For all the heat, noise, and controlled chaos of the forges, Vesta often marveled at how quiet, calm, and orderly the head foreman's office was. Despite his seemingly minor title, Vulcan was the owner and head supervisor of the Vulcan Manufactury Group's main office in the capital city of Civitas. As such, while other branch offices had their management, Vulcan was the man who set policy and made decisions that would decide how the company's other offices would proceed in the future. He was the one who managed the managers, although his office both did and did not look the part.

The office held Vulcan's desk and chair, as well as several other chairs to seat guests. Cubbyholes covered all of one wall, each one containing multiple scrolls placed in an orderly fashion. While many used books to contain information, Vulcan preferred the more archaic method, stating that it was easier for him to just grab a scroll and scan it rather than having to hunt through a book for what he needed. The smell of ink and parchment hung in the air, warring with the smell of the forges not far from here for supremacy.

The desk and chairs were, surprisingly, very ordinary-looking. Simple wooden walls with nothing to decorate it. This was the room where Vulcan, a very rich and powerful man, managed his business. It was not where he 'lived', and he'd spent no money to make it look like anything other than what it was: An office.

Where other rich and powerful men might have splurged on lavish, stylish, antique furniture, sculptures, and paintings, Vulcan's office was simple, plain, but still very comfortable. Then again, it did make a certain amount of sense that he wouldn't put anything too precious in this room, since this was an office adjacent to a huge forge complex. If ever there was a fire, this room was more likely to burn than anything else in the entire building.

Vesta sat in a chair, with Hedea, having removed the heavy protective gear of the forges, standing behind her. Without all of the thick leather covering her head to toe, the half-orc looked as statuesque and stunning as ever even in her plain workman's clothing, with nary a sign that she'd been sweating, even though she'd been out with the quarter-elf in the forges all day. Vesta, meanwhile, kept the protective gear on. She'd worn only a plain, simple shift underneath her leathers, and with it being soaked in sweat from the heat of the forge, she had little doubt that it would cling in the most unfortunate places possible.

Some might say that since she had nothing to show, there was no need for her to be so shy about that. However, it was specifically because she had nothing to show at the age of twenty-five that she preferred not to put on a show...

Vesta nodded her head towards a chair, indicating that Hedea could take a seat. However, the half-orc only shook her head. Vesta might be fine with the 'servant' taking a seat, and even Vulcan wouldn't complain, but if someone other than them or Gramps walked in to see someone who wasn't 'people' sitting at ease, it could cause some problems...

Vulcan, for his part, looked over a few scrolls as the three of them waited for Gramps to arrive. They didn't have to wait long.

Gramps stepped in, his grey greatcoat slightly speckled from the slight drizzle that was tapping the roof. Removing his broad-brimmed hat, he set it down on a nearby chair and took a seat. As always, the slim, older gentleman with his close-cropped grey hair and neatly trimmed beard, along with his fine, fashionable clothing, struck a striking contrast to Vulcan. Where the head foreman radiated a kind of intense vitality, Gramps always seemed to instead radiate a calm, quiet dignity. So much so that many who met him often did a double-take when they realized his left eye was covered with an eyepatch.

Where for many other men, his handicap would be the first thing others noticed, for the man Vesta called grandfather it barely registered. People noticed his poise and the aura he gave off. If someone had told Vesta that Gramps had once been a great general, a king, or perhaps even an archmage, she'd have believed it without a doubt.

The two elders shared a nod and a small smile, old friends exchanging courtesies. While Vulcan could be called the owner and manager of the business, it fell to Gramps to be the one who brought in the clients. It had taken the two of them working together to make the Vulcan Manufactury Group what it was today.

"I'll not waste time with pleasantries," Vulcan began without preamble. "I've got a job for the three of ya. I don't know if ya can manage it, but it's worth a shot. I'd like ya to take a dozen industrial-grade golems to the Kingdom Under The Mountain, and see if ya can convince any of the dwarves there to sign a contract."

