At first there was nothing, an endless void of nonexistence, the strange no-man’s-land where people go when unconscious, where whatever secrets lay in wait are forgotten before awareness begins. From that nothingness awareness sprung, oozing in from the corners and crevices, coalescing into a dream or vision or some idle mental imagery.

A massive mountain, reaching into the sky and scraping the clouds. Strange things cavorted on its slopes, unwilling to climb any higher yet compelled to do so anyway. A hand, a giant hand, a hand that could flatten cities reached out of the sky and grasped the titanic hilt of some sword buried in the summit and pulled out a blade as long as the mountain was tall, dripping with molten magma.

A strange low sound, like a shepherd’s pipes played by the nightly campfire to keep loneliness at bay.

The tenebrous clicking and grinding of old bones being dragged over heavy stone blocks, soundless but scathing, mocking laughter.

The polearm he’d picked up in the Temple City; shrouded in the ancient linens where it was found, it’s powers mercifully inactive, laying on some sort of cloth.

The pipes again; where had he heard it before? They sounded so familiar...

*****

Irreparably scarred, wounded, the Seventh Seal retreated from Ankar-Set. Victory had been won on several fronts: The Orgus finished off, an unbound daemonhost banished, an Anglish vessel plundered, a monstrous abomination slain, but the cost had been unbearably high.

Two hundred soldiers, assorted camp followers, and a pair of horse-drawn cannon had set out into the desert. The dead outnumbered the living as thirty-eight soldiers limped towards Azsig-Noth in somber procession.

Their Tross carried the dead, and although there were many opportunities to speak as they retraced their steps from oasis to oasis, no one said anything. Who could? Even the Captain himself struggled with self-blame and doubt.

Would the situation have changed if they’d brought the cannon up with them? Cannonfire filled with ten pounds of iron nails would have blasted swathes through the monstrous vermin, cut down on precious hours spent in desperate defense.

He could have saved them. He could have killed that thing before it turned his men- his men!- into hosts for that thing’s hateful brood.

They could have returned, singing songs of valor and heroism. Wine could have flowed in celebration instead of morose contemplation.

Aldric tried to tell himself that he’d done what he’d meant to do: righted a wrong, vanquished an evil, but the dead haunted him. The cost was just too high.

*****

The sand erupting in front of the columns at the fourth oasis, the midpoint of their return trip back to Azsig-Noth; half a dozen wasps diving at them. Daveth’s sword coming into his hand smoothly, quickly, it felt flawless, a perfect draw, a tiny part of himself cheered himself on for a graceful, silky smooth motion that flowed from arm to hip to blade out and ready, half of them falling to his sword in a single stroke; what luck- and the boring, burning pain in his back.

*****

He was now aware of his body, and he felt mercilessly trapped by the pounding surf of blood in his ears, the stubborn immovability of his bones, the sluggish response of flesh and sinew.

“No, I said you should leave him alone. He’s very ill.” a tired woman’s voice admonished sternly but patiently. It was the voice of a woman who had seen what the world had to offer and made her peace with it; the voice of a woman who had perhaps walked far and seen much, as the saying went.

More piping. Daveth struggled to concentrate. It wasn’t piping, but in a sense, it was. Some sound of pipes being played in the approximation of human speech.

“HE DOES NOT SEEM TO BE BREATHING.”

“I told you that before, too. It’s the poison in him; he breathes very slowly.” the unnamed woman replied. “Now hush. I’m trying to make his medicine and you are distracting me.” A strange sequence of clicks, and then heavy footfalls followed this reprimand.

Daveth tried opening his eyes, but they seemed heavy, impossibly so. He tried to move his hands, but it was like they were carved from stone. His whole body seemed to be ponderously heavy and obstinate. Even breathing seemed impossibly difficult.

The staccato of heavy footfalls drew closer; there were muted click clicks mixed in there as well.

Daveth, awake but unable to move, unable to do anything except hear, strained desperately to open his eyes, to move, to do something, anything. The sound of the footfalls seemed to indicate a creature or person that had a stride shorter than his own but yet was significantly heavier.

