In Thelsamar

When he woke up that morning, Diago went to the inn's common room for breakfast. To his surprise, Thelsamar's gryphon master, Soggram Boryson, was there too. The red-bearded dwarf looked pale and utterly haggard-the old drunk must have had too much again yesterday.

"Hey, Soggram, things certainly got lively last night," he said familiarly as he walked over and sat opposite the gryphon master. "Care for a drink?"

Soggram widened his still somewhat hungover eyes, but he clearly did not recognize this seemingly friendly human. That left him rather ashamed, particularly as a hospitable dwarf.

"Nadella, two dwarven stouts!" Diago snapped his fingers and called loudly to the landlady.

"That hardly seems appropriate. It's only morning," the gryphon master said, looking a little embarrassed. Yet his eyes remained fixed on the landlady drawing beer from the keg. In truth, for dwarves who loved drinking as much as life itself, the time was never an issue. Plenty of them were unconscious as soon as breakfast was over.

"Vedra, remember to skim off the foam!" he shouted.

"Oh, come on, Soggram," Diago said casually, deliberately egging the dwarf on. "Back in the day, you could down an entire barrel of Thunder Ale and still ride a gryphon to Ironforge and back."

"That's true!" Soggram burst out laughing. It was the most impressive thing he had done in his entire life, and he had boasted about it over drinks more than once.

"Could we ride your gryphons? I'd like to go to Ironforge," Diago asked after clinking mugs with the dwarf a few times. Dwarves always liked to get straight to the point rather than beat around the bush, and you had to speak to them the same way. "My friend and I came from Menethil Harbor, and we've walked every step of the way. I'll bet my legs have worn down shorter than yours by now."

Ever since the events of last night, Diago had felt uneasy. He had a premonition that something bad might be about to happen. He therefore hoped to get to Ironforge as soon as possible, and leaving by gryphon might be a good option.

"I'm afraid not. The higher-ups have been keeping a tight rein on things these past few days. The Dragonmaw Orcs to the north have been acting strangely," Soggram said apologetically. He glanced around, then leaned close and lowered his voice-or so he thought. In fact, everyone in the tavern could hear him. Dwarves were practically born loud. "Mayor Ero'en-you know, the one with the dull nose-won't let anyone use those beauties unless it's urgent military business."

"Ah, those bureaucrats..." Diago gave a chuckle and shot Soggram a knowing look, leaving it at that. Before crossing over, Diago had dealt with Thelsamar's mayor, Ero'en Dullnose, a few times. The old dwarf was always solemn and liked to talk like an official, but on the whole, he was decent enough: an upright, good man.

Both fell silent. Diago called an inn attendant over to order his breakfast, while Soggram lowered his head and concentrated on the dwarven stout in his mug.

Diago ate a little breakfast without much care. By the time he finished, Masley Bearhide had still not appeared. It seemed Thunder Ale packed far more of a punch for Night Elves than he had imagined.

He decided to take a look around outside. To be honest, he had not visited anywhere particularly bustling since coming to this world, and being a shut-in was not a good trait to have here.

He strolled out of the inn and onto the street. It was bustling, and last night's alarm seemed more like a false alarm that had had no effect on the lives of the people here.

Diago headed toward the place he remembered-unlike women wandering aimlessly, men always went straight for their objective when shopping. He wanted to see how good Thelsamar's dwarven guns were. After all, before crossing over, all he had ever seen in the game was a pile of numbers: so much damage, such-and-such bonus attributes. It was never this tangible.

Thelsamar's gun shop stood on the valley's highest tier. Compared with the surrounding dwarven buildings, it had no distinguishing features, nor was there any sign outside. Without his memories from before crossing over, Diago might even have walked past it.

Once he entered, however, he recognized the dwarven proprietor, Verok Wildgun, at a glance. The dwarf was tending to the guns leaning on the racks, carefully wiping them down before applying protective oil, looking as painstaking as if he were caring for his own children.

