Fate - First Reply Returning to the Forge

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon was in very rare form. He prized himself on beauty, as most dragons did. They were an arrogant and vain breed, from the ugliest tyrant lizard to the kindest wyrm, beauty was a value almost universally prized by dragons. This put blacksmithing low on the list of draconian priorities.

Yet Chaceledon was no ordinary dragon. Like the others he was vain, but he had been forced to forge weaponry for the Volker family. Thousands of years of being forced to do something had made him compromise his vanity for something far more fulfilling.

There was a chilling beauty in weaponry, particularly the rapier he was forging. He had rented a space in a small town just outside of Falwood, and was elegantly folding a piece of steel by hand. He was stripped down, his robes neatly folded about his waist in a frighteningly complex series of tucks and rolls. By undoing these, he could free the sleeves and cover himself. Indeed, one might have expected a blacksmith to shield himself from heat and flecks of steel. Being immune to the drawbacks of heat had its perks.

His hair was pulled up and back, pinned in place by long forks of ruby and brass. The waves of glittering gemstone and shining metal made his copper hair appear aflame. Kohl guarded his eyes from the brightness, though he couldn’t resist decorating his eyelids with gold and red coral dust.

His pieces were as out of place as he was. Fine knives that would balance on a bookleaf’s edge, rapiers light as a feather and strong as his own scales, axes as gifted in flight as their maker. Dragonforged weaponry had been coveted in a past age where his kind had been more common. Now? The stuff of legends hung on grimy walls in a backwoods town.

Humans came to stare at the man working with purple flames that could be felt three doors down. Even the inn extinguished its fireplace when Chaceledon worked. Was he demon, man or Fae? People didn’t quite know. They just knew disturbing him in his rare occurrences earned a tongue lashing no one was eager to walk off.

Chaceledon doused the rapier, his ears listening. Humanfire hissed. Dragonfire sang along the steel as though sirens curled along the edge. He withdrew the blade, and began to grind it.

 

[Kovac Edward]

"Fucking Elves..."

Kovac did not relish being in the Falwood. Not one bit. His father had always warned him of the place. It wasn't the forest or villages you had to watch out for when you were a Kavosh, it was the people. All Elves seemed to have a sense of smell when it came to race, for the most part. An Elf could tell a man from one of their own in a second without seeing their face. And the Elves didn't take too kindly to Kavosh; as ordinary as any man, but more volatile in every conceivable way.

Kovac had no volitivity of course, but old stories stuck, and for the magically inclined Elves, well...

They took no chances.

He'd been kicked out of almost every Inn he'd visited thus far, finding out quickly that staying inside of Fal'Addas was an impossibility. He had to skirt the outer-villages if he were to find a place to stay as he made his journey back to Elbion. It seems he wouldn't get his hands on any 'living-metal' any time soon.

The village of Chas'enial however, seemed far more friendly. They didn't ask questions, which was the only thing he cared about. If it gave him a place to rest his head, and an opportunity to take off his bloody great backpack, he'd ignore the looks.

When he awoke, he felt a heat run through the Inn. It couldn't be the fire, no hearth could keep his room this warm. He equipped himself, and stepped out of the rest house.

As he walked towards the ever-increasing warmth, he heard the ever familiar sound of metal being ground down to an edge. He knew that sound better than he knew his own voice, and the heat became all the more familiar too. A forge. Makes sense, but it must emit some serious heat in order to warm up the Inn three doors down.

He pushed past a small group, enticed with what seemed to be a blacksmith at their forge. An extremely well groomed man, from his first glance. Unlike any Blacksmith he'd seen before. The fire, too, was odd, violet and immensely hot. Instead of spitting and spirting it cordially laughed along with the steel. He only knew fire like that when one worked with Sorcery. It was all too curious, too strange, and he simply had to know what their method was. A Blacksmith's curiosity, if nothing else.