The footfalls stopped near his bed, and then just over him there was the sound of a dozen or so rapid-fire series of metallic clicks. A finger, unnaturally cool, ran across his face from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, across his lips and down to his scruffy, unshaven chin in one smooth stroke.

“MOTHER, HE SEEMS TO BE AWAKE.” the piping voice called just above his head, and then he was prodded sharply. “HE IS STILL AFFECTED BY THE POISON.”

“Yes, yes, I know.” The woman’s voice remarked, drawing closer. “You need to leave him alone and let him rest. I’ve told you to leave him alone since he was brought here and yet you’ve continued to disobey.”

The woman’s voice shifted tone to something more brisk.

“Hello, Commander Daveth. it’s likely you can’t see me and it’s also likely that you can’t move, either.” There was a pause, followed by a snort. “That’s the poison in your veins.” She stated dryly. “Your Lord Captain brought you here to me because I have a little knowledge of poisons and antitoxins.” She sighed. “Only a little though, so your recovery will take a while.”

“MOTHER, HE IS DIFFERENT.” The piping voice offered.

“Different? Different how?” The woman responded. Her voice was motherly, he decided, when she spoke to the person with the piping voice. Softer.

“DIFFERENT FROM YOU.” the voice piped.

“Of course. He’s very different.” The woman replied. “For one thing, he’s a lot taller.”

“HIS FACE FEELS DIFFERENT FROM YOURS.”

There was a pause. “You were touching him?” She asked. “You shouldn’t do that. That’s probably how he woke up, you know. Poking and prodding him like that. You should let him sleep.”

“I WANT HIM TO BE AWAKE. I WANT HIM TO SPEAK TO ME.” The strangely musical voice replied.

“Why?” The woman asked, curious.

“BECAUSE HE IS DIFFERENT.”

A small sigh, and yet it carried all the long-suffering patience of parenthood.

“Let him sleep. When he’s ready to get up and speak, maybe he’ll speak to you. Until then, leave him alone.”

Daveth drifted off to sleep.

*****

When Daveth awoke next, he discovered he could open his eyes, and with a bit of effort, focus on things around him. it seemed to be nighttime; stars were visible from the small window. The air was dry and smelled of sand and exotic spices. Ah, Aszig-Noth.

The stars were blotted out momentarily as a shadowy shape filled the window.

Someone slipped into the room with him without even a whisper of sound. It was difficult to see them until they slipped closer to him.

“Hello, Commander.” Audra whispered. “I don’t trust these people. They seem... weird to me.” She looked down at him. “Can you talk?” She asked curiously.

Daveth tried to speak, but found he couldn't. He tried to shake his head, but found that was likewise impossible. After a moment she let out a breath. “Well, no matter. I’ve been watching them like a hawk since we brought you here and while that woman and.... that thing seem to be ... genuine, I don’t know.” She glanced around apprehensively. “I just don’t trust them.”

She pulled out a dagger, a delicate thing with a long, narrow blade, and stuck it under the blankets, near his hand.

“Just in case.” She whispered. “Hurry up and get better, Commander.” She said, and dove out the window as silently as she had slid in.

Daveth wanted to frown, but couldn’t feel his face move. Nothing seemed to move, and that was the most vexing part. Complete paralysis, complete numbness.

He forced himself to take a huge breath, and then he held it for several minutes, and then let it out. His heart thudded dully in his chest, and bright lights seemed to flash in his vision at this exertion. Strangely though, he felt a little revitalized, so to occupy himself he created a regimen of deep breaths to occupy his mind and eat up time.

It was after a few hours of this that pain began to creep into the edges of his consciousness.

Everything hurt. Fingertips, his nose, his face, his elbow, his back, everything in his bed felt like it was being stabbed, set afire, scraped, shredded, slashed, gouged with rusty nails, drenched in acid.

