“So, you see, the statue could be me, with this wee gun,” Ringo said, striking a pose, “Looking heroically off into the distance.”
“No,” Beli said simply, bouncing Bael on her hip and making faces at the giggling baby.
Grand Mason Marblesten made it a point to be looking anywhere but at the Flinthammers arguing in the middle of his Ironforge shop.
“But, wait, he could capture my tormented soul, so far from hearth and home.”
“I could …” Ringo cast about desperately. “It could be a statue of me and the wee babe, him tucked in the crook of my arm, me protecting him, with this wee axe, warding off all enemies.”
Beli kept bouncing the baby and notably didn’t say “no.”
“A-and,” Ringo stammered, thinking quickly, “There could be a single tear on my cheek, carved from crystal! And it would symbolize how we yearn from you, my dear, sweet, beautiful, wonderful Beli, when we are separated from you.”
“This would be it for your gifts, this Feast of Winter’s Veil,” she said meaningfully, stroking her baby’s fine hair.
“Of course, of course!” Ringo beamed, quickly folding up Marblesten’s invoice and preparing to tuck it away.
His wife snapped her fingers and held out her hand. She unfolded the invoice with one hand, scanned it, and thrust it back at him.
“No,” she said, this time, marching out of the statue carver’s shop altogether.
“But sweetheart!” Ringo called, chasing her out of the shop.