"Where'd you learn to conjure up Forge-Fire like that?" He asked, to the shocked eyes of the onlookers.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon worked out his frustration on the rapier. He made the blade sing and hum as he sharpened it, his pose careful to keep his nails away from the grinding stone. Strangely he seemed more concerned about that than the sparks showering over his inflicted hands and arms. He oiled, sharpened, and oiled again. It was a dance he was well familiar with.

The hilt he had carved from ebony, a strong wood that smelled of coffee and chocolate. The guard was what he had put some effort into. It was a basket guard with tiny Ivy strands weaving in and out of the crosshatch pattern. The sort of thing that would drive any jeweler to drink, if that jeweler had to watch his hands and constantly reheat the silver.

Chaceledon needed no such tools. He lifted a branch of the Ivy, examining it, and making sure the tiny flat emeralds that made up the leaves were set properly.

He heard the question. Chaceledon’s purple eyes looked up from underneath long lashes. “And why would I tell you?” he asked, and blew on the silver branch. Purple fire flecked out from between his lips, allowing him to soften and wave the branch into the basket hilt. The man who had asked was the young, handsome sort that flirted around elf villages looking for work.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

The reply from the man had a sharp tip like a whip, and took Kovac back a little. Under his long eyelashes, the eyes of the man pierced, the purple of his eyes hotter than the fire itself. Looking around the workshop, you could see he worked with fine tools, the examples of his work being extremely well-crafted, far better than anything he'd seen in Elbion.

They were ornate, sharp to a fine edge, details added into even the smallest sections of metal, small plates that hung onto the hilt given just as much attention as the blade itself. This was a fine craftsman. And certainly one that didn't cheapen out on materials.

"A Blacksmith's curiosity, I'm in the trade myself." He said, cordially.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon looked at the other blacksmith. He’d been a bit too harsh, he could see that. Especially to another blacksmith who could clearly identify quality. He set the completed rapier down and looked the other man up and down. He glanced at his own work. Lord knew who he was making these for...he had no clients anymore. Not with the length of his imprisonment.

“Might as well. Gods know no one can afford these and the gold wouldn’t be mine if they did.” he said, a bit sourly. He beckoned the other closer, into the stifling heat. Even at rest the forge belched out heat to make bystanders sweat.

“Dragonforged weapons have always been stronger. There’s a pole over there. Take a weapon down and see for yourself.” The dragon told him.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

He walked into the Smithy, invited in by the well-kept man. He wasn't surprised to hear about the lack of affordability, it didn't take an expert Blacksmith to identify that these were no common soldiers armoury. These were the weapons of myths and legends. Weapons of esteem.

"Dragonforged? I've only had the opportunity to see a shield forged in such fashion once before." He struggled to remember, it had been over 10 years ago. Felt like an age.

He felt that familiar heat pounding on him, as he held out a short-sword he'd picked from the wall. Even holding the thing was incredible; incredibly light, incredibly well-balanced. The sparks of the forge seemed to bite from the shine of the steel. The handle beautifully engraved, perfect thickness for the hand to grip. An excellent weapon.

"Wait- if they're Dragonforged..." It had only just dawned on him.

"Have to say, I've seen a dragon before, and it certainly didn't look anything like you." His mind was brought back to Drakomir, the whole reason he had to leave his home in the first place.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon snorted. “There are a fair many fakes out there. You’ll know dragonforging if the steel sings. Not hissed.” he mentioned as the man took a short sword off the wall. He gestured to the thick pole of cedar on one end of the shop, scarred from repeated beatings. He wanted him to use it and feel how the blade sliced through the wood as though it were jelly. There would be no hitch as he struck, no vibrations up his arm. The blade was part of him.

Finally it struck him and Chaceledon pulled the layers of his robes up over his shoulders. There were eight of them, with a heavy outer layer in golds and reds. It made the other accessories brighter, full of fire and sound. Chaceledon fixed the sash neatly, trying to look as best put together as possible. He didn’t want to show the scars of his slavery to this one.

