The door to the Gun Tarum Mercenary Guild office swung open, and Fizzy strode in like she owned the place. She was completely in the nude since her Engine of Destruction Skill had burned off all her clothes and most of her gear. That didn’t mean she was empty handed, however. Her electric charge pack was still strapped to her back, and her wrench was glued to the metal backpack with a magnetic charge. In her only hand was a dark gray burlap sack about the size of her head, with some rather ominous red stains lining its bottom.

As for the restaurant itself, it was more or less deserted. It was late afternoon and the dinner rush hadn’t started yet, so the only ones currently here besides the bartender, Grog, were a group of 7 deadbeats with nothing better to do than drink loudly around a large table. They didn’t even register the mithril golem that just walked in, nor the thoroughly humbled dwarven Shaman that followed in after her.

“Oh, you’re back,” commented Grog when he saw her approach.

“I am,” she confirmed as she strode up to the counter.

“And I see you got yourself a friend.”

“Hey, Grog,” called out the black-haired dwarf in the blue coat.

“Hey, Ironshout,” he responded. “Don’t tell me you lost another party.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you that.”

The old bartender could do nothing but sigh. Truthfully speaking, the absence of the other two mercenaries that left with him earlier that day, coupled with the very obvious basilisk bite on his foot and his armored escort already told him everything he needed to know.

“Another party?” asked Fizzy with a dubious expression.

“This is the third time this guy’s left with a group and come back alone since he came here a few months ago,” explained Grog. “Granted, they were all pickup groups, but I doubt he’d be able to get another one with a track record like that.”

Pickup groups referred to the practice of joining up with strangers to take on a difficult Quest. It was a practice mostly employed by rookie adventurers or by lone wolf mercenaries whenever they were out of options. Realistically speaking, since teamwork with strangers was never as smooth as with long-time companions, it wasn’t all that uncommon for there to be casualties. Especially when people took on challenges that were clearly above their league.

“Not my fault!” complained Drummir. “That Rogue we got was a total tool and fumbled the flashbangs! What sort of idiot uses 5 of them at once?! All he did was cause a huge ruckus that attracted a whole herd of-”

“I don’t care, mate, “ said Grog, cutting him off. “What I want to know is whether you’re giving up on the Quest or not.”

“… Neither. I completed it.”

“We completed it,” corrected him Fizzy.

“Whatever,” said Grog dismissively. “Drummir - hand.”

The dwarf behind the counter brought out the spherical Quest Log, and his ‘customer’ placed his hand on it obediently.

“Complete Quest.”

Drummir Ironshout has completed a Quest: Reverb Mine Basilisk Bounty.

Having confirmed that the Shaman-cum-Bard wasn’t bullshitting, Grog went into the back room and returned a few moments later with a pouch containing 500 GP worth of coins. He tossed it casually at Drummir, who caught it easily and immediately stowed it in his coat’s inner pocket.

“What about you, miss Rustblood?” asked the barkeep. “I assume you didn’t come back just because you had to bail this poor bastard out of trouble.”

“Yeah. I’m done too.”

“… Hand, please.”

Fizzy placed her hand upon the Quest Log, much like how Drummir had done.

“Complete Quest.”

Fizzy Rustblood has completed a Quest: Reverb Mine Basilisk Bounty.

The familiar message window popped up in both parties’ heads, just as with the dwarf before. However, unlike her newest companion, the golem wasn’t done just yet.

“Complete Quest.”

Fizzy Rustblood has completed a Quest: Reverb Mine Basilisk Bounty (1).

“Complete Quest.”

Fizzy Rustblood has completed a Quest: Reverb Mine Basilisk Bounty (2).

“Complete Quest. Complete Quest. Complete Quest. Complete Quest. Complete Quest.”

