The place we'd been relocated to was hardly a mere "venue." It was a beer hall brimming with an almost mythical charm like something out of a long-forgotten legend about the defunct Adventuring Guilds and their endless nights of revelry. At first glance, it reminded me of those old Adventure Guild Halls you see depicted in games and vids: lofty beams overhead, towering columns carved with mythical beasts, and a sprawling floor plan that could swallow King Victor's Bar whole many times over.

Rows upon rows of tables sprawled across the space, meticulously arranged to accommodate every shape and size of the Kindreds. There were dwarf-height stools, wide-backed chairs for orcs, and even a few raised platforms for those who preferred a lofty perch. A grand bar dominated one entire wall, lined with enough types of liquor to stock an entire city. Stacked kegs loomed behind it, each one big enough to bathe in, and tankards of every conceivable shape sat ready to be filled, some as small as teacups for the lighter appetites, others as massive as cauldrons for those with a truly mighty thirst.

Illumination came from dozens of gently glowing mana lamps suspended overhead, casting the room in a warm, welcoming light. But the strangest sight of all one that sent a little shiver down my spine was the swarm of wooden golems scrambling to prep the hall for its opening. Each one stood just under four feet tall, carved from polished oak or mahogany and painted with colorful motifs. Their center glowed softly with embedded mana cores, and runic etchings traced their limbs. They clanked around like an army of animated marionettes, setting plates, wiping tables, and fussing with decorations. The eerie creak of their wooden joints gave the whole spectacle an otherworldly air.

Standing near the entrance, looking both enthralled and utterly overwhelmed, were Strom and Krenk. As soon as they spotted me, they stiffened. Strom let out a long, low whistle, while Krenk took a contemplative puff of his pipe, eyebrows vanishing into his hairline.

"What in the Sacred Names of the Ancestors did you do, lad, to get us moved here?" Strom demanded, voice low with amazement. "Did you " He paused, scratching his head. "Did you, I dunno, go down on the Governor-General herself?"

The bluntness of his question actually made me choke on my own breath. I tried to respond, but before I could form words, Krenk burst into one of his raspy, smoke-filled chuckles.

"Always so subtle, aren't you, Strom?" he drawled, his pipe puffing little wisps into the air. "I told you bringing John would be a good idea. He's already got the nobles in a tizzy, and he's not even wearing that outfit I picked out for him yet."

I couldn't help but shake my head at the two of them. "Would you believe me if I said I honestly didn't do anything?" I asked, a hint of wry amusement creeping into my voice. "All I know is a friend pulled some strings, and…here we are."

Strom spread his thick arms wide, gesturing around at the cavernous hall. "Pulled some strings? I'd say she upended half the palace to put us here! This room makes King Victor's look like a broom closet."

"Tell me about it," I murmured, taking a slow, 360-degree look. "I've never seen anything quite like this. It's like a relic from the Ages of Adventure but somehow spruced up for modern tastes."

Krenk took another drag from his pipe, the ember at its tip glowing fiercely before fading to a soft orange. "Never underestimate the power of a determined woman," he remarked, a knowing smirk tugging at his thin lips. "If this friend wanted to catch your eye, she is doing a great job. Lucky for us, that turned well and got us moved …well, here."

At that exact moment, one of the wooden golems scuttled past us, arms full of tablecloths. Its painted face turned toward me, dead eyes shining with a faint pinkish glow. I tensed, but it merely clacked in a semblance of acknowledgment before scurrying away to drape another table.

Strom let out an uneasy grunt. "Creepy little things, aren't they?" he said, crossing his massive forearms over his chest. "But they've been setting up faster than I've ever seen a work crew manage. We might actually be ready on time if I can keep myself from jumping any time one gets close."

Krenk nodded, exhaling a plume of thick smoke. "Nothing like an army of wooden servants to get a place spick and span," he muttered. Then, as if remembering something, he turned back to me. "So, John, do you care to tell us the rest of the story? One minute, you're being dragged away. Next thing we hear, we've been 'promoted' to this big, shiny hall."

I shifted my weight, trying to figure out how much I could say without going into the harrowing details of the interrogation room. After all, we had a bar to set up and secrets to keep. "It's…complicated," I managed, "but let's just say someone fucked up royally, and we are being bribed to keep our mouths shut."