“Not many dragons associate with mortals these days, dear.” he said. “Especially not in this horrifically cold little part of the world. What exactly do you mean by looking like me?”

Well, vanity was as vanity does. He lifted his chin to show off his beautifully long neck. He made sure his hair was pinned up nicely. If he couldn’t turn a man’s head even as a slave, he’d consider retiring to the underground in a huff.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

Steel singing. That sounded almost too poetic to refer to the steel from which a Smith makes his art, but was true enough. He gripped the sword tightly, bending his knees and straightening his back. With a grunt, he struck the beaten pole with a side-strike, digging its way into the side. There was no resistance through his body, the very steel seemed to wait on his command. He'd never seen craftsmanship like this before.

He turned back to the man, now adorned in many layers of thick, gorgeous robes, the colours befitting of the fire that raged inside the forge.

Kovac wasn't surprised by what the man said. Dragons seemed so beyond any race that stood on Arethil, especially so of Men and Elves. Even the Kavosh revered the Dragons as Gods, their power standing above all.

"Well, I-"

It was strange. Now, looking, Kovac was shocked at how well kept the man was. He liked to think he kept himself well groomed for a Blacksmith, but this Dragon was far beyond that; plucked and with strong edges to the face, colours by the eyes. It seemed he was ready to go to a ball, and most definitely not striking bars of hot metal.

"I've only seen the winged ones." He said, slight wit in his tone. Though the man was very tall, he certainly didn't have a tail and wings.

 

[Chaceledon]

Oh. Well, not attracted to him then. He’d meant it innocently. Chaceledon felt a bit deflated, but not entirely. He tossed a bit of hair over one shoulder. “Forgive my appearance, when I’m let out on my leash he always makes sure I look just a little less than perfect.” he mentioned, approaching the other man. “The dragons with wings you talk about are dragons that are warm, dragons that haven’t had the wind stolen from them. Whole dragons.”

His tone was bitter. He resented being kept here in the cold, where he couldn’t truly take flight and where everything was filthy. He brushed that aside. Who gave half a damn for the problems of a dragon? The one who enslaved him certainly didn’t, and presumably had already locked the bathroom to prevent him from caring for himself after a day at the forge. 17,000 years of antagonistic hatred.

“Try this.” he took the short sword and offered him the rapier. “Back straight, loosen your knees, and put your weight between your legs. Feet like an L, forefront facing your opponent. Torso held to the side. Push off with your rear foot and catch yourself with your former.”

Chaceledon corrected his posture with gentle touches to his chest and back, and stepped back to let him lunge with the rapier as a noble did.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

The dialogue the Dragon initiated into was a sad one. Up until now Kovac had simply believed he were here to continue his art. But no. He had a master of some sort, to live in slavery. He couldn't begin to imagine what that must feel like, to be robbed of your ability to fly, the very thing that makes you who you are. To be grounded like men.

Kovac hated the cold. In the Seret Mountains, the heat of Amol Kalit was lost, and all that remained was a cold, icy breath on the wind that kept you close to your forge. Close to warmth. Kovac felt he knew a little of what that was like.

"A Rapier?" He'd only seen them a few times. His art was kept to less elegant weaponry.

The Dragon was firm and strong, his advice heeded by Kovac. He kept his back straight, keeping his centre of balance, and pushed forward to lunge. Although he felt a little clumsy, the almost non-existent weight of the blade and the quality of his instruction was undeniable.

"Seems wrong. Not to be free, I mean." It became sadder the more he thought of it. He'd heard all the stories from his father, a self proclaimed 'Dragonlord'. Though, Kovac had very little knowledge of what that actually meant.

He stood back, handing the Rapier to the man.

"My father was once good friends with your race. Is there no way for you to, well, leave?" He asked, in earnest. The great Dragons were the wisest. There must be a way.

