"Dear, uh, I don't know what your name is. Since you call yourself Drogo, I'll call you Drogo too."
Drogo's eyelids twitched. Drogo too? Why did that sound so strange?
"Guess who I am? The dwarves' finest craftsman, the outstanding Barn Forge!"
Wow. Never would have guessed.
Sure enough, every master in this world was at least a little narcissistic. Still, he was better than that old bastard Soren—at least he didn't call himself "the Great."
"I don't know any of that stuff either—the kind that's hard to write and hard to read, that pointy-eared lot likes to use. Ji-qu-ao-ya, gray-man-eastern..."
A line of words had been crossed out.
"Sorry, wrote it wrong. I actually wanted to throw in a couple of fancy phrases. I asked the Grand Elder, then forgot them by the time I came back. Why should those pointy-ears know it when I don't?"
No, were you padding the word count in a letter?
"Enough of all that nonsense. Anyway, I'm writing to tell you that the thing you wanted, that what's-it-called game console, is finished. If you ask me, why call it a game console? Better to call it an Auto Chess launcher.
"Come to think of it, our craftsmanship is truly amazing. This game console is the second-best thing I've ever made, second only to the all-purpose housekeeping machine I gave my mother. I think this thing will definitely have a market. It's way more interesting than making armor and greatswords. I just don't know how to mass-produce it."
Barn gave his mother gifts. Barn was good. Drogo patiently read Barn ramble about domestic matters. Drogo was good too.
"To praise my own excellent craftsmanship, I specially wrote a poem for bards to sing."
Drogo had a bad feeling about this.
He looked down.
"This