That was by no means a simple task, in all honesty: The dwarves despised magic, ever since the villainous Prince Belua the Wicked had enslaved the dwarves almost three centuries ago and used dark magic to curse the thane of thanes and all of his line to be without hands. Being long-lived, the dwarves have long memories and have made holding a grudge into an art form, or so it was said. Few, if any, ever left the Kingdom Under The Mountain, and they only did business with humans and elves due to the treaties and pacts that formed the Terni Alliance between the three powers that ruled the continent.

Asking Gramps to try and sell golems to the dwarves was like asking him to try and sell shoes to snakes.

His expression neutral, Gramps stroked his beard with a gloved hand and asked, "You're worried we may lose more business?"

The smith pulled out a map from under his desk, and then unrolled it for the others to see. He pointed to Romulus, or rather where Romulus once stood, and began tracing a slow line further into the kingdom towards the next major town, the mining center Remus.

Vulcan, his face dour, admitted, "Aye. Romulus has been wiped off the map by the Ashen Stag and his band. Even if someone takes the bandit lord's head tomorrow, it would be years before the town could be rebuilt, and then the olive trees would need to be replanted and made to bear fruit. Even then, it'll be years more before they'll be producing enough olives that they'd need golems to carry it all. So, there's no chance of a new contract there for a long, long while."

"But with Romulus gone, that means Remus, our single biggest client, is the only large settlement in that region, a big juicy target for an ambitious bandit lord," he continued, tapping the town's location twice. "I doubt that the black-hearted bastard is in a rush to take it since the Archduke is going to be watching the place like a hawk, but sooner or later, the Stag's gonna try for it. Taking Romulus will have earned his band a stronger reputation, and more desperate, greedy bandits wanting a slice of what he's got will flock to his banner. If my suspicions are right, he'll likely wait a year for his numbers to swell, and then move in."

Vulcan let that statement sink in for a minute, then continued, "If Remus goes, that means the biggest iron mine, smelter, and foundry on the northern half of the kingdom could be gone by year's end, and iron could quickly be worth more than its weight in gold, making golems worth a hell of a lot more to manufacture. Worse, we'll be out a second, massively lucrative annual contract with no idea when that mine could be up and running again... if it even can be recovered and brought back up and running."

He then moved his finger far to the east, pointing to the home of the dwarves, the Kingdom Under The Mountain. "Meanwhile," Vulcan continued, "the dwarves keep digging iron ore out from the mountain every day, so if Remus falls, the dwarves may be asked to export more iron to Exaul to make up the difference. That'll mean they'll need to step up their operations. See where I'm going?"

Gramps nodded in understanding, saying, "So they'd be able to use golems to improve iron extraction without putting more strain on the miners." He stroked his beard again in thought, then admitted, "We could even offer them discounted terms on the contract in exchange for a discount on iron for our uses. It could be extremely beneficial, and lucrative, for all parties involved. I can't say whether they'll even let us make the pitch, though, since you know how... static things tend to be among the dwarves and their leaders. They may block us at the door just on general principles."

Nodding sagely, Vulcan agreed, "Aye, the thanes could teach a mule how to be stubborn, especially when it comes to magic. I'm not expecting a miracle, just that ya try. If ya can't, ya can't, and I'll see if I can scare up other business elsewhere."

Confused, Vesta asked, "But where do I fit in?"

With a deep chuckle, Vulcan answered, "Well, since old One-Eye here is going to be going on a near-impossible task, he'll need all the luck he can get. So, who better to go with him than our lucky Forge Fairy, eh? Any time you go with him to score contracts, he tends to have more success than not."

At her sour expression, he added, affectionately, "I know ya prefer being at the forge, little fairy, but consider it a favor to me. I'll make sure to pay you back with interest when you return." With a sly look, he added, "Besides, the worst dwarven forge master could run circles around any smith here in terms of working metal, myself included. Maybe ya can find ya way to talking one of them into showing ya how they do it?"

Vesta snorted in annoyance, but she had to admit that the idea was appealing. Being able to learn something that would put her head and shoulders above the rest of the smiths in the VMG would certainly be wonderful. Maybe she could start getting the respect she felt she deserved...