Every time she uttered those two words, Grog felt his heart sink a bit. He had half expected this to happen, but seeing it live was much too different from his imagination. Since the basilisk bounty was a Repeatable Quest, it was possible to let Fizzy accept it multiple times. Eight times, to be precise. And the fact that she had completed all eight of those meant that she had killed at least 160 basilisks in the 8 or so hours since she was gone.

Drummir seemed to have already realized this fact, as the only reaction he offered was a silent gaze that seemed to pierce the wall of the tavern and fly off beyond the horizon.

“Oh, I also have the monster parts for the additional reward.”

Saying that, Fizzy lifted the soggy burlap sack up and handed it over to Grog across the counter. It was full of basilisk claws and fangs, which had been pulled out by hand from their corpses.

“Also, I’d like to get my compensation in Divine Pieces, please,” she added.

“I see,” said Grog in a defeated manner. “In that case, it’s going to take me a while to process the payment….”

“That’s okay. Just give me my room key so I can get changed in the meantime.”

“Right. Here you go, miss Rustblood.”

Fizzy accepted the small brass key with the number ‘13’ stamped on it with a smile on her face. Hearing her new name spoken out loud really lifted her spirits for some reason.

“Thanks, Grog! I’ll be back in a bit!”

Saying that, she went up the stairs with a light hum on her breath and a spring in her step.

“What about you, Ironshout?”

“I’ll, uh… I guess I’ll wait for her. And since I’m not going anywhere, why don’t you get me a shot of Firebrand whiskey?”

“Comin’ right up.”

The aged dwarf instantly produced a drinking glass and a bottle of the man’s desired drink with practiced ease and poured him a dwarf-sized shot of the stuff. His customer reached out and downed the entire thing in a few big gulps before slamming the now empty glass back on the counter with a satisfied sigh. He reveled in the feeling of warmth spreading through his body, slowly washing away the stress of his near-death experience.

“Another one?”

Knowing his clientele, Grog was naturally ready to pour him some more of the stuff.

“Yeah, hit me.”

Drummir absentmindedly watched as the glimmering amber liquor steadily filled up his tall glass to about two thirds of the way up.

“Actually, just leave the bottle,” he said after a brief moment of contemplation. “And get me two more of them while you’re at it.”

“… Alright, but you better clean up your tab soon.”

The dwarven Shaman then proceeded to get himself steadily more tipsy as he waited for his new boss to come back. Normally this sort of overindulgence would knock most people out cold after that first ‘shot,’ especially considering this was dwarven-made liquor. Firebrand whiskey in particular was so potent that it would likely catch fire if someone smashed the bottle against the floor. Which was, incidentally, where this alchemically-brewed drink got its name from.

But Drummir was a dwarf himself, which gave him a naturally highe tolerance against poisons and toxins, including alcohol. This, combined with his respectable Endurance (END) Attribute, meant that he was the owner of what was colloquially known as a ‘liver of steel.’ The upside of this condition was that he got to enjoy truly obscene amounts of the delicious drink without any ill effects. The downside was that getting himself shitfaced was a rather expensive and time-consuming venture.

That wasn’t his goal this time around though. He just desperately needed to unwind after that harrowing experience with the basilisks. Not to mention the unforgettable scene of a gnome-sized golem destroying a dozen of the beast quite literally single-handed. He contemplated taking this chance to put as much distance between himself and that psychotic killing machine as physically possible, but he couldn’t do that. He owed her far too much.

Not only did she save his life, but she also helped him complete the Quest that nearly got him killed. If the other mercenaries learned that he’d ran away from such debts in a shameless manner, then his adventuring career would be more or less over. His standing among his peers was already pretty bad, so a rumor like that would likely get himself kicked out of the Mercenary Guild. A place that was already considered the ‘last chance’ for a lot of people in his line of work. And that was assuming he even survived the unhinged Paladin’s divine fury.

Reputation, threats, and life-debts aside, however, Drummir had another, much more practical reason to stick with Fizzy. Like any good dwarf, he had a nose for money, and that shiny golem practically reeked of it. He didn’t know her exact circumstances, but he didn’t necessarily need to, either. A solid lump of living mithril with that much skill in combat was bound to make it big, and he would be damned if he didn’t try and leech off her inevitable success.