He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t clench his teeth, he couldn’t curl up, he couldn’t do anything to fight it. Tears leaked from his eyes and he tried to force himself to sleep, to blissful unconsciousness to escape the pain.

*****

Daveth woke screaming. The pain was back and stronger than before. His muscles were spasming and he was flopping helplessly in his bed.

“The pain is a normal thing, Lord Commander.” the woman’s voice from before spoke. He discovered he could look around a bit, and spied her, sitting next to his bed.

She was an oldish woman, with grey streaks in her brown hair and lines around her mouth. Her face had a bitter cast to it, but her voice held no malice, only a dry, businesslike briskness that one would adopt when dealing with a particularly unpleasant yet necessary task. He’d used that tone before, himself.

She leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what I told your captain, and the subordinates that have come ‘round to check on you: The poison put all of your muscles and nerves to sleep. Now they’re waking up.”

She shrugged a little helplessly. “I can’t give you anything for the pain, because all it’ll do is numb that response and we’ll be right back where we started when the painkiller wore off.” She sighed again.

Her voice followed him into the black. “Good luck, Commander. You’ve made it this far, so there’s a chance you’ll survive... though the pain may kill you too.”

*****

Thump. Click click click. Thump thump, click click click click. Thump. The pattern seemed to repeat itself slowly.

He opened his eyes, but wasn’t prepared for what was in front of him.

Whoever she was, she was exquisitely beautiful. She had the perfect, chiseled looks of a sculpture. high cheekbones, glossy hair that flowed straight without wave or curl, skin as pale as porcelain, limbs straight and slender.

She moved gracefully, effortlessly, in some dance that seemed composed entirely of poses, wearing a loose, frilly dress that billowed and flowed with her movements as she danced about his room.

Whatever she was, she was the owner of the heavy footfalls. She turned to face him and froze, mid-pose, right leg out and knee bent, arms out for balance, fingers splayed. They stared at each other for some indeterminate length of time, neither moving nor speaking.

Her eyes were not human, they seemed artificial, like glass or crystal. Her skin was as pale as porcelain because that’s exactly what it was. The joints in her arms, wrists, and fingers glowed dully with the tone of polished brass.

Her movements were smooth and graceful, Daveth decided, because she was a machine.

“You’re a golem.” He found himself saying. That perfect face nodded, not once changing expression.

“You’re a fair sight better constructed than the clay golems I saw outside the city.” he said, and although her mouth didn’t move, she piped, “THANK YOU.” and her pose fell to a standing position.

The clicking seemed to come from her internals. The door to his bedroom opened and the older woman stepped in with a small tray and a glass of water.

“Oh, you’re awake.” She remarked and then glanced to the side.

“I thought I told you to leave him alone.” She reminded the golem pointedly. The golem’s eyes shifted to the woman’s face and then away.

“I CHOSE NOT TO.” she piped up, folding her hands together primly.

The woman set down the tray and pointed at the doorway.

“I WISH TO STAY.” the golem declared.

“Go.” the woman commanded, and the golem left, feet hammering out a heavy tread.

“She seems to be... heavy.” Daveth observed, sitting up.

“You shouldn’t be up and about like that, commander.” The woman remarked as he rose to a sitting position, but he shrugged.

She let out a sigh, and nodded. “To return to your question, yes she’s quite heavy. She’s mostly brass and porcelain, but there are components within her that are heavier.” She rubbed her nose. “She’s about three times as heavy as you, Commander.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“How else do you think I could get you into that bed?” She scoffed at his unasked question.

“So who are you and why am I here?” he asked, curling and uncurling his toes on the carpet. The feeling wasn’t all the way back yet. It sort of felt like he was moving someone else's toes.

“Some fool in the city had to mention to your Captain Aldric that I know how to deal with poisons and toxins.” She said with a frown. “Which is true after a fashion; I used to deal in herbs for a while as an apothecary. But I’m no healer, and I really did very little except give you a purgative and keep you hydrated and fed.”