 

[Chaceledon]

Not perfect, but a promising student. Chaceledon had instructed madmen for centuries; the Volker family were purposefully bred by his master for their willingness to kill. Poor shattered boys chained to the same sick creature he was. It was refreshing to teach someone normal. Chaceledon took the rapier back and sighed, putting it back on the wall.

“I was made for the sands and sun, but the colder a dragon gets the weaker a dragon gets. This weak little flame isn’t a tenth of what I could do. I haven’t flown for...” he stopped and looked down with a sigh. This human had mentioned his kind and his people had been friends? “When I was captured I was young and foolish. I spent all my time at parties chasing around mortals who were awestruck by me. My father was pressuring me to settle my feet on a path; I was too rich and too pretty. I needed a mate of some sort, man or woman. I took a wraith to bed out of sheer defiance. I woke up in darkness and cold...unable to transform or fly. Barely able to use my flames.”

Chaceledon looked at the weapons, then back at the blacksmith. “Take me from this place, back to the sands, and you will be the only man alive to have weapons forged from a dragon’s fire, for his hand alone.” The gamble was out on the table. If this man had connections to the dragons, there was a chance he knew of the House of Peridot, his mother’s noble blood. Even among dragons she’d been a paragon, a great green ribbon spouting acid smoke from her delicate mouth.

Wouldn’t it just burn Oor to see him run off with this one?

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

The tone of the Dragon became sadder and duller as they went on, as if going back to their own history pained them. To think that they once roamed the skies, unmatchable by man or beast, to go and do as they wanted. Kovac admired that, to be admired and admonished. He couldn't go through the Falwood without being deemed cursed or a bad omen.

“Take me from this place, back to the sands, and you will be the only man alive to have weapons forged from a dragon’s fire, for his hand alone.”

"I-"

This was no small request. Although he knew many ways to travel from the Falwood into Amol Kalit, it was hard enough for him to go incognito on his own, let alone with a tall Dragon-kin at his side. Even more than that, he had no knowledge of this strange figure that had power over him. But the weapons forged by a Dragon... they were legendary true enough. Maybe this would bring him closer to his father. Maybe.

"Is there anywhere else we can, you know, talk? I think it would be best if we discuss this properly, if I take you up on your offer." He'd need a drink if he could even begin to figure out this logistics nightmare.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon eyed the other man carefully and sighed. He took down the weapons from the wall, looked at them, and tossed them into the forge like common firewood. The purple flames hungrily consumed them at his bidding, gnawing through the ivory handles and cracking the emeralds and gemstones into useless gravel. The metal blackened and melted, becoming weak like flowers curling in the sun.

Chaceledon looked back at the other blacksmith. “Fine. I’m ready.” he said, lifting his chin and walking out of the blacksmith’s forge without a second look back. The weapons he’d painstakingly crafted looked like blackened sticks, and the minute he left the impressive flames became nothing more than ordinary orange coals.

“Well? If you’re the type who needs swill to steady your senses there is more than enough here.” Chaceledon said archly, and led him to a bar. The bar wasn’t large or impressive, and the dragon was presented with a glass of wine that he sipped, spat back into the container, and pushed away distastefully with a finger.

“Get him whatever he wants.” he told the bartender.

The man hovered for a moment, and Chaceledon’s eyes narrowed. “Charge it to my husband’s tab.” His tone was dark, sharp, and dangerous. The type of tone a woman used when her man came home with the scent of a girl on him. The bartender cleared his throat and looked expectantly at Kovac.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

Kovac watched as the valueless, priceless weapons were casually tossed into the fire- blazing so hot and fierce that it seemed to swallow the instruments whole, all that was left a blackened, ashen mess. It was enough to drive a Smith to tears. But there was to be much more pain ahead. He felt, for a moment, as he felt the heat of the forge banish itself, and its colour return to that of normality, that he may be getting into more than he'll bargain for.