All things considered, by the time he was polishing off his third bottle, he’d managed to more or less shake off what had happened back in that dark pit. He felt sorry for those two poor sods that didn’t make it, but in the end this was the reality of pickup groups. One never knew if the people they picked up were dead weight or not, and going after the big payday so eagerly with a fresh party had been a fatal mistake on their part. It would have been one for him as well, if that whirlwind of violence named Fizzy Rustblood hadn’t swept through the place and taken his breath away.

“Old man, you got my money yet?!”

Drummir was about to ask for a fourth bottle when the mithril golem in question finally returned to the bar. She was dressed in an oddly indecent outfit similar to the one she wore when he first saw her, except that the shirt and work pants were distinctly more green in color, and her metal backpack was nowhere to be seen.

“Aye. Here you go, lass.”

Grog pulled out a large hard leather bag and placed it front of Fizzy. The golem opened it up to find a total of 15 mithril coins. Well, calling them ‘coins’ was a bit misleading, as they were large enough to be mistaken for unreasonably expensive saucers or ale mug coasters. They were the largest denomination of currency currently in use across the continent and were known as Divine Pieces. Each one was worth a whopping 500 GP, ten times more than the largest gold coin called a King Piece, and a hundred times more than the most popular Knight Piece.

In other words, Grog had just handed over a grand total of 7,500 GP, which somewhat explained the tear in his eye and the shortness of his breath. Within that amount was the 1,600 GP deposit Fizzy had put in before she set off, the 4,000 GP reward for completing the Quest 8 times in one go, and an extra 1,900 GP for providing a sizable amount of petrification antidote materials. It was all money she’d earned, so while the greedy barkeep was sad to see it go, he was also a bit proud at the same time. It was almost as if he were a doting parent seeing his children off on their way to a prestigious boarding school.

“Right, this will do,” said Fizzy after confirming the amount. “Thanks again, Grog.”

“Yeah, just… *Sniffle* Just don’t spend it all in one place,” said the old barkeep while wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Too bad that was exactly what she was planning to do.

“No promises!”

The golem stuffed the satchel into the Bag of Holding hanging off her waist. The other two magically-expanded containers and the rest of her gear were in her room upstairs. She felt a bit uneasy about leaving them behind at first, but she couldn’t take them with her into that dungeon, especially since they were magic items. A Bag of Holding being suddenly ripped open was a rather disastrous event for the owner, as its contents wouldn’t simply spill out. The spatial magic permeating the container would go haywire and teleport everything within it to random points within a 2 kilometer radius. Granted, a Bag of Holding could survive a frightening amount of wear and tear, but it wouldn’t be able to withstand being pierced by a set of razor-sharp teeth.

In short, bringing such an item into a basilisk-infected maze of tunnels was not a smart idea, especially considering that things made of fabric did not last long when attached to Fizzy’s person. That was why she decided it was better to leave her luggage in the room upstairs, as she’d much rather have it be stolen than scattered in those dark, dank depths. At least then she had a shot at getting her stuff back.

Not that thievery was a huge problem, though. The guild maintained a high degree of security, employing both physical and magical countermeasures to deter any criminal activity. The rooms were warded against unauthorized entry, the locks were extremely hostile to lockpicks, each room had a miniature safe, and there were even guards keeping an eye on things both inside and outside the building.

Suffice it to say, the Mercenary Guild took the privacy of their employees very seriously. Granted, part-timers like Fizzy had to pay a rather steep price to enjoy that privilege, but it was worth it.

“C’mon, Drummir,” she called out. “We gotta go.”

“Aye-aye, ma’am!”

