It was not cooking her. The torrent broke around the elf like current around a bridge pillar, and she stood rooted in it, comfortable, a tank in her own element letting her partner's power roll over her shoulders.
A scandalized master rounded on his neighbors, beard bristling, demanding sense from somebody. "What in the Ancestors' name is she doing?!"
The fairer half of the hall answered him at once, flat, fluent, without taking their eyes off the anvil.
"Charging up."
"It's part of the ritual," someone added helpfully from the rails. "Weren't you paying attention?"
The master opened his mouth, closed it, and turned back to the forge, educated.
On the guests' bench, Elowen had both hands pressed to her mouth.
"She is... they are... during labor," she managed. "In public. In front of dwarves!"