Krenk chuckled, "Some fuck up. Are ya alright."

"No, but I have been through worse. Got to look on the bright side. We'll have way more foot traffic here, which means more potential customers for Stonestealer's Stout." I said, changing the topic.

Krenk gave me a sad nod. Laying his hand on mine for comfort. It didn't take much imagination to guess what could have happened. That was life for men in this world; if you stopped and dwelled on the pain, it would consume you. You had to move forward, pretend everything was okay, and laugh at the pain. I was sure by tomorrow, when both their greedy hearts were filled, they would get a more detailed story out of me, and they would help how they could. They did that for a lot of the boys who worked for them. They were decent people at their core, looking out for the lost and broken men in their own way. But now it was time to work.

Strom's eyes gleamed at the mention of his signature brew, not noticing the little byplay. "Then we'd best get ready for the rush." He clapped me on the shoulder with enough force to rock me on my feet. "I'll have you helping set up our stuff if you've got any energy left after that little adventure of yours."

Krenk, however, just snickered around his pipe. "Dagna will be back soon with the rest from the old stand soon."

I rubbed my temples, recalling the earlier madness and Taimi's departure with her steely-eyed teacher. Some honest work would help settle my nerves. I replied quickly. "Point me to what needs setting up."

Strom gestured to a row of barrels lined up near the bar each emblazoned with the dwarven crest of Stonestealer's. Each entwined with the vast brewery tanks back at the bar. "Once we've got these tapped and the tables prepped, we'll be ready for tonight. Oh, and…" He paused, his voice dropping. "Thanks for whatever you did, lad. You might not believe it, but this is a huge opportunity."

The sincerity in his tone caught me off guard. "Just doing my job," I said with a shrug.

Krenk exhaled another fragrant puff, tapping the ash from his pipe. "A job well done," he said simply. "Now, let's show the palace what King Victor's Bar can really do."

And with that, the three of us got to work, each step echoing off the vaulted ceiling of this surreal, old-world meets new-age beer hall. The wooden golems scuttled around us like silent assistants, the mana lamps overhead glowed like twinkling stars, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the soft strains of music drifting in. If we played our cards right, this might turn out to be the best Yuletide shift of my life. It's not like tonight could get any worse.

Dagna appeared through the arched doorway, lugging a box that looked too large for someone of her stature to handle. Yet she carried it with casual ease, as if the thing weighed no more than a loaf of bread. The truth, of course, was that the box of holding defied conventional rules of weight and size. It might as well have been crammed with an entire room's worth of stock arcane pocket dimensions could store an astonishing volume of goods without adding so much as an extra pound.

The box itself, though an incredible piece of enchanted craftsmanship, paled in comparison to the cost and complexity of the wooden golems scuttling around the hall. Each doll-like construct required the contracting of a spirit, a process few mages dared attempt, and even fewer could do well. Its upkeep in mana alone probably surpassed what I could hope to earn in a month, never mind a single evening. But for someone like Dagna, it was all just another day's work.

"'Bout time you showed up," Strom called, striding over to greet his niece. He wiped his hands on his apron, a deep scowl in place. "We need that box opened and the merchandise laid out."

Dagna rolled her eyes, setting the crate down on the marble floor with a solid thunk. "Would've been here sooner if you slackers had pitched in," she growled. "I'm not a one-woman moving crew, you know."

"Easy there!" Strom barked, hurrying to put a steadying hand on the box. "Careful with that thing it's got most of our inventory inside."

"I know exactly what's in it," Dagna retorted, placing her fists on her hips. "You think I didn't notice when I packed and repacked it twice already? I'm not unloading it again by myself."

She glared at Strom, who answered with a gruff noise in the back of his throat. "Dagna, you know us men can't interface with the box's magic," he reminded her, his voice dipping into a vaguely apologetic tone.

"Oh, spare me the lecture, Uncle." She waved him off, impatience clearly mounting. "I'm not asking you to weave spells or decode runes, I'm telling you to use your bloody hands. All you have to do is reach in and start pulling out the merchandise. If I pop the lid, the stuff's accessible, so don't act like your arms are broken."

