Father's Robe

Father's Robe
Lvl. 1
Lvl: 40
Trust: 100 (10,070 Points)
Availability: na
Equip Trait
Blocks 4 enemies
Equip Attribute Bonuses
Stat Value
max_hp 200
def 30
block_cnt 1
Unlock Information
During battle, have Matterhorn use Cold Resistance a total of 8 times (excluding Support Units)
Clear Main Theme 3-6 with a 3-star rating; The only Defender Operator that can be deployed is your own Matterhorn


Module Description

In the Snow Realm's coldest season, your mother fell from her burdenbeast in labor pains, where the thick snow cover protected you both. Her groans, each higher than the last, drew the livestock close one after another, forming a circle with her inside. Those livestock were warm of fur—so thick yet fine—keeping the blizzard away, and the hot breath from their mouths and noses became a wall, providing enough warmth for your mother's labor.
You were born, your face so filthy, and you bawled in tears. I put out my hand and caressed your eyelids, shut so firm, my rough skin brushing the corners of your eyes red. I was born with a pair of wide, rugged hands, in which your grandfather took pride, saying I would be a man who could feed his family, but that day they caused you to cry without end.
Then your mother swatted away my hand in annoyance, and I laughed, about to pull my finger away, when your arm found its way out from your swaddle and gripped my finger tight. You see? You were only but the size of my hand, yet you made me panic like nothing else, and I stood there dumb in the snow, not moving a step.
The blizzard that had been screaming outside forced its way into this delivery circle the livestock formed, the red retreating from your skin, naked to the wind, and an ominous purple spreading over. Your mother opened the fore of my robe and pressed you against my bosom. Carefully and cautiously I wrapped it again, as if caring for my own second heart. And your face frozen frigid by the cold was warmed by my body, and finally you ceased to cry, and simply sucked your fingers and took small, weak breaths. Then your mother climbed onto my back, and called for the livestock to return home with a whistle. Their tumbling hides bounded across the gentle, narrow slope down the mountain, and I was like their leader, with her riding tenderly on my back, and you so frail against my chest, though my legs shivered as they sank into the ankle-deep snow. Like I was bearing the weight of all the land.
That robe later opened a hole right at its chest, which must have been from some Holy Hunt or other. Last year your mother unearthed it from our wardrobe's depths, where I had all but forgotten it. Your mother chose to repair it so finely it in the end, and asked if I would still wear it. I shook my head no, saying we would best send it to you. I'm well into my age now, and stoop more with each passing day, but you are in the prime of your youth, standing tall as the mountains, never to fear the north wind nor the icy snow. All else aside, I want you to have it. I imagine you'll look just the same as I did when you wear it, no? So wear it, and come drop by. My chest may be shriveled and dry now, and my robe run through with holes, but it's still far enough to keep a heart safe.
—Letter from Father