Being a little more upright helped Solomon's head turn a little less slowly, but it didn't change the way his body still wanted to mould itself completely to the bed beneath him. At least now he could look at the others without getting a kink in his neck. Keeping his eyes open was still something of a challenge, but he managed it after Corrival dropped a wet, ice-cold handkerchief onto his face.

"Here."

"Thank you," Solomon muttered under it, peeling it off his face and then pressing it back on more completely and securely. When he pulled it away a moment later, his eyes actually stayed open for more than two seconds at a stretch. "We hit them with a hammer," he said grumpily.

Maybe he should leave the handkerchief on for a little longer. Maybe it would help his brain find the right gear. With a sound that was a mixture between a groan and a wordless almost-epithetical mutter he covered his face again. "The holy water worked best," he said, his voice muffled. "But that's probably not a good idea to just dunk the armour in a vat of it. The reaction'd probably blow up the Sanctuary. Maybe if you dunked it in pieces, though ..."

"We haven't reached the part where we can take it apart, yet," Corrival told him. "Grouse is worried trying might spur a defensive reaction."

Some of Solomon's thoughts finally started moving in the right direction and he muttered a curse as he realised something. "The armour was never forged at the Temple, either. Vile came in wearing it. Which was, frankly, the first and best indication he was something no one had seen before--there's all kinds of enchantments that go into the forging of a Necromantic object, and then he walks in with his own already waving shadows around?"

He grunted again in lieu of shaking his head. That could either be a good thing or a bad thing. It could mean the armour would be harder to destroy. It could mean it would be easier. Either way, it meant it was--of course--unique.