Michael and Gaya made their way back to the Blacksmith Guild, the bustling streets of Sagespire a stark contrast to the desolate silence of the Verdant Sanctuary. They entered Rurik's office, finding the dwarf standing proudly before two armor stands, a smug grin on his face, a hammer casually perched on his shoulder.
The armors were magnificent.
Once dented and scratched from his battle with Agra, Michael's Dark Armor now looked pristine and brand new. The dents, cracks, and scorch marks from Agra's attacks were gone. Rurik had used a mixture of melted dragon scales – a rare and incredibly expensive material – and some other metal, forged it into a paste, and used it to mend the armor, making it even stronger, and more resilient, than before. The black metal gleamed under the light of the forge, the crimson runes etched into its surface pulsing with a faint, inner light. It looked menacing, intimidating, and fit for a God.