Her outburst drew attention from a few passing golems, their glowing cores flickering briefly as they paused in their duties to 'observe' the scene. One tipped its wooden head, as though mildly curious about the dwarves' spat, before clanking away to attend to a nearby table.

Strom puffed out his chest, expression darkening. "Don't take that tone with me," he warned, though the threat rang a bit hollow. They were, after all, family. And dwarven families, especially, were famous for their loud, boisterous quarrels usually followed by a round of hearty drinking.

"You always say that," Dagna snapped, brushing her coppery hair out of her eyes. "But you never do anything to help until I'm threatening to take a hammer to your shins."

Krenk, who had been quietly leaning against a column nearby, couldn't resist a laugh. The goblin's pipe bobbed in his mouth, sending curls of smoke drifting ceilingward. "I see the family reunion is in full swing," he remarked dryly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Next thing you know, they'll start trading headbutts."

Dagna shot him a glare, then turned back to Strom. "Are we going to stand here arguing, or do you want this bar stocked so we can actually serve some customers tonight?"

"Fine," Strom rumbled, crossing his arms defensively. "Pop the lid, and I'll, I'll do what I can, all right?"

"I'll pop the lid," Dagna echoed, sounding unconvinced, "but I swear, if you toss the first cask at my feet, expecting me to cart it around the room, I'll "

"Stop your fussing and just open it," Strom interrupted, stepping aside with an exasperated huff.

Dagna let out a longsuffering sigh, muttering a few words in Dwarvish that I only partly caught something about "thick-headed men" and "ancestors preserve us." She then set her palms against the runic locks on the box's surface. With a soft hum and a faint glow, the arcane symbols lit up, and the top of the box rose as though on hidden hinges. A gentle rush of air escaped, carrying the faint scent of sawdust and fresh linen.

"There," she said, stepping back triumphantly. "Now start unloading. Use those big arms of yours for something other than scratching your beard."

Strom grumbled again, but he shuffled forward and peered inside the box. From my vantage point, I could see a bizarre glimpse of impossibly distant space like staring into a huge cellar that somehow existed in a space no bigger than an apple crate. Rows of carefully arranged items stretched back, disappearing into darkness. Strom braced himself, reached in, and pulled out a miniature keg, followed by a crate of glassware.

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"All right," he muttered, hefting them onto the nearby counter with a grunt of effort. "You satisfied?"

"Keep 'em coming," Dagna barked, rolling up her sleeves. "Krenk, you can help, too, unless you plan to lounge around blowing smoke all night."

Krenk shrugged, tapping out his pipe on the heel of his boot. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of a dwarven family meltdown," he said, grinning. "But I suppose I can lend a hand. John, you might as well jump in, too, or we'll still be here at dawn."

I stepped forward, exchanging a quick, understanding look with Dagna. Despite their bickering, it was clear that Strom and his niece shared a deep bond. She had to being the only one Strom's family willing to talk to him. That, in its own way, was comforting. Even amid all the stress of being relocated, of dealing with mana-powered golems, and of trying to pull off a successful evening for King Victor's Bar, some things never changed.

Together, we all began the work of transporting bottles, and boxes of supplies from the enchanted crate. The wooden golems waddled by, indifferent to our noisy exchange, continuing to set up chairs and arrange décor. Soft echoes from the grand hall's high ceiling made it feel like we were in our own private amphitheater, a stage for dwarven squabbles, goblin snark, and one thoroughly out of his depth emancipated man.

But as the pile of supplies next to the bar grew and the box's contents steadily diminished, a kind of unspoken teamwork took hold. We fell into a rhythm: Strom lifted, Dagna organized, Krenk fetched, and I stacked or carried, all while sharing exasperated glances and the occasional grin. The warm, yellow light of the mana lamps bathed the scene, giving it a strangely cozy feeling like an odd little family moving into a new home.

"Think we'll be ready in time?" I asked, setting down a final box of glassware.

Dagna shot me a small smile, brushing dust from her hands. "Sure we will. We've worked faster under worse conditions, haven't we?"

Strom and Krenk exchanged a glance, then nodded. "Aye," Strom said, "and we always pull through. One way or another."

