Lord Vaerazith Drakoryn Duulinithar  Obabaiidook IV

Vaerazith Drakoryn Duulinithar Obabaiidook IV began life inside the vaulted eyries of House Obabaiidook, where dragon‑touched scions were polished into paragons of public poise. With silver‑blue scales tracing his jaw and lightning breath strong enough to ring cathedral bells, Vaerazith grew convinced duty meant maintaining flawless form rather than pursuing personal joys. He spoke True Draconic in parliamentary chambers, signed treaties that dazzled lesser courts, and fielded marriage offers measured in vaults of etherite. None stirred him; ambition was armor against distraction, and affection a luxury most nobles outsourced to concubines and nursemaids.   That certainty cracked on the day he inspected fortifications along the Gor border and first saw Shavra Kael‑Gorath Vervess leading a work column. She stood twelve feet tall when she stretched, her dusky‑jade skin laced with Verve star‑tattoos, arms roped with sinew from quarrying basalt without rest. Structures that required ten men she realigned alone, hammering support beams with rhythmic precision while singing celestial hymns that set scaffolding vibrating. Vaerazith’s entourage braced for conflict—Half‑Gors carried reputations for curt tempers—but Shavra only wiped sweat across her brow, locked her ember eyes to his, and declared, “Pretty scales, sky‑lord. Bet they’d shine brighter if you did half as much work.”   Vaerazith returned to his camp bristling, unsure whether he’d been praised or challenged. He convinced himself curiosity alone warranted a second visit, but Shavra greeted him with tools already laid out. “Thought you might want to learn how real walls stand,” she said, thrusting a chisel into his manicured hands. For the first time in decades, Vaerazith tasted humility: stone resisting his strikes, muscle straining under uncooperative gravity, laughter ringing from Gor laborers who watched the noble’s delicate scales chip with every misplaced blow.   Shavra turned each short inspection into a lesson, then each lesson into an all‑night debate beneath smoldering campfires. She mocked his politics yet listened keenly when he spoke of ley‑line theory; he criticized her roaming clan’s lack of diplomacy while acknowledging their ingenuity with living architecture. Cleverly, she wove her Verve heritage into every argument—quoting cosmic ballads that reframed his “noble burden” as self‑inflicted tethering. Vaerazith found himself defending positions he’d never examined, and in doing so, found his rigid worldview bending like heated steel.   When the border project finished, Vaerazith prepared to depart. Shavra arrived at dawn carrying a massive oaken war‑mallet and a single question: “Why leave?” He cited obligations and bloodline alliances; she shrugged, hoisted him—fluttering wings and all—onto her shoulder, and strode back toward Ironcrest along supply trails. Rumor says his retinue needed a full day to catch them. By the time they did, Shavra had laid out a proposal as direct as a siege ram: she would marry Vaerazith, secure her clan permanent rights within Obabaiidook province, and bear heirs strong enough to unite their legacies. Refusal meant she’d camp on his doorstep until the offer became so public the royal court would laugh at his hesitation.   Cornered between scandal and fascination, Vaerazith sought counsel from his mother, a wizened Targon matriarch who asked only, “Does she weaken you or temper you?” Remembering chipped scales and newfound perspective, he answered, “Both—therefore neither.” Two moons later, beneath the Skyforge Tower of the Citadel, Vaerazith and Shavra bound vows over molten iron poured into twin rings: his braided with star‑silver, hers with scale‑dust. Court gossip predicted disaster; instead, the union forged a private sanctuary where debate replaced resentment and challenge sparked growth. Vaerazith learned to wield mallets; Shavra learned to read battlefield ledgers. Together they drafted the first mixed‑heritage training scholarships that would become the Steel Writ program.   Years of shared campaigns and construction projects culminated in the birth of Xhag Duulinithar Obabaiidook, a child whose sky‑blue scales glimmered against Half‑Gor sinew. Shavra insisted on a wing‑accessible nursery carved into living basalt, while Vaerazith commissioned Verve cryst‑orbs to project lullaby constellations across the ceiling. They taught Xhag that true power is neither brute force nor polished etiquette, but the marriage of both—an ethos etched into his “First in, Last out” creed. When Xhag chose the Imperial Vanguard Citadel, Vaerazith nodded in pride; when he later pursued the Onyx Circle, Shavra merely laughed and wagered five obsidian ingots he’d shake that order to its foundations.   Today Vaerazith splits his days between court negotiations and overseeing sky‑bridge expansions engineered by his wife’s clan. Observers note the once‑aloof noble now spars with cadets, scars evident beneath formal robes. Shavra remains the quiet storm at his flank, ensuring complacency never dulls their edge. Their marriage is cited in Vanguard lectures as proof that iron tempered by oak becomes nigh unbreakable—a partnership born of confrontation, annealed by respect, and wielded in service to a legacy far mightier than either lineage alone.