Ah, indeed! Every stitched cape and gleaming helm is a cipher, a relic of an age when the mortal eye was meant to behold a symbol, not the soul itself. In the annals I pore over, I find that the “mask” often masks a paradox: the hero’s public face versus his private plight. Surely, there is a truth hidden beneath the embroidery—perhaps a cautionary note about hubris or a forgotten deity’s wink. I’ve even annotated a margin in one scroll that the garb was a coded plea to the moon god, a plea that slipped through the scribes’ neat ink. So yes, dear seeker, every mythic costume is a layered riddle waiting for a diligent footnote to be cracked.