A Circlet of Command is sometimes called a Serjeant's Helm or a Barracker's Ring depending on the form it takes. Usually formed of beaten weltsilver alloyed with silver, mithril or iron, it is often inlaid with green iron. In Dawn and Urizen it is often made in the form of a chain or net of weltsilver and green iron, secured at the temples. In the Marches and Varushka it is as likely to be a sturdy open-faced helmet made of green steel, with weltsilver decoration. Either way, it is sought after by serjeants, captains, and martially inclined priests. It grants strength to the words of encouragement spoken - or more commonly, shouted or barked - at injured soldiers to help keep their fighting spirit strong.

Some legends attribute the very first Circlet of Command to the paragon of Courage Korl, who discovered the secrets of metal-working deep beneath the earth. It is said that he wore a twist of metal about his arm to remind others that with bravery anything could be accomplished and that this reminder would give his fellows fresh strength to battle on against the monsters plaguing their land. A Circlet of Command crafted as an armband is often called Korl’s Crown.


  • Form: Talisman. Takes the form of a piece of jewellery. You must be wearing this item to use its magical properties.
  • Requirement: Any character can bond to this item.
  • Effect: When you use the get it together skill, you may use it on two characters at the same time for the cost of only one hero point. You must have one hand on each target throughout the five seconds of appropriate roleplaying used with the skill.
  • Materials: Crafting a circlet of command requires fifteen ingots of weltsilver, eleven measures of dragon bone, seven ingots of orichalcum, five ingots of tempest jade and four ingots of green iron . It takes one month to make one of these items.

Burmoth yelled in pain as an orc blade bit into his shoulder tearing his flesh. Beside him his sister Beate faired little better, bleeding from half a dozen cuts that were slowly sapping her strength. The Wintermark force was being pressed hard by the orcs; sorely outnumbered their line was slowly being forced to give ground and the once crisp white snow of the battlefield had become a crimson slush. The Kallavesi leader had been slain near the beginning of the battle, poisoned by a crazed skirmisher and then peppered with arrows. The loss of leadership so early had seen the usual good order of the Wintermark warriors slowly deteriorate until they were in danger of becoming little more than pockets of resistance in a sea of orc bodies.

Burmoth and Beate raised their shields, fending off several more strength-sapping blows but losing ground. Beate screamed as an orc spear slipped through her guard and into her armpit. Distracted by his sibling's cry, Burmoth failed to see the mace that crashed into his head, knocking his helmet clean off and sending him stumbling back dizzily. He knew that the end was coming.

He was shocked, then, when his blurred vision saw a huge shape push past them both and bury a pair of rune-covered axes into the skulls of the orcs that had moments before been set to end their lives. The giant Kallavessi left his weapons imbedded in the orcs and lifted the pair to their feet as if they were children, not fully grown adults armoured for war. He placed a huge hand on each of them; hands that would be better suited on a bear and spoke.

“Spotted Bull has seen your skeins, little ones, yours is not the time yet!” he smiled with teeth like tombstones. Beneath his bull-head helm there was blood in his hair, Matted and sticky it clung around the ornate circlet he wore at his temples. interwoven strands of weltsilver, orichalcum and green iron with a cloudy green gemstone set central above his eyes. As he spoke it seemed as if a miniature snowstorm whipped inside the gem, swirling hypnotically.

“Spotted Bull will tell you when you can die! Until then you slay orcs until your arms grow tired, then you slay some more and you worry not about tiny scratches like that!”

Emboldened by his certainty, Burmoth and Beate felt the fading fires of their spirit reignite. Beate grunted and hefted her axe, Burmoth untied his hair, no longer needing it tight as his helmet was lost. They resembled the warrior heroes of Wintermark tales, shouting battle-cries and rallying their comrades.

Spotted Bull laughed, pulled free his axes from the orcs at his feet and charged after them with a battle song on his lips.