The well-groomed Shaman finished off his last bit of whiskey and followed her out of the building. He had managed to work up a rather strong buzz by now, which had helped him cope with his near-death experience rather splendidly, at least for the moment. Which was good, because there was a very shiny lady that needed his assistance, and he didn’t want to ruin the mood by brooding over the past.

“So where we off to now, Angelface?” he asked while following after her.

“Need to see a man about an arm.”

“So that’s why you asked for Divine Pieces!”

A light seemed to turn on in Drummir’s head. He now understood why she was down in those tunnels in the first place - she was trying to raise funds for her repairs. And since she was a mithril golem, it stood to reason she’d want obscene amounts amounts of white gold to serve as raw material.

“Hmm? What do you mean?” she asked in a puzzled voice.

“Y’know, so you can get your arm reforged with them?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Drummir. Divine Pieces only have about 180 GP worth of mithril in them.”

It was actually a lot better to buy mithril ingots with them rather than melt them down. Incidentally, the same could be said about buying gold with gold coins, although the gap there wasn’t as great as with the mithril ones.

“Really? … Then how come they’re valued at 500 GP?”

“Not entirely sure, to be honest. Though if I had to guess, it’s probably because of all the work that went into making them. The detail on the coins is pretty insane if you stop and look at it.”

Or at least that’s what she assumed. She hadn’t really thought about it until now, as it wasn’t something that concerned her. The government was responsible for minting these things, so they had the right to put whatever price they wanted on them. It wasn’t just the Horkensaft Kingdom, either. Other countries made their own Divine Pieces, all of which were worth 500 GP within their own territory. Things got a bit dicey if the money was exported, as it would lose a little bit of its original value if taken across the border. Gold coins also suffered from this phenomenon, but to a much lesser, practically negligible degree.

“I guess that sort of makes sense. But then - why did you request mithril coins?”

“Um, because they’re easier to handle? Duh?”

Indeed, a single Divine Piece was not only more compact, but also much lighter than 500 GP worth of golden coins. Counting them up was a lot faster, too. Granted, their individual value would be a bit much for covering one’s day-to-day expenses, but they were perfect for large-scale business transactions. Like the one Fizzy would likely need to perform in the very near future.

“Oh, right. Of course.”

Drummir was never exactly poor, but money had always been rather tight, so that sort of scale was beyond his comprehension.

“Who did you get to fix you up, by the way?” he asked to keep the conversation going.

“A human named Malcolm.”

“Ugh, that guy?!”

“What, you know him?”

“Everyone at the guild knows him! He pays Grog a bit of cash for every referral he sends his way, you know.”

“So it was something like that after all, huh? Can’t say I blame him, all things considered.”

Paying for promotion was not exactly a foreign concept, nor was it a particularly underhanded one.

“Are his skill as good as advertised, at least?”

“I wouldn’t know, to be honest,” said Drummir. “I have a cousin who handles crafting all my mediums at a discount so I’ve never bothered looking into other craftsmen.”

“Mediums?”

“Yeah. Totems, spiritual tokens, ritualistic tattoos, that kind of stuff. Like this one here.”

The dwarf took out a small silver badge in the shape of a wolf’s head to show what he meant. Actually now that he mentioned it, Fizzy realized all the silver studs in his jacket bore the rough image of some animal or another. It immediately made her evaluation of him drop down a notch, as paganistic objects like those went against her nature as a Paladin. It wasn’t that big a deal, though.

“Us Shamans need them to use most of our magic,” he continued. “Tokens like these are needed to channel elemental spirits into helpful magical effects, but the most important one is the totem.”

“You don’t seem to have one of those on you, though.”

The totem in question should have been a large object akin to a tree stump that had certain images and shapes carved into it. It wasn’t the type of thing one could stick in a pocket.

“Yeah, mine got smashed up in those mines, so I need to get me a new one right away.”

“Looks like the perfect excuse to give Malcolm a try, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know, Angelface. That guy… his reputation isn’t the greatest. They say he only takes weirdo jobs that no proper smith would even touch.”