She shrugged and raised her palms to indicate her lack of knowledge. “I’m a mage- though in these lands I guess I’m a ‘sorceress’- and my field of study is golems.” She moved her hands around loosely, indicating the place she was at. “Azsig-Noth was- is a great place to start learning.”

“Seems like you learned well, considering the types of golems they use.” He observed. She nodded.

“In any case, returning to the topic at hand, I was expected to cure you. That’s why you’re here.”

She pointed at the glass of water. “There’s a solution in there that should wash out the remaining toxins from your system, and then you can do us both a favor and leave.”

“I- I don’t know what to say.” He said, flabbergasted at her curt demeanor.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “You’re a mercenary.” She responded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “There’s no place for you here. You’re all better now, so it’s time for you to move on. Leave. Go. Shoo. Find something to go kill.”

*****

He launched into a nightmarish tale or cannibal Orgus, fleeing what his Nothian guides called ‘Velkiss’ (monstrous vermin) bees, and the horrific thing that’d been dubbed ‘Sartura’ (Soured nightmare) postmortem.

Daveth was telling her the story in a simple, broken form of Nothian. Was he even aware of it? She wondered. A man like him picked up and lost languages as easily as discarded clothing. He told of their victories and their losses, and she eventually held up her hand to interrupt him.

“I can see where this is going, and its inevitable conclusion.” She interrupted bitterly.

“You what?” He asked, baffled.

“Simple, really. You lost mages, so you think to recruit me. I refuse, and then you make an offer for her.” She spat, jerking her thumb at the door. To which I again refuse. This offends you, because I stand in the way of what you want, and so you threaten me.”

Daveth chuckled. “You sure you don’t want to come along? We lost all of our mages. Could use someone with your sass, no lie.”

She frowned at him, confused. “You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. “I’d be useless to you as a mage. I don’t know any combat magic.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? none at all?”

“All I know is how to build golems. And before you ask, No I won’t give her to you to use in your army.” she tapped a finger against the corner of her mouth. “Oh, and I won’t make any golems for you to take into war, either.”

He raised his eyebrows as he sifted the powder into the glass of water, swirled it around with the spoon, and then downed the liquid quickly.

“Yuck. So what could you make for us?” he asked curiously. She barked a laugh. “I’d like to make you go away, if it’s all the same.” She took a long slow breath.

“I have just about everything I need here to continue my research. And as much as I hate to admit it, she’s the closest thing I have to a daughter.” She glanced at Daveth significantly. “What parent would willingly want their child killing other people- and for money, no less?”

“What if I paid you? Could you make something then?” He asked, and she raised an eyebrow. “That depends on what you want, Commander.”

“Could I ask for one like her, but like you said, built for combat?” He asked curiously. She shook her head.

He nodded. “I expected as much, but I had to ask. How about this, then: one like her, but not combat oriented. I have to tell you, there’s a lot that I need to do as a commander that doesn’t take place on the battlefield. Logistics, supply lines, letters of correspondence, things like that. I need an aide.”

The older woman paced in thought briefly, but shook her head.

“I could do that, theoretically.” She mused. “But it’s a question of materials, not money. I’d have to go to Darnell for most of the materials, and she’s not ready for travel.” She rolled her eyes.

“For that matter, yours wouldn’t be able to travel, either. Too much cold, too much water exposure, or dirt, or mud, or... whatever, and it would grind to a halt. Literally.” She folded her hands in her lap.

“And then you would have paid a lot of money for something that is useless to you.” She shook her head. “No commander, you’ve given me a few ideas, but I can’t in good faith promise something like that, regardless of the money involved.”

He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That sort of scraps my other idea, then.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“A golem horse. Like my living horse, only mechanical. Something with infinite stamina, that could carry me sure-footed across any terrain. I’m ... well, I’m larger than most people. Heavier. My horse tires quickly without magical aid.”

She smiled. “Now that is a fascinating idea, Commander.” she said, a touch of delight lighting up her face for a moment. “I could easily do that, but it would take some time.”

