Gilnoruil's narrow pupils skipped back and forth over the hooded man's countenance.
"Until the physical marks that those wyrms left on me are gone, which is exceedingly unlikely to happen," he remarked in an icy tone. "I didn't ask to be born. I didn't ask for my parents to cross some pre-ordained line to have relations with one another. And I sure as the Twisting Nether didn't ask to be punished for their mistake."
His repeated use of the word 'didn't' spoke volumes to his stress levels, even though he otherwise was expertly calm and respectful towards Felscythe.
Gilnoruil hurried down the cobbled road leading to the more public streets of the Obsidian Enclave. After several weeks of waiting, he had finally had the note delivered to him, inviting him back to the smithy to pick up his very special order…
It was beneath his composure to break into a jog, but still, he felt a buzz of excitement and hope that urged his steps to quicken.
He really wanted it to be perfect.
Finally, he arrived at the smithy. He cleared his throat politely at a pause in the black drakonid’s work, and the burly, bipedal dragonkin turned to look over his shoulder.
“Ah, just a moment…” he rumbled in a deep, rough voice. There was a loud hiss and a great billow of steam as he slid the piece he was working on into one of the water troughs. He then reached for a well-used rag to wipe his hands on and gestured to the neater customer-facing table near to where Gilnor was hovering.
As the Drakonid joined him there and placed a beautifully carved wooden box on the table, the dragon could feel his own tail as it drifted back and forth behind his legs; the only outward clue to his state of mind.
The box was about ten inches in length, and was detailed with a stylised motif depicting two heads with their noses touching. A dragon’s head, and a bear’s.
The Drakonid smith reached for the box, and with a gentleness that belied his huge, clawed hands, he carefully opened it.
Gilnoruil’s breath snagged in his throat.
Nestled on a bed of a deep purple velvet was the dagger he had designed and commissioned. The scabbard was black leather, tooled to look like a dragon’s scales. Or more specifically, Gilnor’s own. A dragon’s scale pattern and ‘arrangement’ - for want of a better way to put it - was unique to every wyrm. Therefore, when Gilnor had asked for the scabbard to be patterned in this way, the smith had offered to make a mould from Gilnor’s own skin. The hilt was silver, with a stylised wing shape making up the crosspiece, the membranes of which were stunning teal-blue gems that matched the colour of his own wing membranes and tail fins. The pommel was a simple teardrop shape of the same stone.
He almost didn’t want to touch it. But touch it he did, reverently lifting the dagger out of its protective shell so he could slide the scabbard down to look at the blade. It was elegant and curved, and bore a special inscription down the centre, carved from a message hand-written by Gilnor. It had been replicated so perfectly, it was like he’d just picked up a quill and written it straight on there himself.
Yet in reverse you are all my symmetry.
Gilnoruil let out a long, mildly shaky exhale. He didn’t know why seeing his creation come to life was making his fingers tremble, or why his normal confidence suddenly felt further out of reach than usual.
“It is… Exactly as I hoped… And more.” He finally said after a minute of just staring at it. Thankfully, the drakonid didn’t seem to mind that, and gave a warm, easy chuckle.
“It was a pleasure to work on,” he replied earnestly. “Oh and you don’t need to worry about durability. It may look delicate, but it’s very definitely able to be used, if that’s what you want.”
“That will be up to the recipient,” Gilnor said as he slid the scabbard back into place and then returned the dagger to the safety of the box. “Honestly… I cannot thank you enough.” He reached for the pouch attached to his belt and produced the owed half of the gold for the smith, who accepted gratefully. However, before he closed his thick fingers around it, Gilnor added a generous tip.
“Thank you,” he said with a polite dip of his head. “I’d love to know how it’s received. If that’s not too invasive of me.”
Had he been a dragon, Gilnor might have thought so. But he liked drakonids. They were hard-working, passionate and loyal when it was deserved. He regarded the smith for a moment, collecting his own words thoughtfully.
“I will… Let you know.”
Gilnoruil picked up the box with both hands and with a grateful nod of his own, he turned to leave.
“Good luck, it’s a beautiful gift. I hope the special one appreciates all the thought you put into it.” The drakonid called after him as he went back to work.
Gilnor paused, and waited for another break in the clangs of the smith’s hammer.
“I hope so too.”
He really did.
Now, to present it to Halla, and ask her to be his consort.
Gilnoruil craned his neck back, drinking in the sight of the magical city’s majestic towers. They reached upwards like fingers hailing towards the clear blue sky, as if seeking to capture the odd fluffy cloud on its way past. Dalaran was indeed a wonder, just as his beloved had described.
Right now she was off securing them some accommodation for their stay. Knowing he was more inclined to explore, she had handed him the map and invited him to roam wherever he chose.
Perhaps he could fly up there later and get a closer look at those spires…
Thoughts for later, he decided, lowering his silver-purple eyes back to the drawing of the city in his hands. And then realised he’d forgotten where he was on the map.
He frowned to himself, turning about as he tried to work out where he was from the markings. Map reading was never quite his strong point, at least not from the ground.
"A query stranger, are the horns in your visage for your comfort, or for the rest of us?" The hooded man said as he walked up to their table, a flagon of something more akin to engine degreaser than ale in their mug. "Seems to defeat the point of playing pretend."
Gilnoruil looked up from the book he had perched in one hand, his faintly glowing eyes dragging meticulously over the stranger who approached him. His dark brows flattened to a near straight line.
"A draenei cannot hide their horns," he remarked matter-of-factly. "While it is true that I can if I choose to, the simple answer is, I choose not to hide them nor any of my other distinguishing features. If that makes others comfortable or not, I do not care."
He seemed to go back to reading, but even as his eyes drifted back over the page he was on, he spoke again.
"I might ask the same of you with your hood. For your comfort? Or that of those around you?"
