Willem embraced his knees to his chest and slouched against the wall like a youngling. From the simple wooden bench, he watched as Lugh inspected the equipment in the armory. “I trusted Rehnquist.” Lugh checked the length on a pair of greaves. The shin armor appeared to be dragon scale, very durable and flexible. The cured leather cuffs on either end would cover his ankles and the backsides of his knees. Though the goblin that shot him perished within the dragon’s maw, each nest of goblins favored certain attacks. Lugh tossed the greaves onto the bench beside the Scribe. “I desire an alliance with Jonathan and the protection of the dragons for you and the artifacts.” Willem contemplated one of Rhiannon’s combs and pouted almost as skillfully as a pixie. For such a learned Scribe, Willem could seem so very young sometimes. “What about a tribe of elves instead? Or dwarves? They are stout fighters.” Schooling his expression so the grin that tugged at his lips wouldn’t show overly much, Lugh reassured him, “You needn’t fret.
