A more finely balanced sword than this was never made. With this sword, Alcandor of Cothique singlehandedly held the gates of Tor Estara for seven days. Mentheus, right hand of Morvael the Impetuous, wielded it until his death upon the walls of Anlec, having spilled more Dark Elf blood than any other since the time of Tethlis the Slayer. An ordinary blade would be dulled by such a roster of endless war, but this sword has never lost its edge. To the valiant, it lends supernatural speed and vigour; to the craven and corrupt, it brings only swift death.

Imollar was a noble of Ellyrion, and a marksman of considerable note. It was said that his arrows could fly true through stormy winds and still find their mark, even he took but a moment to aim. Upon hearing this, Prince Arathion, himself a skilled archer – and one burdened by a surfeit of pride – challenged Imollar to an archery contest, staking as prize a most fabulous weapon from his own collection – the Reaver Bow. So it was nobles from across Ulthuan bore witness to a contest of skill not to be seen again for generations. As the final arrow found its mark, Imollar was crowned as the greatest archer of all, and Arathion discovered humility – along with the folly of staking his family's treasured heirlooms as wagers in a contest of pride.

The Shadow Armour was crafted with skills now lost to the High Elves. Some believe it was forged in the hidden camps of Shadow Warriors, whilst others hint it is not of Elf make at all, but a gift from Loec, the trickster god. The shimmering armour weighs almost nothing and exists somewhere between the real world and that of magic, allowing its wearer to pass all but unseen by mortal eyes. The first to don it was Prince Temakador, one of the handful of nobles who saw Aethis' reign for the folly it was and fought a bitter campaign of ambush and sabotage against the Dark Elves as the Phoenix Court descended into complacency. Many times did Aethis' agents seek Temakador's arrest, but each time he was thought cornered, he melded into the darkness and slipped away.

In the murky deeps far below Lothern's Emerald Gate slumbers Amanar, ancient protector of the city. Only in hours of greatest need does the merwyrm rouse and rise to the surface to consume those who would bring about Lothern's ruin. The records kept in the Glittering Tower tell that Amanar has manifested but three times in recorded history. The first was during the Daemon invasion, where he swallowed whole a legion that laid siege to the city. The second came during the Sundering, where his broad back held Lothern high above the tidal waves that swamped Ulthuan. The third, and to date final, appearance of Amanar came during the Great Incursion. With a great sweep of his tail, he scattered much of the Dark Elf army; then, ignoring the pinpricks of their blades, he turned and bore the Black Ark Intolerable Delight beneath the waves, never to be seen again. No sight has there been of Amanar since that day, but a single great scale was recovered after the battle was done, which now forms the unbreakable heart of this shield.

This golden circlet, studded with rare and magical gems, radiates an aura that protects its wearer from harm. No mere gemstones are set about this circlet, but brilliantly polished shards taken from waystones all across Ulthuan. Thus can the bearer of the Golden Crown draw upon the magics of the Great Vortex to guard himself from harm. Few wear the Golden Crown for long, however, for the spirits of the dead hang heavy about its brow, and their whispered praises and encouragements would inflate the wearer's pride to epic proportions, driving even the noblest mortal into a dangerous, self-obsessing madness.

The Book of Hoeth is one of Saphery's most treasured artefacts. This well-worn tome has been studied by mages throughout the ages and has helped some of the greatest understand the inner workings of the realm of magic. The very first pages are laid down in the hand of Bel-Korhadris himself; and every subsequent entry bears the seal of the greatest Loremaster of his time. Yet a great many of the Book of Hoeth's pages remain blank: the scholars of the White Tower are aware that even their knowledge has limits, boundaries that must be driven back if complete mastery of magic is to be achieved.

The Elves are justly famed for their magical rings, and the black iron Ring of Fury, is one of the most feared. Khaine once had eight rings, or so the legends tell. Hekarti, Goddess of Magic, designed each of them to embody a single Wind of Magic. Vaul, the Godsmith, wrought them with all his cunning, binding to each a glittering gemstone that shone with the power of the winds. Khaine was much pleased with these gifts, for they gave him a mastery of magic which he had never before known. Yet the Lord of Murder was not to keep his prizes for long. Neither Hekarti nor Vaul had any love for Khaine, and had fashioned the rings out of fear of reprisal, rather than for filial duty; moreover they worried for how the godly balance of power would be altered by what they had done.