Before she said yes, an imp of mischief overcame her, and she thought to herself that maybe she could get something more out of this.

"Well, I suppose I could be talked into it," Vesta began, a smile forming on her face, "if I got something out of it in return."

"Oh really?" asked Vulcan, raising an eyebrow. "And what might ya be wanting in return?"

"A dozen ingots of Mythril for my personal use," she offered, "to be paid when I get back. Two dozen, if we return with a signed contract."

The old smith snorted, then countered, "Five, and ten if ya get a contract."

"I didn't come here to be insulted," Vesta shot back. "You admitted that this is probably a fool's errand and that you're wasting both my time and Gramp's with this. I don't know how precious you think my time is, but I value it pretty highly. Twelve/twenty-four."

"What even are ya going to do with that much Mythril?" Vulcan argued, "Ya only have access to a forge when someone's out, so ya won't have much time to use it."

That was a bit of a cheap shot. While Vesta loved to work the forge, she'd be the first to admit that she didn't get nearly as much time as she'd like on it. She had a forge at home, but it was nothing compared to the ones here at the VMG. She was largely hammering on the anvils for free for no other reason than her enjoyment and living off of the commissions that Gramps made from the contracts he brought in. She wasn't even really an employee, just a part-time volunteer. Then again...

"Ah, but you've just had an opening," she observed, "given that Hadrian's been given the boot. We both know it'll take a few months for you to find a new smith to take his place since you'll have dozens of applicants to sort through the moment you post an opening and you'll want to pick the very best. It'll be at least a month before Gramps and I will be back from the Kingdom Under The Mountain, whether we succeed or fail. You're asking me to give up on a full month of forge access for a job you know full well is probably just wasted time and effort?"

Gramps chuckled at that, noting, "You left yourself wide open there, old friend."

Vulcan shot a dirty look at Gramps, and said, "Stay out of this, One-Eye." Turning back to Vesta, he admitted, "Fair enough. I'll go 7/14 since it'll be costing ya so much."

Vesta rolled her eyes, and responded, half-jokingly, "I could just spend the next month puttering on the forge at home instead, or maybe just reading romance novels in front of the fireplace while Hedea sings sonnets. It'll be a much more entertaining time than spending a month on the road." At that, the half-orc made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a half-suppressed chuckle. "I'll be the better woman and say 10/20, and Hadrian's station in the forge is mine to keep if we score a contract."

The old smith mulled that over for a moment, muttering, "Ya are that old horse-trader's granddaughter, aren't ya? I really can't believe ya two are not related by blood."

After a moment, he finally countered, "10/20, but I need a full-time employee working that station, and I'm sorry to say ya are still a bit too short to fill that spot, little fairy. I'll do you one better, though: If ya return with a signed contract, ya can have full access to my personal forge whenever I'm not using it. I promise ya, it's a sight better than any of the ones on the main floor, and it'll be available most hours of the day."

Nodding, and trying to keep herself from jumping for joy, Vesta agreed, "Done. I'll want it in writing, with both of us keeping a copy."

Vulcan guffawed, then grabbed a pair of blank scrolls and started writing.

A few minutes later...

Vulcan and "Gramps" sat together in the smith's office, each holding a small glass of brandy. The pair had sent Vesta and Hedea homeward, explaining that the two old men wanted to talk for a bit before they were parted for a month or more, reminiscing about old times. They'd done so without argument, eager to start packing for the trip in the morning.

"Romulus is gone," Vulcan noted bitterly, dropping his accent and returning to his more natural tone, "and Remus will be likely to follow within a year. Every few weeks, news was coming in of another town, village, or settlement lost. Be it monster, bandit, or undead, disaster is nibbling on the edges of this kingdom. But Romulus and Remus? That's not a nibble, it's something taking a mouthful..."

