to complete the perfect golden suit of Oriachalcum. The gems seem when looked upon, to be in three distinct sets, like wet tears fallen onto the armour itself. They sit perfectly within the breast plate of the armour, even the hands of a blind silk weaver would not feel a blemish! Strangely the gems themselves look moist, like tears upon the heart of the wearer.
The armour itself is perfect! No blemish marks it’s surface, it’s lustre deep and rich. Although it is plain and unadorned, it marks it’s wearer as one of the unconquered suns chosen.
As the sunlight glints from the armour three names can be seen faintly alongside the gems.
The armour of the righteous man, quenched in the tears of a prophet.