Gall hefted the greystone shield carefully, startled by how thin it was and how light it felt. He’d seen and used such devices, of course. Heavy things of wood and rattan and rawhide, awkward to bring to bear and generally hacked and ripped into uselessness by the end of an engagement. “May I..?” he asked the Dwarf who had presented it as he unslung his war club.<br/><br/>“Of course,” the Fae answered.<br/><br/>Gall leaned the shield against a tee, then took a firm grasp on the club. Raising it over his head, he bellowed a war cry and brought it down with all the might in his heavily-muscled arms.  There was a crashing sound, and the flint head of the club splintered and shattered.  The shield was unharmed.<br/><br/>Fall looked closer. No, not just unharmed. Utterly unmarked.<br/><br/>“Magic,” he breathed, eyes wide. “An I mpenetrable shield, forged by the cunning smiths of the Gentle Folk.”  He lifted it once more, fitting his left arm through the leather straps. “Great are the gifts of the Good Neighbors!” he roared, slamming the wooden haft of his club into the greystone again and again. “Great are their gifts, and great are their names. Death to the dragon! DEATH TO THE DRAGON!”