It was a bit of irony that, despite looking like a massive, muscle-bound brute, Vulcan's normal voice was cultured and refined. He sounded like an academic professor, each word enunciated and properly pronounced, and in private he was far more calm and mellow than when he was out in the forge. People expected a smith to be rough and hot-blooded, so he played the part even if the years had taken that kind of passion out of him. That, along with many other things, was something that both of them had in common.

"Speaking bluntly, the kingdom's fucked, old friend," his well-dressed companion observed in a more crude tone than the norm, staring down at his glass with an unhappy expression. "It's been fucked for a century, maybe two. It's had a good run, lasting over a thousand years. It's honestly amazing Exaul has managed to last this long, given all the shit it's done to other peoples and other nations."

Sipping at his drink, Vulcan mentioned, "A new king was coronated this month, and I've heard pretty good things about him, Odin. He spent a decade abroad, learning about things outside of Exaul. He understands that the situation is bad, and wants to do something about it. There are rumors that he's calling for reform, although the archdukes are resisting him every step of the way..."

With a scowl, 'Odin' muttered, "I've long outgrown that name, 'Thor'."

Toying with his drink, he continued, "But in regards to the new king, whatever he's planning won't work at this point unless he's willing to make some very radical moves, moves a 'good' man wouldn't be willing to make right away. Reform is all well and good, but it tends to be slow. As you said yourself, disaster is already nibbling on the edges, and even starting to take larger bites."

Ominously, he concluded, "Throughout history, the moment that the barbarians are at the gate, it is already far too late to do anything to save the kingdom. If you listen closely, you can already hear them knocking."

Gently swirling his brandy in his glass, 'Thor' muttered, "Well then, Mercury, you've always been quick to run. What is your exit strategy?"

Giving a small chuckle in response, 'Mercury' admitted, "I like that one a bit better, yes. Honestly, I don't plan on leaving." At Vulcan's surprised expression, Mercury confessed, "I picked up an infant in a village destroyed by monsters twenty-five years ago, and now I've got a lot invested in both her and Exaul... for better or worse. I plan on seeing things through to the bitter end."

"Ah, that girl," Vulcan nodded, taking a sip of brandy. "People talk about how I was born on an anvil with a hammer in my hand, but her? I'd say that she was born in a furnace, given the fire she's got burning in her heart for the forge. She may be a quarter-elf, but I'd almost swear the remaining three-quarters were dwarven, not human. If things weren't the way they are, I'd suggest she ride out the next couple of centuries in the Kingdom Under The Mountain instead, seeing how she'd likely fit right in."

Taking a sip himself, Mercury asked, "Really? There are problems amongst the dwarves?" Mercury prided himself on being very well-informed. However, information from the Kingdom Under The Mountain was extremely sparse in the circles he kept in contact with...

Smiling a little smugly, the smith admitted, "I do hear whispers from under that mountain since I buy some of my metals from the dwarves. But as to problems? Well, it depends on who you ask: If you ask the wealthy and powerful merchants, the Thanes, and even the Thane of Thanes, they'll tell you that there are no problems, that things are exactly the way they should be, which is how they've been since the dwarves first carved their kingdom out of the mountain's heart when time began."

With a snort of irritation, the well-dressed gentleman observed, "Which is what they've been saying for thousands of years. What answer do you get if you ask anyone who isn't rich or in charge?"

"Worry," came Vulcan's prompt reply. He then elaborated, continuing, "Not fear, or at least not true fear, but the worry which is often its herald. The ones in power try to pretend that the world outside the mountain doesn't exist or doesn't matter, but the common dwarves know that much of what they dig, forge, and craft is going out of the kingdom. Their economy is reliant on trade with Exaul, and they hear whispers of their own with every transaction. Unlike the majority of Exaul, the dwarves don't have absolute faith in the future stability of our nation. They know that when Exaul falls, it won't just be us who suffer for it, but all three members of the Terni Alliance, and maybe even the entire world."

