It was worn away, the splendour absent. It was a simple thing, after all, made for the simple, brutal purpose of war. The leather had worn away, but the mail was in good condition, and the various parts had not fallen, nor had the worked wood given away to rot and allowed the armour to fall. She was no longer the size she once was where she could handle each part with care, so she left it lying there, touching it with the tip of her claw. The gem at the centre of the cuirass’ breast lit up, much like her own, and she sighed.