Krenk suddenly let out a rasping cackle that grew into full-blown, mischievous laughter, his face lighting up as if he'd just discovered a hidden treasure. "Here's your uniform for the evening," he announced, gleefully tossing a bundle of cloth in my direction. The goblin's pointed ears twitched with excitement, and his grin was so wide it threatened to split his face in two.

I caught the bundle against my chest, brow furrowing in suspicion. After all, Krenk's idea of "fashion" had been questionable at best in the past. Carefully, I laid the garments out across a nearby table to inspect them in full. What I saw made my stomach tighten.

The so called uniform looked like a parody of a tavern dandy's wardrobe, the sort of costume you might find in a bawdy stage play only it was tailored to fit me. A long, billowy white shirt formed the base, its sleeves nearly transparent in spots, ballooning out at the wrists before cinching with thin, shoddy lace. The blue vest on top had been cheaply embroidered, the thread already fraying at the edges. The shorts, if one could call them that, were black and scandalously short, barely reaching mid-thigh. A wide belt, complete with an ostentatious, gleaming buckle, held a prominent groin guard in place, a gaudy metal fixture that left no room for subtlety.

My cheeks heated just looking at the outfit. It conjured the mental image of a performer in some seedy back-alley stripjoint, not an employee tasked with serving drinks in an esteemed palace beer hall. "It could be worse," I managed, lifting the metal guard between two fingers as though it might bite.

Krenk's laughter only intensified. He looked like a goblin child on Yuletide morning, practically dancing in place. "You're the star attraction, John. Every tavern needs a resident dandy and you happen to fill that role perfectly. Trust me, you'll have customers swooning."

Dagna, who'd been leaning against a nearby cask, took one look at my horrified expression and burst into unrestrained belly laughter. "Oh, that's rich," she wheezed, pointing to the shorts. "I had a feeling Krenk would pull something like this. But given the other outfit he had picked out, you got off light."

Struggling to maintain my composure, I held up the frilly sleeves of the shirt. "These are practically see-through," I muttered, voice tinged with mortification. "And this vest" I fingered the flimsy embroidery. "Did you just glue some cheap lace onto a scrap of cloth and call it a day?"

Krenk shrugged, still wearing that manic grin. "Waste not, want not! Besides, they will be looking at you, not the outfit. It's the overall impression that matters."

I glanced over at Strom, half-hoping he'd intervene on my behalf, but the dwarf simply shrugged and fiddled with his apron, evidently trying to hide a smirk. "Could be worse," he offered, not meeting my gaze. "At least it's got pants. Sort of."

"Sort of," I echoed, eyeing the microscopic inseam. "I'm not even sure these qualify as pants. They're more like…underwear with delusions of grandeur."

Dagna finally managed to catch her breath, though a few giggles slipped through. "You have to admit," she said, gesturing at the massive beer hall, "this place screams for a bit of dramatic flair. Picture it: the lofty ceilings, the humming golems, the rowdy crowd clamoring for ale then you saunter in, dressed like the quintessential tavern dandy straight out of a storybook."

Krenk chuckled, patting me on the back. "Relax, John. You'll be the talk of the evening. And it's not just about looking pretty this get-up will keep 'em curious and engaged, which means more orders, more tips, and more renown for King Victor's Bar."

Dagna nodded, her mirth tempered by a pragmatic edge. "I hate to say it, but he's not wrong. If the highborn want a show, we might as well give them one and I can't think of a better spectacle than you in that outfit. Plus," she added, dropping her voice, "if we rake in enough coin, Strom and Krenk might finally give that raise they have been hunting at for years."

I heaved a long-suffering sigh, picking up the belt with a careful hand and letting it dangle in front of me. "Fine," I said, sounding defeated. "But if this ends up on someone's Link feed, I swear I'll "

"Rake in more customers?" Krenk completed my sentence with a devilish grin. "Face it, John, there's no such thing as bad publicity. Now hurry up and try it on. We don't have all night."

With a final, exasperated groan, I bundled the outfit under my arm. Yet, as humiliating as it promised to be, there was a certain logic to Krenk's plan. After all, this Yuletide gala was about making an impression, and if my questionable uniform could bring in more business well, maybe it was worth the embarrassment.