And of all the things the Dragon had said so far, yes, he definitely needed some swill to steady his senses.

The bar was small, but Kovac didn't mind that. In fairness, he never really drank, apart from if he occasionally had to sit in a tavern and rest. Nice to know he didn't have to pay for it though.

"Addas Whiskey." The elven bartender looked at him with sly eyes, before pulling out a glass bottle, and pouring his drink into a small tumbler. Never saw a lot of glass farther north. You mainly saw wooden cups and tankards. But oh no, far too unsophisticated for the Elves.

Husband's tab? I'm just going to ignore that.

Kovac quietly sat down, nurturing his glass in his hands, taking a small sip before putting it back down, the strong smell clearing his sinuses, and the taste killing his braincells.

"Before we continue, best I ask; what do I call you?" In all this excitement, he hadn't even asked their name. How rude.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon waited patiently for the man to take a drink. At least he had decent taste in alcohol and hadn’t just grunted ‘ale’ at the first person who looked like they could process the language. He nodded in approval.

“Chaceledon, of the House of Peridot,” he replied. He wondered if he’d recognize the name. Surely his mother hadn’t let an entire design house crumble to ashes? Though, from the incredible lack of recognition he’d had using it thus far, maybe she had. His brother had never shown much interest in fashion or weapon-making, his sister doubly so, and his father abhorred mortals in all shapes and forms.

“And you? You made quite the impressive claim, that your family was friends to my kind. But I’ve also been away from anything resembling civilization for so long I’d sob at the sight of a decent chaise let alone a claim like that.” He gestured impatiently at the bartender, and the elf took away the wine and replaced it with a glass of something golden and sweet. Something Chaceledon sniffed and immediately pushed back at him. “...That is entirely the wrong bottle.”

“You’ve only been here a week.” The bartender groused.

“I don’t care about the speed of your incompetence, merely it’s presence. Water.” Chaceledon took the offered glass and made a very delicate, almost ladylike, sip.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

He certainly didn't recognise the House of Peridot, but he did know Chaceledon very faintly. But it could have been from anywhere; his father may of mentioned it in one of his many stories, could've been his mother. Could simply be that he's getting his words mixed up with something he'd heard before. In any case, it certainly rang a bell.

"I'm a Kavosh," he seemed to mutter under his breath.

"My ancestors supposedly gained their mastery of the Arcane from your Gods. My father even claimed to be a 'Dragon Lord'. No idea what that is but, he seemed pretty proud of it." He took another sip of his Addas Whiskey. He may not like the Elves, but they make damn good alcohol.

"Kovac Edward, by the way- my name, that is." He stumbled his words a little. It saddened him to think how little he knew of his people's history. Then again, there was very little of it left, either burnt or barred from unimportant men.

He knew Dragons lived for an extraordinarily long time, and Chaceledon's demeanour certainly seemed that of a veteran of life in general. He knew what he liked to drink, and he cared not for arrogance or dismissal. He was happy he hadn't talked like that Bartender. Kovac lifted up his wrists to Chaceledon, showing the heavy vambraces he wore on his arms.

"These supposedly keep me from any 'Magical Outbursts'" He laughed a little, and took a larger swig of his Whiskey.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon looked him up and down, but outright laughed at the phrasing. “Dragon Lord?” he giggled into his water glass and slapped the human’s arm playfully with a frightfully warm hand. “Dragon Lord, what a ridiculous phrase. If we taught your kind magic that is one thing. To hear your father proclaim himself a lord of dragons is something else entirely.”

He smiled and shook his head a bit, careful not to unseat the pins in his hair. “Well, Mister Edward, if you care to hear the details of the job... I am owned by a wraith named Oor. This creature has kept me cold and disarmed for the better part of seventeen thousand years. I’m only allowed out on little excursions like this when I irritate him sufficiently. I tire of the forced marriage between the two of us; he might have genuinely had feelings for me once...but that has since faded. Since he cannot break me by violence, sexual or otherwise, and I’ve outwitted him several times, I believe he keeps me around out of financial need and sheer pigheadedness.”