He nodded. “What do I owe you for the detox?” He asked.

“seven silver for the herbs, and sixty-three silver for the inconvenience of putting you up for three weeks.”

“Three-” He blurted. “Three weeks?”

She nodded. “You’ll probably need a couple more days to finish flushing the toxins from your system, but the worst has passed.”

There was a series of muffled clicks from just beyond the door.

“And she seems to have a problem.” the woman finished with a sigh. “She hasn’t been exposed to other people, and so she’s curious.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen a golem of that level of sophistication before.”

“Thank you.” She replied simply.

“I thought they took everything literally, could only understand simple commands and the like.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’re well-versed.” She murmured, and he shrugged. “No more than the next guy, i’d imagine.”

She shook her head. ‘The next guy’ was usually someone with jumped-up ideas in his head about what golems could or couldn’t do. That’d been what had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

“Well, the capabilities of a golem are limited by several factors. Care to guess what they are?”

He shrugged. “Will you tell me if I’m wrong?” He asked, and she chuckled.

“The quality of the mage, the quality of the materials, and the quality of the soul used.” She said, ticking them off on her fingers.

He blinked a couple of times. “S-Soul?” He asked, and she nodded. “The golems here are created from mud and the captured spirit of an earth elemental.”

She again tipped her thumb at the door to the room. “Saria is made from a brass skeleton and magically treated porcelain and a captured spirit as well. Magic provides the pathways for which power flows- allowing the golem to move, to speak, and in certain ways, to think.”

“The more complicated the pathways, the more flexible the golem, the smarter. But intelligence can’t be given by magic, else I'd be a genius.” She made a bitter face.

“The soul is important as well. You can take an elemental spirit and what does it know, what can it understand, what can it learn?” She asked rhetorically, and waved her hand dismissively. “Not very much.” She exhaled through her nose.

“You can take the soul of a cat, however, because cats have certain qualities you can work with. Territoriality. The instincts of a predator. Curiosity. Playfulness. The capacity for affection.” She smiled a little. “Very little communication skills, though.”

Daveth shrugged. “Think you lost me back there. I understood what you meant by qualities, though.” She nodded. “In a way, golemcraft is very similar to-.” She caught herself, and shuddered a little.

Daveth put his hand to his head and muttered to himself in a language that wasn’t Anglish or Nothian. The drugged, sleepy expression was stealing over his features.

“Looks like the medicine is taking effect. Lay down and sleep commander. I should think you’ll be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon.” Her voice seemed to come from very far away as he lay down and closed his eyes.

*****

She opened the door to see the golem standing right outside, as she expected.

“I thought I told you-” She began, but Saria shook her head.

“YOU TOLD ME TO LEAVE THE ROOM BUT YOU DID NOT SAY HOW FAR.”

“You’re really pushing it.” She said, and gestured. “Come along with me, Saria.”

The golem followed dutifully, muted clicks from her interior as strange mechanisms inside toiled.

“YOU DO NOT WISH FOR ME TO SPEAK WITH HIM.” the golem piped. The woman glanced at the golem as she made herself some tea.

“No, I don’t think I do.” She remarked. “What would be the result of such a conversation, Saria?”

The golem was silent for a while.

“Think carefully. What are you expecting to hear from him?”

“I DO NOT KNOW, MOTHER.”

“Then why do you want to speak with him?” She asked, unwrapping a cheese and reaching for a knife.

“HE IS DIFFERENT.” the golem replied.

“We had this conversation before, Saria.” She replied, slicing cheese and preserved meats for her lunch. She ate in silence, which was in itself a mixed blessing. Golems didn’t need to eat, as they were powered by magic, but Saria was special to her, and there was still a part of her, an idealistic, maternal part of her, that hoped she could share such a simple pleasure with the golem at least once.

As she put away the remains of her meal, the door to the guest room opened and the giant, Daveth, stumbled out. She had to admire his constitution at least. The man recovered quickly. His head brushed the ceiling of her home, which was made for her, not him. Getting him inside had been a chore. He was tall, he was wide, and he was heavy, nearly a quarter-ton of flesh and bone alone.

