>>5267366“What make is this?” you demand. “Where were they crafted, and by what race?”
“Elfin lands, Oh Dragonborn,” the submissive male provides quickly, not looking up.
You admire the haft of the longbow, a peculiar design with a shield-like hand-guard and reinforcements along the bow itself. It is fine, gracile, yet as you flex it you can feel the bow test you in kind. IT will require strength to wield, for it is strong… And it LOOKS magnificent.
“I will take it,” you declare, and the seller-of-goods seems to delight, while you hear others hiss and croak in quiet annoyance at your choice of his wares over theirs.
“I will also take your finest blade,” you say, “by these same elves, if possible.
The smaller male skitters away with the tip-tapping of tiny talons, and returns bearing a fine, wide-bladed sword that’s seems styled after some sort of… Feather? Leaf? You have precious little experience with either, but the blade is a fine silver—almost white—and its hilt is gold. It is regal, you decide. A you slice and stab at the air, narrowly missing the merchant, you find its weight and size also appropriate to you, though in your great hand it is almost a short-sword; to anyone smaller, it would be a two-handed blade.
“This will do,” you say, and leave. The bill will be presented to the Chaplain or his subordinates—you do not trouble yourself with coins, ration-cards, or other such nonsense.
Your next stop is a proper Reptilian smith—a Dragonblooded One, distant and less-auspicious cousin to your own noble self. From him, you requisition armour worthy of a Lord of Lizards, a marching Prince on a holy mission to reassert True Royalty upon rebellious slaves who have forgotten their place.
“It will weigh you down, designed as you have requested,” he says, a bit bolder than those lesser Reptilians you cowed. “The projections will catch on cave-walls.”
“It will be the weight of AUTHORITY,” you say with confidence that you increasingly feel in your heart, as you imagine the figure you will cut. “It will project DOMINION.”
“As you say, oh Dragonborn,” he acknowledges, and sets to work, taking your measurements and then beginning the processes of modifying existing amour to meet your specific requirements; even for such a project, nothing goes to waste.
You lean against a wall, admiring your blade, and even the new sheathe—made from some sort of plant-based quasi-leather, you are told. It is a true work of art. How did grimy mammals make such a thing?! You wonder if you should expect commensurate mastery in the art of war, from the outcast elves who you have been told dwell between here and the heretic kobolds…
“Don’t you think you’re being a little over-the-top?”
