One
Ligrog Dale was young when she had her first taste of war.
It was a tang that lived on her palate for many years, the scars criss-crossing her body a testament to its ever-hungry bite. And for every scar, there was a story– a weapon whose fangs had ripped at her, a victory or retreat.
And now, all of that was behind her. She had the fortune– and infamy– to show for it, but what mattered to her now was moving on.
The dwarven city of Vasos did not lack blacksmiths– after all, their lore was stuffed to the brim with their exploits of metal and stone– but Dale hoped she could still offer something new to those of the realm beyond. She rubbed at the blackened ring that held her wave of jet curls aloft, remembering every groove worn into its former shape by violence.
If it could be forged anew, so could she.
Dale steeled herself, approaching the outer doors of the city’s consulate offices. She had an appointment, after all, and an old friend would hopefully not keep her waiting. She studied herself in the shimmering glass window pane ahead: same old brown leather adventuring gear, straps and cuffs around both arms, cloth wraps at her wrists, her sage green warpaint tattoo across her nose and cheeks catching light against her mauve skin. It wasn’t exactly court couture, but it would do.
The halls within were lavishly decorated, with deep sapphire drapes billowing along each wall, accented here and there with locked clasps of silver. The doorways beyond were mostly open, letting the warmth of the day spread through the rooms. Voices rose from here and there, but Dale walked with confidence toward one particular nameplate.
She hoped, at least, that her outward confidence would hide the nerves that rattled within her. He’d keep his promise, right?
Yorven Stonelock stood against his desk, perusing a small stack of papers. His sandy blonde hair had hardly changed over the years, though his short beard was now speckled white. It was surely a shock for other dwarves here in the city; it had always been a topic of conversation amongst their hunting
crews, how a dwarf should own a beard as long as his legacy. Yorven didn’t care then, and apparently didn’t now.
Dale watched and waited, leaning against the doorframe.
“Uhh, miss?” A small voice called as a young dwarf hurried towards her, parchment and quill at the ready. “You need to check in before walking the offices. Er, what’s the name?”
“Ligrog Dale,” she replied with a flourish, “Great Defender, Battlemaster of the Verdant Hunt, Wight Killer, Breaker of the Icened Throne, need I go on?”
Yorven turned from his papers with a grin. “She’s got an appointment, sign her off.”
The young dwarf gulped, scribbling down only half of the words. “Yes sir.” She hurried away.
“Now,” Yorven started, offering Dale a seat, “when did you kill a wight? I seem to recall taking that one down.”
“Eh,” she said, settling into the much-too-short chair, “we might have all gotten a final blow.”
“That’s the exact opposite of the meaning of final. It’s the last one. But I digress: you didn’t come here to talk about battles, did you?”
Dale leaned forward, her elbows against her knees. “No, I didn’t. I came to call on that promise.”
“Oh, this ought to be good,” he sighed, tossing the papers onto the lacquered desk. “Look, you helped get me into power, but I can’t tell every guard to knock it off–”
“No no,” she cut him off, “I want to… start a business of my own.”
Yorven’s eyebrow raised. “A business?” He seemed to stifle a laugh. “Not built around killing things?”
“No,” she hesitated, the years of trained facade falling away, “redemption instead. Helping. Healing, even.”
His smile lingered as his eyes swept across his desk. Ligrog’s words hung in the air, ushered along by a lengthy silence, before he met her gaze again.
“Let me see what I can do.”
Melody K. Writes Words 