"You'd better be ready to deal with the aftermath," I warned Krenk, my voice mutinous. "Because once the 'dandy' role loses its novelty, I'm blaming you for any indecent proposals."

He just laughed and gestured for me to find a changing area. "Can't wait," he said, his eyes glittering with amusement. "Don't forget the groin guard that's the best part."

Dagna snorted, crossing her arms. "I still can't believe you're actually going to wear that thing."

"Neither can I," I admitted under my breath, heading off to search for a discreet corner in which to change. As I walked, I heard Krenk's laughter echo through the cavernous hall behind me, followed by Dagna's stifled giggles. Even Strom's low chuckle reached my ears. I rolled my eyes and tried to shake off the wave of trepidation in my gut.

Maybe I could survive tonight's humiliations. Maybe, in some twisted way, it would even be fun. But as I glanced once more at the ludicrously short shorts in my grasp, I couldn't help but grimace. Only time would tell whether this "tavern dandy" get-up would lead to a successful evening or my swift social demise.

"Where am I supposed to get changed?" I asked, glancing around at the cavernous beer hall for any hint of a discreet corner or, ideally, a marked restroom. The place was dominated by carved pillars, rows of tables, and the odd wooden golem rattling by, but I saw no obvious doors or signs.

Strom, who was stacking crates near the newly assembled bar, jerked his thumb in the direction of a side wall. Embedded in the masonry there were several small, brass handles, each one crafted to resemble a tree branch. "Grab one of those," he explained, "and it'll shift you to an open restroom. When you're done, just grab the same handle again, and you'll pop back right where you started."

I raised an eyebrow, letting out an impressed whistle. Teleportation magic was a specialized field far more complex than simple illusions or energy bolts. The notion that someone had installed a miniature transport system just for bathroom trips struck me as absurdly extravagant. "Seems like overkill, using a high-level mana weave for something this mundane."

Strom shrugged, still stacking boxes. "That's the palace for ya. They've got a deep purse and a flair for convenience. Just don't think too hard about the cost, or you'll start seeing gold coins spinning behind your eyes."

Unable to contain my curiosity, I walked over to the wall for a closer look. Each handle had a faint glow about it, similar to the runes I'd seen on golems the arcane script shimmering in a soft turquoise light. "Huh," I muttered, running a fingertip along the etching. "This is some serious craftsmanship."

Krenk, who had wandered over to watch, smirked around his ever-present pipe. "You wouldn't believe the budget palace bigwigs pour into these events. If a few fancy teleporter handles make life easier for the highborn, you can bet they'll install them without a second thought."

"Well, let's see how it works, then," I said, more to myself than anyone else. Steeling my nerves, I grabbed the nearest handle, bracing for the disorienting rush of a teleportation spell.

Whoos was the only thing I heard as the world blinked out around me.

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Codex

An Introduction to the Races of Erda

Chapter 28, The Bound Spirits

By Lady Brimsley Hasting, Senior Scholastic of Anthropology, St. Andrea Scholasticum

In Erda, Golems are distinguished as a singular breed of entities brought into existence through the binding of lesser spirits. These constructs must not be mistaken for the naturally occurring Trolls, as they are forged through a complex rite wherein a spirit is contracted. This spirit is provided with a physical form often made from clay, stone, wood, or metal and endowed with mana, enabling it to sustain its presence in the material world. In exchange, the spirit agrees to perform tasks as stipulated by the contract.

At the heart of each Golem is its core: the bound spirit that animates and drives its purpose. Shaped meticulously into humanoid forms, these constructs are programmed with precise instructions that they execute flawlessly, without deviation.

Golems are deployed across a spectrum of roles, ranging from stalwart guardians to indefatigable workers. Their unwavering loyalty and strict adherence to their commands render them exceedingly dependable, yet they lack both free will and true sentience.

The practice of binding spirits to inanimate objects, however, has sparked considerable ethical debates among Erda's Scholastic. Critics question the impact of such practices on the natural order and the wellbeing of the spirits involved, probing the moral ramifications of this profound manipulation of spirits. Despite the ongoing controversies, Golems remain a subject of intense interest and practical application within the Kindred community.