Taking a long sip, he added, "Moreover, they remember the dark days when Prince Belua chained dwarves to anvils and forced them to work non-stop to fuel the blighted wretch's mad ambitions. The Terni Alliance was meant to keep that from happening again, but if Exaul falls and the Alliance shatters, what is going to stop some new power-hungry warlord with dreams of conquest from doing the same? The dwarves are considered the best smiths on the continent, but their defeat by Prince Belua and the fanatics of his Cult of Exaltation proved that the army of an extremely isolationist kingdom that hasn't fought an actual war in centuries isn't much of an army at all, no matter how well made their arms and armor might be."

Rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers in a clear sign of consternation, Mercury noted in a very exasperated tone, "And let me guess: Because the official stance of the dwarven leadership is that things always were, are, and will be perfect, the Thane of Thanes didn't take the hint from their last crushing defeat to do anything to improve their army over the last couple centuries. The common dwarves, many of whom lived through those dark days of enslavement, know their army is a joke and that no changes are coming to improve it. Plus, the taboo on all forms of magic means they have no defense against the arcane and that even just a moderately powerful mage like Prince Belua could walk all over them and take over in a day. All of that compounds those worries."

"Exactly," Vulcan confirmed, finishing his glass of brandy. Pouring himself a second, he added, "Worry is likely to give way to fear soon. Fear, unaddressed, will lead to anger. Large numbers of scared, angry people will lead to chaos, violence, and revolt. When Remus falls and Exaul starts calling for increased iron output from the dwarves, I suspect the first of those dominos will begin to fall."

"So you're hoping that if golems are brought in to aid with the extraction of raw ore, it'll steady that first domino, then?" Mercury asked while toying with his glass, curious.

"Aye," Vulcan agreed, sipping his second brandy. "It's a faint hope, but it is hope. I've always had a soft spot for the dwarves since I have so much in common with them, and I'd hate to see their kingdom fall apart. Maybe things will still go to shit when Remus falls, but I can at least turn my back on them knowing I tried."

A deeply unhappy look came across Mercury's face, and he downed his brandy in a single gulp. "Look at how the mighty have fallen," he muttered bitterly with a fist clenched in frustration. "There was a time when our words could move thousands, and our actions influenced the fate of entire nations. Then, we lost it all because we were selfish, entitled assholes who thought that those days would last forever. Now, we're just a couple of old men sitting on the sidelines in a crumbling kingdom, waiting for the day we die."

"We indeed brought it upon ourselves, my dear friend," Vulcan said, consolingly, "and as the saying goes, 'Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.' Well, we have certainly won the grand prize. The future belongs to the next generation. All we can hope for is that they won't repeat our errors, but instead invent bold, exciting new mistakes all their own."

Extending his empty glass, Mercury gave a small smile, and said, "I'll drink to that."

As the two drank a small toast, Vulcan mentioned casually, "I heard from Apollo."

Mercury nearly spat out his drink but managed to hold it down lest he let such good brandy go to waste. Swallowing it down, he asked, incredulous, "That arrogant shit? What did he want?"

Smothering a chuckle at his friend's reaction, Vulcan shrugged and said, "The usual, big plans, ambitions of royalty, and an invitation to join him."

Grabbing the bottle and pouring another drink with shaking hands, Mercury angrily declared, "That fool can't accept that it's over. He's almost as bad as Pluto was." Putting the stopper back in the bottle, he corrected himself, admitting, "Maybe not that bad, but mark my words, he's going to burn himself out doing something futile and stupid in the hopes it'll get him a crown."

"Probably," agreed Vulcan, taking the bottle and pouring himself another as well. "But that's brave, bright 'Balder' in a nutshell. He'd rather burn out than fade away, as is his nature. But we have no right to tell him how he should live his life, and if he wants to throw away the time he has left chasing dreams, I say we let him, so long as he leaves the rest of us out of it."

Sipping his brandy, Vulcan concluded, "But that's enough for today. You've got a trip ahead of you tomorrow, and I've got to start looking for a new smith. If we spend any more time drinking, we'll get none of it done." With that, he put the bottle of brandy away, and then, putting a hand on Mercury's shoulder, he added, "Safe travels and good fortune, dear friend."