[ WP ] All attempts to kill the demon lord have thus far failed . But in a small town , a random blacksmith accidentally forges the highest tier armor possible - plot armor . Hilarity ensues .

Plep watched the figure stumble his way down the dusty path. He or she looked as if they were dodging attacks while dancing to an erractic two-step. Plep fought the urge to laugh, this must be one of the Rusty Mare's patrons wobbling home in the morning. 
 
 As the figure twirled madly, Plep guessed from the thick white beard it was a man. He wore dark leather hides over his calves and thighs, and forearms, quite similar to Plep's, though of a better quality. It was the chestplate that had caught his interest. 
 
 It was black as pitch all over yet with a strange gleam that looked like it swallowed sunlight. The man had quit dancing in favour of a lie down on his back. Plep approached cautiously. Birds were still chirping to each other, which was always a good sign, and his old mule Lysa just looked bored. 
 
 Once he was within a few steps range, he asked the stranger if he was alright. When there was no response, he shouted it. He hoped no one was watching, he felt very silly shouting at a possible dead body. With still no response Plep nudged him with his foot. He heard a moan and nudged him again in a manner that could be described as a kick. 
 
 `` Take this... off me,'' the old man croaked. Plep removed the clips at his side, but when he tried to removed the shoulderclip the armour refused to move. 
 
 `` Do you... accept,'' the old man muttered, eyes spinning wildly. `` You muss... slay... the demon lo...''? Plep said he accepted and the armour unclipped itself while he manouvered the man into a position that he could remove it. He took it off and lay the man down again. Wait, what was that about demons? 
 
 `` Leave him, he will be fine,'' commanded a voice from his hands, `` put me on, there is much to be done.'' 
 
 Plep had to admit that the man on the ground did look a lot healthier, a little younger and probably just needed a good nap. True, talking armour was a little odd, but one of the best conversations of his life had been with a drunk throne. He picked the armour up and put it on. Plep was surprised how well it fit, thinking it would of been too large. 
 
 Plep felt good, strong, his vision had improved and he was sure he was a master swordsman despite never weilding one in his life. He marched up to old Lysa and had some very strong words with her, telling her she was a young stallion who could gallop miles at a time without tiring. 
 
 Lysa did feel like a young stallion, unfortunately she was a young stallion who had some very strong views on horse emancipation from human domestication. She turned round and rear-kicked him sqaure in the chest. The armour took the blow, but his feelings were n't as strong. Lysa was circling round, trying to bite his exposed arms. `` You must break her in, and she will be your steed,'' said the armour. 
 
 Plep wanted to reply that he had no experience wrangling horses, or mules that thought they were horses, but he did n't need to as his feet had already jumped when he was n't looking. He landed on Lysa's back, on his feet, found his balance and nudged her into the right direction. The journey was n't that bad, he arrived at a town in spectacular fashion at least. 
 
 As he was about to ferret out some food, a little girl ran up to him and shouted that her family needed help. Plep was sixty-seven per cent sure he had replied that that was n't his job, she would be better off asking the guards, or watch, or whatever it was called here, and did she know where he could get good food. But even before he had shut his mouth he was running full pelt behind the girl and somehow unable to catch up with her, even though she was half his size. 
 
 They twisted round corners, around the backs of houses, even over a roof at one point. They startled kissing couples and sleeping beggars. Eventually, Plep came to an alley that narrowed the farther it went. He watched the girl disappear through a door, at the bottom of the alley, while panting heavily from the run. 
 
 `` You need a sword,'' said the armour, `` and possibly some fire.'' 
 
 `` Real helpful, thanks talking armour!'' Plep said, catching his breath, `` like swords just appear out of nowhere!'' 
 
 Plep felt immediately silly after looking to his left and spotting what could only be a sword handle. He knew for a certain it was a handle because when he looked farther down he seen the sword part. Grabbing it up, and muttering something mean about things that should n't talk, he squeezed down the alley and launched himself through the door head first. 
 
 Landing on both feet after a neat flip, he swung the sword upwards with force and heard it slice through something meaty followed by a deafening screech in his ear. The sword danced of its own accord, Plep an instrument and extension of it. He was still deaf from the creatures screech, and tears were flying from his eyes so he kept them shut while the sword killed whatever was flying at him. This continued for several minutes, with dozens of bodies thudding into the ground. 
 
 `` You can open your eyes, Plep,'' the armour said gently, `` it's over.'' Plep was still crying and sobbing. The sword had sheathed itself in a sheth at his side that he did n't remember acquiring. A soft white glow was illuminating a fraction of the darkness around him, he wished the armour would stop it because he could see the wrecked and mangled forms of bodies. 
 
 `` There just vampires, Plep, silly vampires! They were n't people,'' the armour said, `` there's treasure up ahead, do you want to go check it out? Might be something worth taking, maybe a nice helmet? Would you like that, Plep?'' 
 
 Plep hated to admit it but some treasure would be nice. He wiped his eyes and nose, gave another little indignant sniff then let the armour guide him through the mountains of midnight surrounding them.
