It had caused Ayreg to be several thousand crowns lighter, but the forge was his for a week. Leased from the smithy, with proper compensation, Ayreg now had the capability to make good on his promise. The ramshackled-together bits and bobs of plates and mail, like a starter suit for a rookie squire, wouldn't do her well on the field of battle. She'd need something custom-fit, designed for her in particular.

If he had the gnomes here in Rhilshen with him, Ayreg would have likely saved money and toil, and the armor would have been finished in half the time. He could have likely even have gotten them here, if he had sent word to them asking them to come. In the end, no message was sent; this was not to be a thing from the Dragon's Breath Forge to Suliss'urn Xukuth, but rather from he, himself.

The measurements he took one night in the forge's silver shoppe had been copied over from his head to a spare bit of parchment. He didn't need it, though, really; those measurements were going to be burned into his mind as solidly as chisel takes to rock, but it never hurt to be on the safe side, right?

Ayreg had chosen this particular forge in all of Rhilshen because it was one of only a handful that was not servicing the steel needs of the Legion. It was one of the upper-quality smithys, with a forge enchanted in such a way as to make good on the crafting of mithril. Most of the armor that the Legionnaires wore was steel, true enough, but the girdle -- named because of where it was connected at, belted like so about the waist, but the actual design of the piece had it protecting up almost to the mid-chest, and half-way down the thigh -- was Truesilver. That way, it protected the most vital of areas better than simple steel ever could. And it weighed less, too.

But the expense! Jodiah didn't want to know what kind of deal Banedal worked out, but to craft a Truesilver girdle in several shapes and sizes for all manner of recruits to be issued and to be wore, multiplied by several thousand? Tens of thousands, perhaps, in the end? It was economics on a scale that he didn't want to fathom. But Banedal, with his hawkish nose tucked away in his books and ledgers, he seemed to thrive upon it.

Ayreg himself had no such expenses when it came to his supply of Truesilver. The shadow had spent the better part of three months on a veritable (if not low-key) rampage through the deep places of the earth, ripping mithril weapons out of hands and mithril armor off of bodies that she left behind. Or, at least, he assumed she did. He didn't ask, and she hadn't told. She merely rolled up outside the Dragon's Breath one day with a wagonload of mithril. It was more than he had ever seen in the entirety of his life. He could have turned around and sold the individual pieces - a breastplate here, a gauntlet there, a few daggers, a sword, an ornate paperweight, bits and pieces and odds and ends - and retired a ridiculously wealthy man. Instead, he began turning them into fine implements of death.

A varied assortment of sharp things.

And now, with a large amount of it on hand, it was time to craft a full suit of armor. Full-plate, though it would be lighter by far than any suit of steel, and protect better, too.

The elven make it pretty. I do naut want to be pretty.

She had given him exactly what she wanted it to appear like. Function over form. She didn't want fancy engravings or embossed details. No needless ridges or any other ornate fineries.

The actual design of it had come to him some weeks ago. He sketched it out over a blue piece of parchment, designing it from several angles to maximize the effect she wanted.

Beautiful monster, indeed, he thought.

Tying the leather cords of the thick smithing apron around his back, Ayreg put out the first bit of mithril stock onto the anvil and raised the heavy, enchanted hammer.