Chaceledon eyed him. “As you can probably recognize the desert is a long way from here, and I won’t be able to assist you for most of it. I am useless in the cold. There is also another concern...half of my purpose under Oor has been to raise killers for him. There is a chance we will be tracked by Rheinhard Volker, the newest in a long line of sons. If this happens we mustn’t harm him; he’s in a similar situation but has far fewer choices in the matter. I remember freedom. Poor Hardy has never experienced it.”

He ran a finger around the rim of his glass. “I have gold aplenty, as I’ve been able to access my husband’s accounts. So I’ll happily fund this...just know with every expense we make a trail. So. Are you prepared to help me, son of a Dragon Lord?” He couldn’t help but smirk at that phrase.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

"Yeah, hah... funny..."

He giggled awkwardly as Chaceledon made fun of the title 'Dragon Lord'. He'd never really thought of it, but it did sound pretty ridiculous. No man could ever truly hold any real control over Dragons, let alone be the Lord of them. He'd definitely need to ask about that when he saw him.

Then he began to unweave the tale of his current situation. Kovac couldn't believe the amount of things they'd seen, to be forced into marriage, seventeen thousand years of servitude? An incredible thing to live through, to be sure. Kovac had never been in a relationship, so he had no idea of what it was like to be in that kind of engagement but, it didn't seem pleasant anyhow.

After the Dragon was finished, and hilariously referred to him as the son of a Dragon Lord, he began to way his options. He could simply leave this bar, thank Chaceledon for his time, and be on his way. Or, he could go on this quest to free them from their bonds, return them to the skies from where they belong, and be one of the only people on Arethil to have such an interaction with a Dragon. Not only that, to own a genuine Dragon-forged weapon. A Blacksmith- no, a man could ask for no greater an opportunity. And with gold aplenty, what could go wrong?

He played with his glass, looking into the golden, viscous liquid, and took down a gulp of the rest.

"We can't move through Vel Anir, they'll smell us out in a second. We can take a boat to the Baal-Asha River. From there we'll have to move on foot, but... it wouldn't be too long before you'd get flying again." He placed his glass on the table and cracked his back, wincing uncomfortably as he did so.

"I guess we're in business, Chaceledon of House Peridot." He placed his hand out to cordially shake the other.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon nodded, and took Kovac’s hand in his own. Despite them sharing a vocation, Chaceledon’s hands were perfectly lotioned and soft as a noble woman’s. “Perfect. We start in the morning. Bartender. Draw both of us a bath, have my dinner delivered upstairs for the both of us, and have two beds turned down. Fresh sheets. I gave you the oils to put in the washing water, and I expect you’ve used them. I’ll know if you haven’t; your rooms smell like pig piss for a reason.” Chaceledon told the bartender.

“I don’t think you’ve smelled piss in your entire life.” The elf grumbled. Chaceledon fixed him with a look.

“The particular odor wafting from your cheap, rag doll clothes couldn’t be anything but.” The dragon snapped back with a cold look, and headed upstairs. Even the way he flounced away was decidedly feminine, moving more like a cat or a gifted courtesan than a man.

“Hope you know what the fuck you just agreed to.” The bartender told Kovac. “I’d get upstairs.”

Chaceledon’s room had been completely refurnished. The bed had expensive linens, silks and furs adorning it in his trademark purple. The rugs had been carefully washed, to the point where one could use it as a plate. The bathtub had been cast iron, but clearly Chaceledon had modified it to be wider and deeper, to accommodate his tall figure. The water inside was clean and steaming, and Chaceledon added a handful of dried flowers, a capful of sandalwood oil, and a few hints of cedar.

