To be honest, ever since Barn came of age at eighty, he had never brought another male home. It felt a little strange. Dwarven gatherings were generally held in taverns.
Drogo was a male dragon, though—a different species. That should be fine, Barn thought.
But speaking of taverns, he had heard that some people in the city liked "making friends" with members of the same sex. Objectively speaking, he respected cultural diversity. Subjectively speaking, he was scared out of his wits.
After that, he hardly ever went to taverns with lots of humans. They were too damned creepy. He would rather face the underground worms in the mines.
Sometimes, he even saw those people gathering and marching in the streets, seemingly promoting their beliefs—saying that every work of art should include elements representing minority groups.
That scared him even more.
Fortunately, they were not much of a force yet. But if one day they grew numerous and powerful, and actually succeeded—if he was still alive by then, he would have to give himself a hammer blow.
That would never happen.
Probably.
Barn led Drogo through Forgehold, winding this way and that until they arrived before a small house.
It was Drogo's first time observing a dwarven residential district from this angle.
Before, he had always looked down on it after smashing through the city gates, and he had never had time to inspect it closely. Mainly because things between him and the dwarves had been a little "unpleasant" at the time.
Dwarven nobles were a little different from nobles of other races. Even after piling up mountains of wealth, they still went down into the mines personally. Maybe mining was addictive.
Forgehold's city planning could only be described as a complete mess. All kinds of little houses were crammed together