“He doesn’t have much of a choice in the matter, though,” said Fizzy while being careful to avoid stepping on a rusty sewer grate in her path. “He’s a human in a dwarven-dominated market. Nobody trusts him with the regular jobs due to their racial prejudice, so he has no choice but to take weird requests.”

“Prejudice, you say? Last I checked, that was the Empire’s thing.”

“Hah! No it’s not. I mean, if you had to pick between a dwarven smith and a human smith to prepare potentially life-saving equipment, which one would you choose?”

“Huh. I never thought of it that way.”

“Of course you didn’t. You don’t know what it’s like to be the outcast.”

Malcolm’s current situation was a lot like that of a certain gnomish Artificer shop in a human-dominated Imperial city. That one didn’t get a lot of work orders either.

“And you do?”

“… Let’s just say I’m not a stranger to being the odd one out.”

Fizzy and Drummir kept walking in relative silence for another 30 or so minutes until they arrived at Gun Tarum’s Foundry District. The sun had already begun descending behind the 60-meter tall wall of volcanic rock around the dwarven capital, causing the streets to grow both colder and darker at a rapid pace. The thick smoke cloud far overhead was still catching the very late afternoon sun’s rays, giving it a rather surreal red glow. The sky beyond it was probably still blue, though Drummir couldn’t exactly tell from his vantage point.

The golem led her new ‘partner’ to a small, out-of-the way shop and entered through the front door. The place didn’t have much of a storefront, as the room beyond the entrance was more akin to a residential hallway with a few chairs lined up against the wall rather than a place of business.

“Malcolm! I’m back!”

“Be with you in a minute!”

Fizzy shouted to announce her presence, and was answered by a hoarse-sounding voice from beyond the door at the end of the hallway. About half a minute later, it creaked open to reveal a human man with a short scruffy beard and unkempt chestnut hair. He hunched over slightly as he walked through it in order to avoid banging his head on the doorframe. This was a house built with dwarves in mind, so it was a bit too small for a ‘full-sized’ person like him.

As for the man himself, he looked like a mess. The heavy bags under his eyes and hollow cheeks combined with his lack of personal grooming to create the image of a man who looked like he hadn’t slept in 4 days. A pair of round-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, making his yellow irises seem a size or two bigger than they actually were.

His clothing consisted of a dark brown blacksmith’s apron draped over a coal-stained white shirt and a pair of green wool pants. The large pocket at the front of his apron was currently holding what appeared to be a small hammer, a pair of tongs, and a steel rod that had silver-lined decorations on it. His hands were sheathed in a pair of thick workman’s gloves that had a layer of fresh soot on them, as did his brown boots.

“Hello, miss Rustblood,” he said in a respectful manner. “Brought another friend, did you?”

“Drummir Ironshout, at your service.”

The dwarf greeted the man with a slightly theatrical bow.

“Ah, Malcolm Gero. A ple- *Ahem* A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

The brown-haired human returned the greeting a nervous smile while scratching the back of his head. He didn’t seem to be too worried about getting ash in his hair, as he was already rather filthy anyway.

“So, how goes my order?” asked Fizzy with a raised eyebrow.

The man had given her an estimate of half a day to finish the job that very same morning, and he even said he could start right away as he had no other clients right now.

“I think it would be better if I just showed you.”

Malcolm opened the door behind him all the way and poked his head through it.

“Young man! Come out here and show yourself, won’t you?!”

Prompted by those words, Moss somewhat nervously passed through the doorframe. His shirt and jacket were off, revealing his rather scrawny torso. The left side of which had been covered by a series of metal plates that had been more or less bolted onto him, and covered his shoulder, collarbone and half his pectoral muscles. Connected to that platform was a shiny metal arm, which looked more at home on a golem than on a person.

Hardly surprising, considering this prosthetic limb was technically a golem in and of itself.

“S-S-So, w-what do you think?” he asked nervously.

