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| Igor Ivanov |
Mors
Under certain rare conditions, mundane metal will rot and putrefy as flesh does. Mors (also known as Morzt, or Corpsemetal) is the end product of this process.
It resembles aged, heavily corroded iron, encrusted in layers of characteristic black rust. Mors does not exist in raw form, nor can it be produced deliberately. It can only be found: in weapons and armor buried under ancient battlefields, or stashed in crypts and tombs together with other grave goods.
Mors exists on both sides of the veil between the dead and the living, and incorporeal undead like ghosts and shades interact with it as if they were corporeal. This means that they may wield items made of it freely, but also may be restricted by them, like being wrapped in chains or put in shackles made of mors.
This also allows mors weapons to damage incorporeal undead and other creatures that belong to the Underworld. On the other side of the veil, a wound dealt by a morsblade to the living will never heal naturally (track how much HP damage is caused by mors weapons), and can only be healed through magical means.
Corpsemetal armor suppresses the subtle signs of life by which the wearer may be perceived: the sound of breathing, the rhythm of a heartbeat, the warmth of the body itself. Mindless undead will recognize the wearer as one of their own, and even the thinking ones could potentially be fooled by such a disguise. Naturally, most would assume someone wearing armor made of mors to be a graverobber, and treat them accordingly.
While it is not impossible to work mors into different shapes, attempts at refining and otherwise repairing items made of mors reduce them into uselessness. Instead, mors is reinforced by further deterioration, as the buildup of rust itself mends the cracks and notches in the metal, twisting its appearance even further. As folklore goes, the easiest way to repair something made of mors is to throw it to the bottom of a deep well or bury it in graveyard soil for a month and a day.
Rust monsters despise mors and will never interact with it willingly. To them, mors is poison.
With proper reagents, a master blacksmith or alchemist may attempt to purify mors. If all preparations are right, most of the metal will crumble into black dust, revealing the pale white core underneath. This is how albin is made.
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| Aleksander Rostov |
Albin
Albin is the purest of all metals. Also known as Truesilver (for surpassing mundane silver in all its qualities), and often mistakenly called Alabaster, it lacks the expected metallic sheen of its less pure siblings, more resembling white, slightly transparent ceramic.
Albin never rusts, and never tarnishes. Being synonymous with purity, it has the unusual property of staving off decay and bestowing that same purity onto anything it comes in contact with, although prolonged contact is often required for the effect to take place.
If filled with stagnant water, an albin flask will purify its contents and make them safe to drink in about an hour, but most instead choose to put a (much cheaper) small albin tablet into a flask, which achieves a similar result over the course of eight hours. Similarly, albin kitchenware could be used to neutralize poison, akin to a unicorn horn carved into a goblet, although taking effect nowhere near as fast.
Weapons made of albin can hurt anything a silver weapon could, and it is impossible to fumble with one, even if wielded by inexperienced hands. Wounds left by albin never fester: they are always sterile and heal exceedingly quickly, making an albin scalpel any surgeon's prized possession.
Gleaming porcelain-like plates of albin armor are a mark of exceeding wealth, never showing signs of wear or needing to be polished. Although it does not offer more protection than mundane armor, it has the side-effect of making any toxin or disease plaguing the wearer run its course twice as fast.
Under the right circumstances and the careful direction of a master astronomer or glassmaker, albin may be exposed to concentrated sunlight, awakening its own inner radiance and transforming into xanth.
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| GOJUKU |
Xanth
The glow of luminous Xanth, also known as Sunsteel, is bound to the procession of the sun.
As the daystar reaches its zenith, so does the inner light of the metal intensify, shining as brightly as a torch. Once nightfall comes, the glow dims to the light of a candle, but never goes out entirely. This solar connection knows no bounds, and the light endures if brought deep below the earth, allowing one to unerringly track the time of day as surely as beneath the open sky.
Partially composed of the sun's own radiance, xanth is not fully solid. Items made of it are imbued with unexpected lightness, weighing as if they were one size smaller. A sword made of xanth feels as light as a dagger, while a xanthine chainmail burdens the wearer no more than leather armor.
Functionally, the light emitted by xanth is no different from direct sunlight. Vampires and other such creatures of darkness suffer double damage from xanthine weapons, while shades and grues are destroyed outright. A blade of xanth may cut through magical darkness as if it were solid matter.
A metal of exquisite rarity and splendor, xanth has served as the ultimate symbol of rulership and authority throughout known history, earning itself the moniker of Sovereign Gold. The provenance of most xanthine objects leads back to the great rulers and high priests of ages past, and the metal is often found incorporated into ancient relics such as scepters, crowns, and holy symbols. To own and display xanth openly is to assert your own authority, and to accept the risk such ownership carries.
A master artificer or enchanter familiar with the more forbidden aspects of their craft may attempt to fulminate xanth, a process both dangerous and volatile. When the smoke clears, only red and raw rubricum remains.
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| Ami Thompson |
Rubricum
Unceasing Rubricum never stops moving. It has no other names besides its own.
It is as much metal as it is boiling liquid trapped in place, as it is ever-expanding gas forced into a singular shape. It moves as if it were living (perhaps it is), contracting and sputtering and twisting in on itself. It is red, and raw, and looking at it is like looking into a pool of blood, and you swear you can see something moving under the surface.
If you touch it, it's warm as a living body, and you can feel the thousands of microscopic movements on its surface through your fingertips. In the presence of other living warmth, you swear you can feel it move even more.
You have a feeling it's aware of the shape it's forced in, perhaps even understanding its expected function, and it begrudgingly accepts both. Tools made of rubricum strain towards their purpose with uncanny intent: a rubricum lockpick will seek the tumblers on its own, a rubricum needle will thread itself and guide the hand of the wielder with unsettling accuracy. When the exact effect is unclear, treat it as granting Advantage to rolls related to their use.
Even then, only in the heat of battle may rubricum truly sing.
On successful attacks, rubricum weapons roll double the damage dice and take both, adding them together. If doubles are rolled, another die of the same size is rolled and added to the total, and another if the rolled value matches the previous two, and so on and so forth. When this happens, the weapon twists outside its own forged bounds, leaping and turning as it slices and smashes and pierces through matter with ease.
Whenever an attack trying to strike someone wearing rubricum armor fumbles, the weapon shatters into pieces, persuaded by the armor's constant maddening reverberations. If the wearer is willing to let rubricum armor touch their bare flesh, the armor shall forever fuse with their body, becoming as weightless and unrestrictive as a second skin, which it might as well be.
As far as most people are concerned, rubricum doesn't exist. Even those that have heard of it treat it as nothing but a myth. There are no records, no histories, no names attached to rubricum, only hints in chicken-scratch notes in the margins of an occasional dusty tome.
Pray that rubricum never falls in the hands of a master fleshcrafter or boneturner.