“Strip and bathe. I’ll see to it that your room is clean.” Chaceledon told Kovac, and exited the room without looking at him again.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

"Bu-"

"I-"

"You really mustn't-"

Kovac truly couldn't get a word in edgeways as Chaceledon let forth his commands to the Barkeep, along with his insults too. The response from the barkeep didn't put him off his new found fellowship, but it certainly didn't put him at ease. He wouldn't argue with the offer of a bath and a dinner, however. He couldn't remember the last time he had a nice, long bathe. He would relish it.

He could not believe the opulence of the room he entered, and in the Falwood, that was saying something. All dyed in purple, the biggest and most comfortable bed he'd ever laid eyes on, generations ahead of the cheap boards he'd been sleeping on in between his treks. But the bath, the bath. It was the biggest he'd ever seen for a single person, metal and filled with a hot, sweet scent. One wouldn't need to be the brightest dagger in the armoury to know it would feel incredible on the muscles.

"Oh... I'll see you then." He told Chaceledon, before he left the room.

Now alone, he began to strip in the room. Taking off his bag was likely the greatest feeling before getting in, the weight now gone, he felt light as a feather. Or, he would do, if he could take the blasted vambraces off. He looked down at himself, completely naked, except for two heavy, metal braces tight to his fore-arms. He wouldn't wear them if not for his father's warning. He detested them. But if it meant he could control himself, he'd endure.

He lowered himself into the lake that was Chaceledon's bathtub. It was steaming hot, far hotter than what he was used to, but it was extremely pleasant. Along with the smell, he almost felt faint, his mind wandering off as he left the water rise up to his neck, his thick, rugged figure melting in the pot he sat in.

This was worth it.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon was a flurry in the room he’d picked out for Kovac. The mattress was replaced with one that fit his specifications, fluffier and new, and padded with new wool. The linens were fresh and smelled lightly of lemons and lavender, the pillows washed and freshly fluffed. The floor was scrubbed clean, the pitcher with water for washing and shaving had a small pot of cream, a brush, and a razor added to it. A worn but serviceable rug was added to the floor, the windows washed. Chaceledon stoked the fire in the fireplace so the room was suitably warm, and put hot coals in a small metal box. He added them to the end of the bed, so the sheets would be warm when Kovac slid into them.

Meanwhile, Kovac had the run of Chaceledon’s room. There was an entire armoire filled with outfits. A chest with necklaces, bangles, and all sorts of adornments. Some of them were clearly fresh out of the forge; complex constructions of gold, diamonds, and other precious stones.

There was a small sideboard near the bath, where a basket of soaps waited. Bars that smelled lightly of charcoal and lemon, that formed a creamy foam on the skin. There were several pots of lotions, hair oils, ten different types of brushes, tiny scissors to trim eyebrows, lip stain, and a large jar of something that at first appeared to be pieces of sugar candy. Upon closer inspection they were glass. Glass rods of a thousand colors he used to construct his beautiful nails.

Chaceledon came back in and picked up Kovac’s clothing, tossing them at a harangued looking maid. “Wash those. I’ll darn any repairs, you made a nightmare out of my best socks.” he looked down his nose at her, and she scurried off.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

His complete bliss was interrupted by Chaceledon walking back into the room, terrifying a maid, giving her orders to clean his clothes. Now he thought of it, he'd never actually had his clothes cleaned before. He did it himself but, never a real job. He thought how nice it'd be to not smell like charcoal for once.

He took a brush from beside him and began to rub down his legs. He hadn't even noticed the amount of work your body goes through whilst Blacksmithing, he felt so tense. He must have scrubbed a whole layer of soot off of his calves. To be fair, making horseshoes the village before was a rough and monotonous job, and involved one of the worst forges he'd ever seen. After this, he hoped never to work in one such as that again.

"I'm sorry to ask Chaceledon but, if the Maid is cleaning my clothes, what will I be wearing when I get out?" He asked, turning from his legs. It was a fair question. Maybe the maid would clean his clothes in record time, but Kovac certainly wasn't the tallest man in the world, and was dwarfed by the Dragon.