Fizzy walked up to him and stretched her hand out as if going for a handshake.

“Give it here.”

Moss’s new limb moved from its idle position and slapped the back of her hand with a small clang. Granted, shaking a right hand with a left hand was bound to be awkward, but he made it seem like he was swatting her arm away out of spite.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to do that!” he apologized immediately. “I’m still getting used to it so-”

“Just shut up and stand still, Moss.”

“Sure, Fizzy. Wuh- Whatever you say.”

The golem grabbed his metal arm and channeled her Metallopathy through it. She was met with a bit of resistance and white noise due to the foreign magic coursing through it, but was able to grasp its construction all the same. The limb was made from an aluminum alloy that had been lightly enchanted. Overall it was surprisingly light, probably no heavier than Moss’s original arm. It had the same dimensions, too, as Malcolm had shaped the outer plates to give the mostly hollow appendage a more natural look. There was also a rather small golem core embedded within his fleshy stump and connected directly to the severed bone within via some clamps and wires.

The off-spec ‘special surprise’ the customer had requested had also been integrated seamlessly into the forearm.

“Alright, you pass,” declared Fizzy once she was done with her inspection. “I’m not much of a blacksmith, but I know quality metalwork when I see it. And this?”

She lightly tapped on Moss’s forearm with her knuckles, eliciting a series of dull rings.

“This is practically flawless.”

“Oh, my! This is high praise coming from the Rustblood Juggernaut herself!” exclaimed Malcolm in an excited manner. “Then, will you allow me the honor of mending this horrendous scar that you bear?!”

“Indeed!” declared the golem with a smug look on her face. “Rejoice heathen, for I have deemed you worthy of working on my glorious frame!”

“Today is a good day indeed! Ah, but I would be remiss to talk any further until I collect my payment for your companion’s prosthetic. I still need to eat, I’m afraid. There are also a few details I wish to straighten out regarding your own limb, so if you would be kind enough to follow me into my office…”

“Of course! Lead the way, my good man!”

Fizzy followed Malcolm through the door and up the stairs to the house’s first floor. As for Moss and Drummir, they had been left more or less forgotten in the somewhat depressing looking hallway. The gnome sighed dejectedly and went over to take a seat on a slightly-too-large chair while moving his new arm around so as to get used to it. The dwarf took the seat opposite him and leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees as if to support himself.

“So. Moss, is it?” he began the conversation.

“Ah. Yeah. Hi. You’re Drummir, right? I, uh, overhead you introducing yourself earlier.”

“Aye, that’s me. What’s your relation to Angelface if you don’t mind me asking?”

“… I guess I’m a friend. Or a minion. Maybe a pet? Something like that.”

“The hell kind of messed up relationship is that?!”

“Well it’s just… you heard her just now, right? The whole reason she’s paying for this arm is because she wanted to confirm Malcolm’s handiwork for herself.”

Bonding flesh to metal was an invasive technique, and if Malcolm had messed up, he could have crippled Moss even further.

“I just don’t think friends use each other as fodder for shady smiths, you know?” added the gnome. “I mean, I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything, but it’s just that… have you ever had someone literally nail something onto your bones?”

He then stared at his left hand and slowly made a fist with it, eliciting a series of clacking noises as his doll-like fingers tapped against his palm.

“It wasn’t a pleasant experience, let me tell you.”

As if having bolts of metal literally nailed through his skeletal structure wasn’t enough, Malcolm also had to pour healing potions over the open wounds. This resulted in the boy’s flesh attempting to bond with the foreign objects stuck through him, which was its own special kind of hell. It was an unfortunate but necessary step to ensure that the golem-to-person connection would remain stable for the next few decades.

“Maybe, but Angelface still got you the arm, didn’t she?” pointed out the dwarf. “She could’ve asked him to do any number of things to test his skill as a craftsman, but she chose the option that would help you out in the long run.”

