View source for Full suit of heavy invar platemail etched with ancient Dwarven runes

{{H4HItem
| short = a full suit of heavy invar platemail etched with ancient Dwarven runes
| loresong = The first thing that strikes you about the platemail is the weight, which is about 69 pounds. Though wrought entirely of invar, it feels lighter than it appears. Despite it's apparent age, the armor is in truly amazing condition. You cannot even begin to estimate the value of such a relic. You can also tell that there is some type of Dwarven metal in the structure of the invar platemail.

From the pitch of the vibration, you determine that the purpose of the platemail is as a suit of armor. Just holding the mail in your hand, you sense a faint aura of pride emanating from it.

Just as your voice begins to trail off, an image begins to take form in your mind... You see a stout Dwarf standing before a heavy iron anvil, a long-handled invar forging hammer resting over his right shoulder. He is wearing a scorched brown leather apron over a bejeweled shirt of mithril chainmail that hangs almost to his knees. His flame-red hair and beard are both tied back by a strap of leather and thrown over his left shoulder. With a wide grin and a grunt from the exertion, the Dwarf places his hammer on the anvil and hefts a large block of pure invar. He turns toward the forge and... your vision slowly returns to normal.

Again, just as your voice begins to trail off, an image fills your mind. Covered in soot and with glowing embers smoldering in his beard, the same Dwarven smith carefully hammers at a solid invar breastplate. The brightly burning forgefires seem so real that you begin to sweat. The image blurs and reforms. Underneath a full moon, the smith carefully chisels runes upon the surface of the armor. Starlight dances over the surface and the newly-added sigils sparkle. Your vision once again blurs and you see the armor being given as a coming-of-age gift to a young Dwarven lad, his beard barely past his chest. Your vision slowly returns to normal.

You see the suit of Dwarven platemail worn by dozens, then hundreds, of fierce Dwarven warriors. Almost too fast to follow, you watch spiked war hammers crush the heads of trolls, wickedly-honed battle axes cleave the skulls of dozens of orcs, heavy swords impale goblins and hobgoblins too numerous to count, and stout Dwarven hands crushing kobolds by the score.

You see Dwarves dying, too, however. The battles that pass before your eyes are so numerous that you estimate that they span over ten thousand years. Victories, defeats, battles so bloody that none could truly be called a a winner; all pass quickly before your eyes. Only one thing remains constant... the vitality and strength of the Dwarves wearing the armor that you hold before you now and other suits of armor like it. An old saying echoes in your ears, though you are not sure where you first heard it... "The Dwarven People are harder than the rocks they come from, sturdier than even the most ancient mountains, and no easier to tame than time itself."
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