“HE DOES NOT BELONG HERE.” The golem stated.

“No, no he doesn’t. He will be leaving tomorrow.” the woman replied calmly, eyes flicking up and over the golem’s shoulder at Daveth. “Are you feeling territorial?”

“IS HE LEAVING?”

The woman frowned. “I just said so, Saria. he is leaving tomorrow.”

The golem’s hands clenched and unclenched.

“MOthEr, sOmeTHing iS wrOng wITH mE.” it said abruptly. “I dO NOt- thErE IS sOmeTHing. wrOng.” It jittered and then collapsed on the floor without warning.

The woman carried the golem via magic back to her workshop, Daveth helping silently.

*****

“MOTHER, IS THE MAN DANGEROUS?” She asked as the woman worked carefully inside Saria’s innards.

“I have no doubt that he is very dangerous, Saria. If you are asking if he is a danger to us, the answer is ‘probably not’.”

“WHY?” Saria asked, raising her head to watch the woman work. the older woman pushed Saria’s head back down distractedly without looking up.

“Why is he dangerous, or why is he probably not a danger to us?” The woman responded.

“IF-” the golem asked and then stopped. “WHY-” She tried again and stopped.

The woman’s eyebrow lifted. It seemed Saria was trying to articulate a complex idea, something she wasn’t supposed to be capable of doing.

“If he's dangerous, why bring him into the house?” the woman asked with a sidelong glance at the giant who stood quietly out of the way in the corner of her workshop, and Saria nodded.

“Because he was hurt. Because I was asked to heal him.” The woman replied, picking up a tool from the table without looking. Saria struggled to a sitting position again, but the woman pushed her back down again.

“He’s more interested in getting healthy again than being a danger to others, Saria.”

“HE IS ALMOST HEALED. HE IS A DANGER?” Saria asked.

“He isn't. He wants to leave. I want him to leave. When he is ready to leave, he will.”

“ALL RIGHT.” Saria replied.

The woman sighed when she saw the extent of the repairs she’d need to do. “I need to put you to sleep.”

“NO, DON’T.” Saria urged. “I DON’T LIKE THE LONG DARK!” She begged, which caused Daveth to stand upright, arms uncrossed.

“I’ve put you to sleep before and you were just fine.”

“I DON’T LIKE IT!” Saria begged, frantic.

“What’s going on?” Daveth asked, concerned, and the woman reached into the golem and made some adjustment, and the golem flopped back limply.

“She needs fixing.” The woman replied sourly. “And unless you have a Degree in the Arcane Arts with a specialization in golemcraft, I suggest you let me fix her.”

He gave the old woman a frown. “I’d like to ask you again if you’d consider working for the Seventh Seal.” Daveth positioned, and produced a chunk of cheese he’d helped himself to from her kitchen.

He relished the feeling of chewing his food, something he hadn’t been able to do a scant day ago. His tongue was slightly numb, but the cheese was good.

The woman sighed and set down her tools. “Twenty years ago, I was approached by a certain government for the exact same reasons you’re offering now: I should make an army of golems for them. Invincible fighters, relentless, tireless, ruthless... and unquestioningly loyal.” There was a long pause.

“Everyone assumes that my golems are a product, something to be bartered and sold and turned to whatever purpose they want.” She shook her head bitterly.

“For me, my research itself is the goal. I don’t want my golems to be used for war. Who would be proud of such a thing?” She asked rhetorically.

Daveth opened his mouth, and she raised her head and locked her eyes with his.

“They killed my daughter to ‘motivate’ me.” She stated flatly. “So Instead, I fled.” She smiled bitterly.

“You have nothing with which to convince me, Lord Commander. I’ll refuse your offer, any offer, until my death.”

Daveth let out a breath. “I’m no savage, I won’t threaten. Still, a golem horse would be incredibly helpful to me.”