This room makes me feel so small.

Chaceledon

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon raised an eyebrow, and went to his wardrobe. He opened it, revealing a kaleidoscope of color. Reds, blues, purples, pinks, deep greens and rich yellows. He selected a deep green dressing gown with brass clasps in the shape of eagle claws, and rabbit fur around the collar. The cuffs had emeralds the size of robin’s eggs. Chaceledon folded it neatly and set it on the side board. “I never wear this old thing anymore. Use that. You’ll drown in it, but it’s warm and will save your dignity if you’re that fussed.”

Chaceledon impatiently sat on the bed. The maid returned, a tray in each hand, and set the first down on Chaceledon’s nightstand. The other she approached Kavoc with. She blushed, laying a narrow board across the rim of the tub and settling the tray, a napkin, and a knife and fork on it. Chaceledon had a simple bowl of rice with spiced vegetables. Kavoc’s tray had a large steak sizzling with butter. It lay atop a bed of fresh greens next to a pile of wild rice and slivered almonds, with a steaming roll nestled quietly among the greens.

Another glass of the whiskey he’d ordered accompanied it, and a pot of tea for Chaceledon. The dragon ate delicately, using his sleeve to hide his bites. It looked like a dance; he swept up food onto a fork, brought one wrist to the opposite brow like a stage manager hiding a play, and into his mouth it went.

Kovac Edward

 

[Kovac Edward]

He looked towards the gown Chaceledon had picked out for him. It happened to be in his favourite colour, green. You saw so little of it in Seret, deserts on all sides. When he travelled to Elbion for the first time, he remembered the wonder of seeing fields of uncut grass, and the smell it had. The gown, in some small way, reminded him of those journeys he'd make with his father.

And he was a little fussed. He didn't feel like showing himself off to a 17,000 year old Dragon, the likes of which his family would pay homage to.

A young elven maid walked in with two trays. She was beautiful, as most Elven women were. Strangely enough though, he couldn't say that she was half as well kept as Chaceledon, who looked as if a team would struggle to achieve such results in twice the time. She blushed at him, causing Kovac to shift a little in order to keep his modesty.

But no modesty could be kept at the sight laid before him; a thick, rare steak on a bed of fresh green vegetables, accompanied by rice and nuts, a small, warm roll sitting beneath. It was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in months. And, to top it all off, his favourite whiskey sat beside it. He devoured it. No sense of decorum was kept as he tore into his steak, covered in a rich butter, forking in helpings of leafy greens and tearing off bits of the roll, sipping the whiskey as he did so.

"I'll be honest with you," He said, his eyes almost rolling back at the delicacy of flavour playing about on his tongue.

"This is probably the best thing i've ever eaten." He had a shit-eating grin on his face, and took another sip of his whiskey. Cheerful.

 

[Chaceledon]

Chaceledon looked over at the man, tearing into his steak like a starving creature. He finished off his bowl of rice as neatly as a man could and set it aside. “I’m sorry the quality isn’t as good as I’d like it. Your room is passable but still looks as though a herd of wild horses stayed in it for a month. There’s only so much I can do with so little time.” the dragon told him, beginning to take the pins out of his hair. He had hair down past his rear when every pin was pulled and set aside.

He shed the outer layers of robes one by one, folding each individually into squares and layering them. He stripped down to the last, a thin white robe that barely covered dignity. It was far too sheer. He pulled his hair over one shoulder and began brushing it. A thousand strokes. “We will resupply and head out the next morning.” Chaceledon told him. “I hope you know where you’re going. I’ve not been above ground very often.”

With a soft plume of flame he softened his nails long enough to pull them off. He set them in a small case, and walked over to Kovac to open the jar with the glass rods. He perched himself on the edge of the bathtub, long feminine legs on the floor, and leaned over him to grab the jar. He glanced up and down at Kovac’s naked form.

Kovac Edward