Drummir was no stranger to golem prosthetics, especially considering the type of people he’d seen wandering around the Mercenary Guild. He knew one of those things cost around 300 GP for an arm, or 400 GP for a leg, meaning they were hardly an insignificant expense. They were still 4 to 5 times cheaper than an imported Rejuvenation Potion, so they were still worthwhile as a more cost-effective alternative. Or at the very least a stopgap measure until the crippled adventurer could get together the money for the ‘full’ treatment.

Bottom line was, there were simpler and cheaper ways to test a golem maker’s ability.

“She’s obviously thinking about your future, so that’s gotta count for something,” he added with a reassuring tone.

“I guess you have a point there,” consented Moss after a brief bout of self-deliberation. “What about you? How’d you end up here?”

“Oh me? Your pal Fizzy pulled my sorry hide out of the jaws of death naught but two hours ago. I owe her my life, and I’m going to do everything in my power to pay back this immense debt.”

“Uh-huh. Of course you are. I’m sure your being here totally has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a no-good scumbag, and she’s your last chance at making something of yourself.”

“… You’re awfully sharp for a kid, aren’t you?” asked the dwarf with a defeated smile.

Even if he was young and relatively inexperienced, Moss was still a street rat. And much like other hoodlums in his monetary situation, he possessed a certain degree of insight that had been steadily beaten into him over the years.

“Not really,” said the gnome while fanning the air in front of his face with his good hand. “It’s just that it’s not even 6 PM and your breath already reeks of alcohol. Just about what you’d expect from a no-good slimeball.”

This nugget of wisdom, for example, was among the more reliable ones. True, dwarves loved their drink so much that most of them were borderline alcoholics, but even a race known for being more or less perpetually tipsy had to have some standards. And partaking of generous amounts of hard liquor during daylight was considered the sign of a deadbeat, same as anywhere else.

“Heh. Takes one to know one, eh?” remarked the dwarf.

“I guess so,” said Moss with a light shrug and a wry smile of his own.

Now that the two of them were a bit more familiar, Drummir decided to try his luck at inquiring about a somewhat sensitive subject.

“So how did you and Fizzy meet, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I, uh, I actually tried to rob her at first,” he admitted.

“You what, mate?!”

“Yeah, I know. I succeeded, actually. Managed to lift one of her bags off her person without being spotted thanks to a buddy of mine. We were both long gone by the time she realized she was missing all her valuables.”

“But she tracked you down, didn’t she?”

“Yup.”

“How did that go?”

Moss raised his artificial arm and gave Drummir a small wave with his aluminum fingers.

“Guess.”

“Oh, snap, son! She really got you good, didn’t she?!”

“You could say that, yeah.”

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough. Moss didn’t want to reveal what he knew about Fizzy and her cursed gauntlet to a total stranger. In fact, him thinking the golem would not hesitate to rip him limb from limb should he double-cross her was probably a good thing. It was a small, probably worthless gesture, but Moss still did what he could to watch Fizzy’s back in his own way.

“And you’re not mad at her?” asked Drummir.

“Of course not. I deserved everything that happened to me that day. Except maybe meeting FIzzy, and then being allowed to follower her around like this. I genuinely feel unworthy of being in her presence sometimes. She’s… a remarkable woman.”

“Yeah, I get that,” said Drummir while leaning back in his chair. “She’s definitely not the type of person you’d want as an enemy. Which is why I think you’re way more of a man than you care to admit.”

“What? How’d you figure that?”

“I mean, stealing from that combat maniac? I’m not gonna condone what you tried to do, but I gotta admit - what you did took some serious balls.”

“Maybe you got a point. Come to think of it, my buddy made the exact same comment right after we pulled it off. Heh, it was kind of ironic, now that I think about it.”

“Ironic how?”

Moss stopped fiddling with his arm and stared at the slightly ajar door while absentmindedly covering his crotch with both hands.

“Well… Let’s just say I’m glad an arm is the only thing I lost that day…”