Eira was -- well, not precisely<i>accustomed</i>to seeing marvels such as the robotic kitchen-worker in Horgar's home, but at the very least no longer utterly awestruck by them. She let her friend pour draw mead from the hand-keg, and paid him the compliment of simply listening attentively as he described his invention. Her lips curved in a smile when he threw back his drink, but still she refrained from interrupting; she had precious little contact with her own people, and savored these rare moments when she could just bask in dvergar imagination, in the urge to<i>create</i>.<br/><br/>It was when he was nearly finished that she brought her glass to her lips and took a delicate sip of the mead. Affection lighting her eyes, she teased him,<span style="color: magenta">"It sounds an awful lot like you're trying to put me out of a job, old man."</span>But then, far more seriously,<span style="color: magenta">"I think that's brilliant. I mean, you as much as anyone know how dangerous it is for our people, up there. I've had more than my share of close shaves, too. Keeping safe from the sun is full-time work. Relieving Dvergar warriors of having to worry about that, with an armor suit the equal of any five knights? It would be... well, it would be miraculous."</span><br/><br/>She let that praise sit in the air for a moment before daring to wonder,<span style="color: magenta">"How close do you think you are to finishing it?"</span>from behind the little glass of mead.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>