Asnar's Gourmet

Happy days were always short-lived. A week later, Diago and Masley finally decided to set out. For two people who loved adventure and travel, this was not their journey's end. But the day before their departure, Jack Rockleg mysteriously invited them over to the smithy.

When Diago and Masley arrived at the smithy brimming with curiosity, Kordaz Blackhammer-the smith who was said to have received inspiration from Khaz'goroth the Shaper-was waiting with bloodshot eyes, his spirits running high. A dozen or so Dwarven assistants lay sprawled around him, looking utterly exhausted. Yet they were just as excited as Blackhammer, all awaiting the birth of a great work.

In the open space at the center of the shed, a watermelon-sized crucible glowed red in a small furnace. Diago noticed numerous raised Dwarven runes on its outer wall and guessed they helped increase the heat. At that moment, the liquid inside was boiling violently, bubbles rising from it now and then with popping sounds.

The crucible was filled with an incandescent, viscous liquid that looked like molten metal of some kind. Kordaz Blackhammer carefully lifted the crucible from the furnace with tongs and poured its contents onto the table. As he tipped it, the thick liquid flowed onto a clean steel plate prepared beforehand. Diago noticed that it poured out as a single mass, leaving not a drop in the crucible.

The steel plate was specially made, with a slight depression in the center like a shallow dish. The red-hot liquid kept twisting, writhing, and changing shape on the plate, yet, like a blob of mercury, it did not stick to the steel. Had Diago not seen it poured from the white-hot crucible himself, he might almost have mistaken it for an ooze. Oozes had an innate fear of high temperatures and flames.

Could it be liquid memory metal? Are these Dark Iron Dwarves about to make a T-1000, the liquid robot from Terminator? Good heavens, is this world really falling apart? Diago felt that the scene before him had gone completely beyond the limits of his imagination. He strongly suspected that a fellow human from his own world had transmigrated into one of the Dark Iron Dwarves before him.

But the Dark Iron Dwarves remained motionless, allowing the molten mass to writhe and twist on its own. They watched without blinking, their gazes seemingly hotter than the liquid itself. Yet beneath those burning gazes, the molten metal finally began to cool.

As the liquid cooled, Diago saw tiny bumps emerge on its surface, followed by more, like the scales of some animal rising out of the water.

Could it be a fish? Diago guessed inwardly. Well, with his usual way of thinking shattered, he could no longer stop his thoughts from running wild. Azeroth could no longer hold his imagination back.

But it turned out that his guess was completely wrong. When the molten mass finally stilled and stopped changing shape, when it became a silvery-white solid and was no longer searing hot, when its full form appeared before Diago, he finally understood what it was.

It was a suit of scale armor, gleaming and exquisitely beautiful. Its surface was as smooth and bright as glass; even a fly landing on it would slip into the splits. Tiny flecks of light shimmered across it, as though reflecting starlight and moonlight.

Kordaz Blackhammer could not even wait for the scale armor to cool completely before eagerly lifting it from the steel plate. The stench of scorched flesh instantly filled the air-even without its red glow, the metal's heat was still not to be underestimated-but Blackhammer showed no intention of letting go. The Dark Iron Dwarves in the shed let out a cheer loud enough to lift the roof. As excited and fanatical as mad scientists, they passed the scale armor from one to another as though holding a gift bestowed by Khaz'goroth, father of the Dwarves-which, in their eyes, it truly was. Even Diago and Masley held it and examined it for a while.

The gleaming silver scale armor was cut much like a shirt, with elbow-length sleeves and a hem reaching halfway down the thighs. Its scales were not the usual shell-shaped fish scales, but shield-shaped ones like a shark's-dragon scales were said to have the same shape. Each scale was the size of a copper coin. They overlapped one another, painstakingly woven together layer by layer with enchanted thread-the extraordinarily tough kind necromancers often used to stitch abominations together.

Diago was certain it had not been tailored for a Dwarf, since no Dwarf had that build, nor had it been made for Masley Bearhide, since Druids rejected all metal armor. These children of nature believed that all smelting and forging of metal harmed the earth. For Druids, wearing leather armor made from animal hides was already the limit of what they could accept. Well, Diago had guessed that this must be a gift from the Dark Iron Dwarves. Though they did not know whether Diago had acted deliberately, the more perceptive Dwarves had already realized how enormously his cooking had helped them. Dwarves had never been an ungrateful race. They would always give everything they had to repay their loyal friends.