His actual child, Dak Gunfire-a young Bronzebeard dwarf, even if he did have a bushy brown beard, who used the surname inherited from his mother's clan-was forging gun components in the back room. The clang of hammer striking steel rang out from time to time.

"Ha, Verok, good morning!" Diago greeted the proprietor as he studied the guns on the racks.

"Good morning, sir!" Verok Wildgun said, walking over. He looked rather slovenly-as most dwarven men did, in fact-and there was gun oil on the beard that hung all the way down to his chest.

"How may I help you, sir?" he asked politely. He clearly had no recollection of Diago, but that did not stop him from doing business with this unfamiliar human. Though there were few outsiders in Loch Modan, some human merchants still came here every year.

"I'd like to pick out a gun." Diago picked one up and held it in his hands. He cocked the hammer with practiced ease and examined the components of the action, then brought the gun to his nose and sniffed. The distinctive smell of gun oil filled his nostrils. The old dwarf used top-quality oil, and every component had been maintained to a smooth sheen, as clean as new.

"Take your time looking!" Verok Wildgun stood confidently to one side without launching into a lengthy sales pitch. To be honest, dwarves were rather like the technical geeks Diago had known before crossing over: they were always very friendly toward those who knew their stuff. They also trusted such people to recognize the merits of their work.

In truth, dwarves lived up to their reputation as born craftsmen. Every gun on the racks was exquisite, with smoothly polished components and intricate construction. They were either gilded or inlaid with silver, and some parts were engraved with beautiful patterns. They looked more like works of art than weapons for killing.

Most of the guns had hammers shaped like dragons' or birds' heads. Their components fitted tightly together and moved smoothly, their springs were strong and resilient, and their barrels were smooth and straight, without any rust or pitting. Even the most exacting person could have found no fault with them. Some even had compartments in their stocks. Opening a hatch, Diago found neatly stacked pieces of deerskin and silver cartridge boxes inside. It was a remarkably thoughtful design.

After making sure the gun was unloaded, he examined the rifling inside the barrel. To his surprise, most of the rifling was bright and smooth, clear and even, without the slightest erosion or wear. Verok had clearly maintained these guns very well.

Diago was utterly captivated by these exquisite guns, but he still forced down his urge to buy one. These muzzle-loading percussion guns had a fatal flaw: their rate of fire was a serious problem. In theory, they could fire four times a minute, but amid the frantic confusion of combat, anyone who could manage two shots a minute was already skilled.

These guns had their uses in an army, such as the dwarven mountaineer corps, but using such a weapon while adventuring was practically asking to die. Those melee fighters would be on you before you even had a chance to fire a second shot. But carrying seven or eight guns every time you went out to maintain your rate of fire would wear anyone out.

Diago sighed regretfully. He was practically drooling as he left the gun shop-even if he never used them in battle, guns this beautiful would be worth buying as collectibles. As he left, he swore that once he had a permanent place to stay, he would set aside an entire room at home for a collection of dwarven guns.

Perhaps I should make a gun myself. The thought suddenly sprang into Diago's mind. After all, his Goblin Engineering was at the Draenor master level, so perhaps it would not be too difficult.

Not far from Verok Gunfire's shop, Diago unexpectedly spotted a familiar rainbow longbow emblem on a sign. It was the mark of the bow merchant Cliff Hardin. This dwarf, who liked roaming the wilderness-searching for the best bow wood, by his own account-had actually opened a shop in Thelsamar too. It stood no more than sixty meters from Verok's gun shop, with just two shops between them.

What a surprise! Diago went inside without hesitation.

Clearly, this was not a busy time. No one was in the shop-at least not in the front room. Diago picked up the handbell on the table and rang it a few times.

A few seconds later, a dwarf's head covered in wood shavings appeared in the doorway to the back room.

"Feel free to look around first, sir," the dwarf said hurriedly. Before Diago could answer, the head withdrew again. He looked very busy.

Diago smiled, unbothered. He knew the dwarf's habits: once he got busy, he could spare no attention for anything else. He looked around the shop. Clearly, the goods on display were not the best, or the dwarven proprietor would not have been so unconcerned.

