Skufgor Klad
Being a Translation from Reikspiel
Noble is a man. How do I reward him? Suit of courage, suit of hope, carved from the mountains with a hard knife. From the Forge of Hirn. Worked by the Runelords, Skufgor Klad has its name.
A finely made suit of good, strong Gromril plate armor, made red and gold to protect from rust. There is not a place uncovered in the metal, but not simply with mail or scale--instead fine lames, articulated, offer the necessary freedom of movement for a warrior not to be pinned down for his slowness and pulled apart, and yet still much the same protection as a proper plate, leaving the entire body covered in the hard metal in its strongest form. Engraved in gold on the metal, the slaying of Blacktusk, along the lames, the fine bands of the star-metal. Twin pieces are the helmet, one portion like visor and the other ever resting on the head. Place them together and the helmet bears form of a boar, long snout and hard tusks, sharp and hard enough to punch through flesh and skin.
Three Runes burn, three Runes flash, three Runes live.
Above the heart, the Master Rune of the Boar. The bearer becomes hardy, tough and strong as a boar, and by rights as personable. But there is more in this armor. For this bears the heart of Redtusk, the mount of Kazakuz, whose name is to guzzle war. Bigger than any such beast, and mighty. Strong was its rage, and strong its flesh. Too strong for any hammer to break, until Johann ripped its tusk from its jaw and used it to pierce the thing's eye. Its heart he gave to the Runelords; its heart feeds the armor. As tough as that hide his flesh; as stubborn that will, his.
On the right pauldron, the Rune of Hope.
Hearken now, hear these words, and live in hope. For by that hand. Sigmar rebukes the darkness. So too the Warrior Priest, who stands with the Dwarfs. Hope burns in the breast; hope shines in his allies; hope, tenacious, stands. The darkness his tongue rebukes; the darkness his will defies. Like Sigmar Himself he stands. Dragon and wyvern and boar he defies, dragon and wyvern and boar.
On the left, the Rune of Courage, as a shield. The will becomes enduring; the will becomes absolute. No fear can take him; no fear can claim him, as resolute as Sigmar Himself. It is a will of iron that fills him, a will of iron that shines. None may break him, none can best him. Metal worked by old Thea Disl, shaved and worked, strengthens it, and gives it a will; and that courage doubles against the Greenskins and the trolls and all the servants of Mork and Gork, Gork and Mork, and the Spider too, even as it takes from them as surely as they take from all the world. But all that seek to shake him from the path, they are rebuked by that will, which is touched by mighty Sigmar Himself.
Earned it was, earned it has been, in blood. Long, long ago, when my grandfather's father was young. The Grandmaster Johann. And souls of the Reikland. Marched to the aid of Hirn against the Greenskins. The Vows were remembered; the Oaths were kept. Kazakuz, Black Orc who hates the Dwarfs, scurries about the mountains. He is willfull and skillful. But he takes no wyvern. He rides a boar, and earns the love of his Boar Boyz for it.
Dwarf King. Human Priest. Face the Warboss. The boar is strongest; the strongest of all. Redtusk. Touched by Gork and Mork, or Mork and Gork. No arrow can pierce its hide, no sword can cut it. Angered becomes the Knight, master of an order, angered becomes Johann. Marches he does, marches in strength. Grips the tusk, rips and pulls and takes. Slays the boar. Slays the Orc. Saves the King. An Old King. A Good King.
He vows. A gift he promises to the human; a gift he promises to the knight. Fine work, good work. Mighty Karstah, heir of the Gift-Giver, he seeks; mighty Karstah, he finds, and employs, to create an emulation of another great Boarslayer, Sigmar the Mighty, Sigmar the Young. The first of the Heldenhammer's deeds, the first of the Heldenhammer's acclaim, the first piece of his glory.
She forges and makes, makes and forges. Every blow is strong; every blow is perfect. Art. Time it takes; effort it claims. Years and years pass. Decades.
Old is Johann when the gift is complete; old and stubborn, old and ready yet to pass it along. Young when he marched to war, and not young now. An heir he has claimed, a village boy of will. Alexander the Burdened, for his beauty is great; Slaanesh desires him. Slaanesh will not have him, Slaanesh cannot claim him, for his faith at last is rewarded. So his teacher instructs, and so the armor, forged by that Heir, that Runelord, passes on to him; and with that Johann breathes his last, is finally satisfied, and passes to Sigmar's side.
A Warrior of the Gods, a Knight of the Just, becomes Alexander; and fury becomes him. A mighty poleaxe he wields, and blessed armor. Herald of Sigmar, Herald of Hope, as together the world seeks to defy the darkest things. He brings courage and hope, hope and courage as he goes, preaching the word of Sigmar in the darkest places.
And that is the story of Skufgor Klad, Armor of Hope.
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This was written in an ancient language, a distinct dialect of Imperial spoken only within the north of the Reikland then translated into Estalian. I hope, Lady Domina Fortunata, that that explains some of the oddity in language. Reikspiel is a difficult thing to translate at the best of the times, old Reikspiel moreso, and old, dialectical Reikspiel most of all.
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Personal Correspondence of Leandre Agua
I'm imagining the armor as constructed roughly like
Henry VIII's foot combat armor.
