The Writer glimpsed it in his journeys through the various hells, but he paid no heed to it. His tale was about the afterlife and the punishments therein, not the arms and armor of the Darkness.
The grave robber grinned as he left the royal barrow, his pockets full of stolen gold, and dressed in a helmet and chainmail shirt stolen from the now naked, decomposing body of the king. The explosion that followed ten seconds after he stepped into the sunlight wiped the smile from his face and blew his body into pieces. Had he studied metallurgy, he would have known that the armour was made of pure Orthacarium and he would have left it alone, and escaped the barrow with his life.
In the middle of a desert in an oasis is a single prospering oak tree. Near the tree is a large pool of water. Drinking from the water is said to give you eternal life but really only extends your life for as long as you continue drinking from it. Those that have found it and left, have never found it again. Some search for it still.