This mail was made entirely of mithril and felt even thinner than soft sheepskin. Worn beneath a robe, it would not even be apparent that its wearer had armor on-in fact, unless you deliberately wanted to stir up people's greed, you had best wear it beneath a robe. Diago hefted the entire suit of scale armor in his hand. It weighed perhaps eight or nine pounds, which, with his current strength, was practically no burden at all. For this pinnacle of his lifelong forging career, the Dark Iron Dwarf Kordaz Blackhammer had used up all the mithril he had saved over many years, and the other Dark Iron Dwarves in the camp had contributed quite a bit as well. This ore was a priceless treasure on every plane. It was as malleable as bronze, yet could be polished to shine like diamonds. Dwarves could work it into a metal harder than steel but as light as sheepskin. It was as beautiful and brilliant as silver, but mithril's luster would not tarnish and fade with time. More remarkably still, this metal had an excellent affinity for magic. No metal was better suited to making magical equipment, not even the harder thorium and adamantite.

At last, the scale armor returned to Kordaz Blackhammer's hands. Holding it in both hands with affection and solemnity, he slowly approached Diago and bowed deeply in the most formal Dwarven manner.

Diago could not help growing solemn as well, and returned the salute with equal gravity.

"I am Kordaz Blackhammer, son of Grisha Blackhammer, seventeenth patriarch of the Blackhammer Family! I have repelled thirteen assaults by fire elementals, and escaped the enslavement of Ragnaros the Firelord. For the glory of the Dark Iron Dwarves, we swear to return to Shadowforge City and drive Ragnaros back to the Fire Elemental Plane!" Kordaz Blackhammer loudly and boldly proclaimed his identity. This was a highly formal Dark Iron Dwarven ceremony. They never sold truly epic equipment, only gave it to those worthy of it. Through this ceremony, they bestowed equipment blessed by Titan the Forger, Khaz'goroth.

"For the glory of the Dark Iron Dwarves, we swear to return to Shadowforge City and drive Ragnaros back to the Fire Elemental Plane!" The Dark Iron Dwarves stood around him and solemnly repeated the words.

"Now, I present this scale armor to you, a true friend of the Thorium Brotherhood! May its name spread far and wide with your glory!" Kordaz Blackhammer said sincerely, raising the armor above his head and offering it to him.

"I, Diago Asnar, accept your gift. I will strive to make myself worthy of its epic quality and add to its splendor," Diago replied excitedly according to Dwarven etiquette, respectfully accepting the scale armor. "As the Thorium Brotherhood's most loyal friend, I will answer my friends' call at any time and help the Thorium Brotherhood truly return to Shadowforge City."

In fact, these were not words to be spoken casually. As a loosely organized, somewhat scholarly association, the Thorium Brotherhood as a whole would regard you with friendship once you had earned the friendship of one of its members. In Dwarven tradition, this meant an alliance had been formed. In Azeroth, oaths of alliance were not without binding force. Oathbreakers were often punished by the power of the world. The Men of Dunharrow in The Lord of the Rings, for instance, were cursed for breaking their oath, denied rest after death and turned into wraiths. Only after fulfilling their oath by helping Isildur's heir Aragorn defeat Sauron's army were they freed. Of course, punishment by the power of the world was not limited to being denied rest after death. Depending on the oath, the punishments often took all sorts of strange forms. Whatever the case, oaths were best left unbroken.

Of course, Diago's oath had conditions as well. "I, Diago Asnar, accept your gift" stated his reason for swearing it. "As the Thorium Brotherhood's most loyal friend" specified that the oath was to the Thorium Brotherhood, not the Dark Iron Dwarves. To be honest, Diago had no liking whatsoever for Dark Iron Dwarves outside the Thorium Brotherhood. And "answer my friends' call at any time and help the Thorium Brotherhood truly return to Shadowforge City" stated the oath's substance: Diago would take part in the Thorium Brotherhood's battles against the fire elementals, but would not participate in the Dark Iron Dwarves' battles against other races, such as the Bronzebeard Dwarves.

"What is it called?" Diago asked, holding the scale armor and reluctant to put it down. According to Dwarven tradition, weapons and equipment were generally named by their makers, and outstanding Dwarven masters often rose to fame along with their creations.

