When the day's work was done, Northern turned to other things — chief among them, an armor of his own. That ambition died fast. All he had to build from was the blueprint in his head, and the blueprint asked for the one thing he couldn't yet make: armor that changed its form on command.
There was a gap between what he could forge and what a Drifter received from Ul, and this was the heart of it. An Armor-type item won from a slain monster never outgrew its owner. It fit until the day it shattered, no matter how the body beneath it grew or changed over the years.
Northern's armors were still bound to size. He'd learned that the expensive way — willing several finished pieces to transform, then watching them sit useless on the workbench afterward, warped a fraction out of true and refusing to fit the frame they'd been forged for. Good metal, wasted, one plate after another.