*****

“If only people could fall asleep so quickly.” She muttered, indicating the limp golem on her workbench.

She picked up a clipboard and ran through some calculations, and then moved to a blackboard, where she began to sketch a spellform. She ran through her calculations, adjusted her spellform, adjusted, redrew, and recalculated, until she was satisfied with the result.

She went further into the cellar, where boxes and crates were stacked neatly. From one she took a small ingot of metal, from another she took a small amount of powder, marking her removal on an inventory sheet. She was always methodical and logical in the decisions and choices she made, almost irritatingly so.

When she was younger, she was flighty and ill-motivated until she’d been trained by the Miskatonik University, where they inexorably carved rote and ritual into her until all she saw were numbers and variables, angles and planes and star cycles and the endless calculation of each. It’d been decades since then, however, but the habits of keeping everything organized and the ruthless calculation had not completely left her.

On a whim she ran a sequence of numbers through her head. Yes, it was likely that she had enough material on hand to make the monster's golem horse. She’d request the soul of his current horse, of course, and then... what? Craft him a tireless warhorse? Give it fiery breath, perhaps? She laughed to herself. A fire-breathing horse. Her eyebrows rose suddenly. A fire-breathing horse. That would be sort of interesting.

She returned to Saria, and dropped the metal ingot into a small crucible. Muttering her incantations, the metal softened and melted, running like butter. The woman added some powdered earth, and mixed it in. Little sparks danced above the bowl. She poured the mixture into a broad flat pan and let it begin to cool. When the metal was firming up, she added leaves and powdered quartz, and with a wave of her hand the metal folded itself over and over again. This was the crucial phase of her craft; the fibers of the plant would char and the powdered crystal would form traces in the metal. In a process she wasn’t completely fully comprehensive of, the crystal would pass along traces of power as it was heated and compressed. She began casting her spells, overlaying the spellform she’d drawn out earlier. If she was accurate in her material choices, the amounts of material she’d added would be sufficient to imbue the metal with the spellform, crafted into the very metal.

She drank a revitalizing tea to restore her magical reserves, while recasting the spellform repeatedly, so that it would permeate the metal just so.

As the metal cooled she used magic to trim it down into the tiny piece she needed for Saria’s innards. Saria’s body was controlled by a power that was very similar to electricity, but also bore properties similar to that of a living soul. The processes of Saria’s innards seemed to be out of alignment, and so the addition of this component should bring everything back into alignment again.

The woman’s mouth twisted painfully. Likely Saria would become even more strange. The soul did not take well to being caged in a mechanical shell, but once the soul had been captured, you were stuck with the results. All that remained were constant stop-gap measures designed to contain the damage.

Her abilities had improved since then, however. She was much more proficient in soul-trapping than she had been when she’d trapped Saria’s soul. She’d make Commander Daveth’s horse, she decided, and then she would charge him a ridiculous amount of money for it.

She nodded. “I can build you a golem horse... but no golem army.” She shifted her eyes to his face. “I’m assuming you want me to use your horses’ soul?” She asked curiously, and he scratched his cheek with a fingertip.

“That’ll be fine.” He replied. He then asked her a question that had begun to form in his mind when he saw them speaking in the kitchen. It was a frightful question, filled with uncertainty and reluctance.

“I first thought that she was, as you said, taken from a cat.” He began hesitantly. “But cats don’t ask questions, do they?”

She looked up from her work.

“I’m told that you suffered great losses in the deserts to the north.” She asked flatly.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your concern.” He countered. She gave him a look: tit for tat.

“I won’t ask you how you grieve for your comrades.” She stated in a cool, calm, but hesitant voice. “But in return... Please don’t ask me how I mourn hers.”

Daveth struggled with himself, but forced himself to nod. He had no right to cast aspersions on what she did, and even so, to her he was simply a customer at best, an obnoxious house-guest at worst.

“I’ll... return for my horse.” He offered, and the woman nodded, and rubbed at her eyes.

“Yes. You do that small thing.”