Thus did Hekarti and Vaul, whose love for each other could have filled only the very meanest of vessels, then conspire together to see Khaine divested. So did they tell Atharti, the Lady of Desire and most covetous of all the divine host, of Khaine's new treasures, hoping that she would distract the Lord of Murder long enough for the rings to be reclaimed. Atharti immediately resolved to take the rings for her own, but Khaine would not part with them, no matter what seductive wiles she brought to bear. Eventually, they came to blows and, in the process, the rings were lost. To the great dismay of all who sought them, the rings had fallen into the mortal world, where Asuryan's law forbade the gods from treading. Over the centuries that followed, only one ring has been found, the black iron Ring of Fury. It has been brought to the battlefield only at times of greatest need, for no one wields the power of the gods lightly. Fewer still find it wise to so openly taunt the Lord of Murder with his loss.

Bound within this brilliant jewel is the angry essence of Angranir, greatest of the Flamespyre Phoenixes. During the civil war, Angranir was struck down by sorceries meant for Caledor, and neither priestess of Isha nor learned physician could heal him. So it was that Aeldamar, High Mage of Tiranoc, was instructed to save the Phoenix's spirit, so that the noble bird's light could bring hope to Ulthuan for long years to come. Alas, by then, all that remained of Angranir was a burning brand of magic which, while formidable of temperament, now lacked any of the firebird's intelligence or majesty. Nonetheless, Aeldamar did as he was bid, and preserved the enchanted flame within a many faceted topaz. Mindless still, Angranir's fire lends its heat to the fires wielded by the bearer.

In the days of his youth, Moranion – of Athel Tamarha – wandered the realm of Yvresse as one of its Mistwalkers. Few could tread the fog-wreathed paths as surely as he, for he bore a wayshard attuned to the great watchstone at the realm's heart. Thus did Moranion walk the Daemon-haunted mists as easily as he would have done under clear skies, leading ambushes of spear and bow to destroy the invaders. Though Moranion now sleeps eternally, his wayshard still glimmers with power. Those who can unlock its secrets will never again find themselves lost, no matter how far they might stray.

For millennia the High Elves have fought bitterly against the Dwarfs, collecting beards as a token payment for their black theft of the Phoenix Crown and weaving them into a cloak that mocks and scorns the Dwarfs with its existence. To many High Elves, the Cloak of Beards is a relic of an unhappy hour. But, for a few, notably those whose ancestors fought in Caledor's final battle against Gotrek Starbreaker, it is a valued reminder of the perfidiousness of Dwarfs. This latter group ensure that the Cloak of Beards is never lost: indeed, with every generation, it grows longer and more fulsome, as more beards are seized and woven into its folds. Now, its power is such that its mere presence subverts prideful Dwarfen works. Such is the enmity focussed in this item that Dwarf runes, the pride of their race, are drained of their power if they come too close.

Elven legends tell that Draugnir, Father of Dragons, was welcomed in Asuryan's court as an equal, for mortal Elves and gods alike were awestruck by his might and nobility. Alas, not all the Elven pantheon were so enamoured. Anath Raema, sister to Khaine and goddess of the savage hunt, saw him as nothing more than an upstart beast to be harried and hunted as any other. Taking up her spear, she pursued the Dragon through the heavens. The contest that followed shook the world to its core, roaring even wise Asuryan from contemplation. The Creator halted the battle, but came too late to save Draugnir, whose wounds were beyond healing. With a single word, Asuryan banished Anath Raema to the Mirai forevermore. From the corpse of his fallen friend, he worked to create a new land where Elves and Dragons could live in peace, beyond the jealousies of the gods. From Draugnir's bones, he forged Ulthuan's mountains, and from the Dragon's flesh he created its broad plains. Draugnir's glittering scales Asuryan gave into the keeping of Isha. She, in turn, passed them to her mortal children, the Elves, who wrought many fabulous works with them, chief amongst them a mighty standard, woven with silver and hung with gems of all shapes and hues. It is made of the finest silks and cloth of gold, with a thousand emerald Dragon scales that sparkle in the firelight. This Banner of the World Dragon endures to this day, a reminder not only of the bond between the Elves and Dragons, but also of that which binds both races to their ancestral home.