Most of the finished bows in the shop were unstrung, their bodies stored in wooden boxes packed with dry sawdust. Diago noticed several braziers burning in the room, making it noticeably warmer inside than outside, though not excessively hot. It merely felt warm and dry. This was necessary for maintaining the bows.

Some strung bows hung on the surrounding walls, mostly ordinary longbows-long by dwarven standards, though only of medium length for a human like Diago. Still, the bows made by these strong dwarves generally had heavier draws than human bows. Anyone lacking strength really would not be able to use them.

Cliff Hardin's shop was small, and Diago soon finished inspecting the goods on display. He felt rather disappointed. Most of the bows here were of common quality, not even as good as the one he already had. Just then, a voice spoke behind him.

"Still haven't found a bow to your liking, my discerning sir?"

Diago turned and saw Cliff Hardin standing behind him. The dwarf had clearly tidied himself up, at least enough to leave far fewer wood shavings in his hair and beard.

"No. If this is the standard of all your work, that would be a real pity." Diago nodded, deliberately casting a somewhat contemptuous glance at the surrounding walls as he said disdainfully, "You know, these are troubled times. A fine weapon is a second life to a traveler."

Well, as he had intended, the dwarf was provoked. You could scorn everything about a dwarven craftsman, but you could not mock his craftsmanship. That was a dwarf's greatest source of pride.

"Wait a moment. Have a look at this bow. You'll be satisfied." With a dark expression, the dwarf walked into the back room.

Soon, a clattering rummage through chests and cupboards came from inside. A few minutes later, he emerged, carefully supporting a black longbow.

"A silkworm-thorn bow, fine quality. It took me two years to make," the dwarf said proudly. He handed over his prized creation with some reluctance, his eyes full of unwillingness to part with it. Clearly, this was his shop's greatest treasure.

What Cliff Hardin had brought out was a horn bow, with limbs of silkworm-thorn wood layered with multiple strands of ox sinew on the outside. The inside was lined with thin slices of horn from the dwarven mountain goats unique to Loch Modan. The tips at either end were fashioned from mountain goat horn, while the bowstring was made from raw sheepskin mixed with spider silk, making it strong and resilient.

In reality, however, the materials imposed limitations. Though this silkworm-thorn hunting bow was called a fine-quality longbow, it was at most of good quality, falling far short of fine bows made from special materials, let alone epic bows made with dragon sinew or young World Tree branches. Still, it was much better than the yew bow Diago had taken from the orc camp. Of course, that was not to say yew was better than silkworm-thorn-both were excellent bow woods. The orc who made that yew bow simply had a terrible eye for materials. Not only did the limbs have knots and burls, but one end even had several wormholes the size of pinpricks. Perhaps that had not been the orc bowyer's intention; he might only have been given an offcut of that piece of yew. After all, this kind of tree was rare in that world too.

Diago tested it. The bow had a draw weight of about eighty pounds, just right for his current arm strength. Though he could draw a heavier bow, it would affect his shooting speed and accuracy. He gradually eased off his strength and slowly let the bowstring down.

"This is the one. Very good," he said, satisfied.

Cliff asked for twenty-five gold coins, but Diago did not bargain. He knew the dwarves' foul tempers. They always treated their finest creations as their own children and rarely sold them. He had to produce his very last copper coin before the dwarf would let it go, though Cliff Hardin took his yew bow for half a gold coin, covering part of the price.

"What a waste of this wood," the dwarf said, holding the yew bow with a pained expression.

After leaving Cliff Hardin's shop, Diago wandered listlessly around the streets. Unexpectedly, Thelsamar had no shop selling mail armor. The blacksmith Mohan Copperthroat was not particularly skilled at forging and could only make crude plate armor, which left Diago somewhat disappointed.

At noon, he returned to the Stoutlager Inn. He was a little tired. It seemed the fatigue of a long journey could not be relieved by a single short night's rest.

He noticed that the Night Elf still had not gotten up. It looked as though this Druid would gain a profound understanding of the consequences of getting drunk.