"My inspiration for forging it actually came from you, human!" the Dwarven smith said somewhat bashfully, none of his boldness from the ceremony remaining. He pointed to the front of the armor. Diago brought it closer and saw a tiny line of Dwarven script engraved there: "Asnar's Gourmet-Kordaz Blackhammer."

"Asnar's Gourmet?" The name left Diago bewildered. He raised his head and looked questioningly at Kordaz Blackhammer. Honestly, Diago was on the verge of a breakdown. Of all the names you could have picked! Look at "Beast Lord Breastplate," "Dragonstalker's Breastplate," or "Windrunner's Triumph Battleplate." Which of those doesn't sound imposing and spectacularly cool? If nothing else, even something like "Silver Scale Breastplate" would have been acceptable. What am I supposed to make of "Asnar's Gourmet"?

"You gave me the inspiration," Kordaz Blackhammer recalled. "I will never forget the taste of those dishes. I never imagined food could hold such a powerful attraction for Dwarves. For the first time in the three hundred years since the Firelord was summoned, I forgot my hatred for Ragnaros, forgot forging. Oh, by Khaz'goroth, may the father of the Dwarves forgive my negligence." At this, the Dwarven smith hurriedly begged the Titan the Forger's forgiveness. "You must understand how important your cooking is to us in our plight. I dare say that hundreds of years from now, every Dark Iron Dwarf will remember this great name—Diago Asnar, the man who saved the Thorium Brotherhood from its plight. I hope everyone who sees this treasure will remember your great contribution to the Dark Iron Dwarves!"

The Dwarf's words made Diago blush a little. Though he had wanted to lend the Thorium Brotherhood a hand, he had never expected the grateful Dwarves to elevate his contribution to such a level. He felt it would be best to change the subject. He tried slipping the scale armor on.

"Shall we test its protection?" He glanced around the smithy, intending to find something suitable for the test. But one reckless fellow gave him no chance to find anything.

"Let me try!" Masley shouted, turning into a bear and lunging at him as he spoke. Before Diago could object, a huge bear paw had already struck his chest.

Diago, armor and all, was sent flying like a ball. He tumbled several times across the ground, then lay facedown without moving.

But the giant bear did not seem satisfied yet. He lumbered over and raised his paw again.

"Enough, stop testing it," Diago said, weakly raising a hand to stop him. He coughed as he climbed to his feet. "I feel like I've been hammered between a hammer and an anvil. All my bones are broken."

Everyone hurriedly crowded around him. But to everyone's surprise, the Night Elf's examination found only some bruising. His bones and internal organs had been well protected and were completely unharmed.

Diago inspected the scale armor himself, but its surface was as pristine as new, without so much as a claw mark.

"I have to congratulate you. You've found a real treasure!" Though Druidic teachings forbade him from wearing metal armor, Masley still stroked the gleaming scales as he spoke enviously.

"I think we should drink to this great work!" old Lolor finally suggested.

"Why not?" The suggestion immediately met with everyone's approval, with the Night Elf responding fastest of all.

For Dwarves, satisfaction came first when drinking. Flavor sometimes did not matter much. When they were desperate enough, they could even stomach the Ogres' crudely made Gordok Green Grog to satisfy their craving.

That was why Dwarven drinking mugs were often enormous. Many oak mugs looked even bigger than human water cups. They would simply pick up a mug that was nearly half full-roughly half a jin of liquor-mumble some toast, then tip their heads back and gulp it down.

"To Asnar's Gourmet!" Jack Rockleg proposed, and everyone drank a round together.

"To Diago's gourmet food!" It sounded little different from the last toast, but everyone knew this one really was for the delicious food, and they all unhesitatingly drank another round.

After two mugs of strong liquor, Diago was already feeling dizzy. Even before transmigrating, back in China where drunks were everywhere, he had never been much of a drinker. Before long, he no longer remembered what they were drinking to.

To a smooth journey, to friendship, to the father of the Dwarves, to the Night Elves, to the Thorium Brotherhood... Any excuse would do. In the end, old Lolor even drank a hearty toast to the goddess Elune, but by then, no one around the table except him could still stand.

Well, because of this revelry, Diago and Masley had to postpone their departure by another three days.