Death came for Banst in the form of a swift blade his eye could not catch. His feet caught in the numerous leather armor laying about, he went for a tumble, narrowly avoiding his neck from getting cut.

“Guards!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “Guards, help me!”

“Kill that mouthy bastard,” Gerad snapped, glancing toward the entrance to the smithy with narrowing eyes, hoping no one with authority would appear. Guards showing up would ruin their plans, no matter if they were nobility or not. Meanwhile, stillness had taken over his companion. “Herek?” Gerad prompted, unable to gleam the reason behind Herek’s inaction.

“Dammit all,” Herek rasped, eyes downcast. Dripping could be heard. Following the sound led to his blade, wet with fresh blood leaking onto the floor.

“Did you injure the coward?” Gerad asked, hopeful, noticing the blade had struck home somewhere fleshy.

Laying among his crafts scattered about the ground by Banst’s attempts to hide, Durehn had his eyes open, his blood flowing freely. Only dead men kept so still. Herek’s blade had found him in the scramble. When Banst had tripped to safety, coincidentally, Durehn had tripped in the way of harm and his neck had been cut - nearly severed.

“You killed him…!” Banst sputtered, backing away wide-eyed.

Gerad’s eyes shifted between Banst and Herek then shouted, “Herek, we might as well end things here! Take the coward’s life for the sake of honor of the guild - honor for your brother Terek! While Terek had died an Adventurer, this coward was hiding, abandoning his duty!”

Neither Banst nor Gerad knew of Herek’s thoughts, but the young noble could see the writing on the wall. Herek had visited this smithy before, exploring its variety of unique armors crafted by the one they called an artisan rather than a blacksmith - Durehn Tettlebom, a rising prodigy in the world of smithing. Many held this place in high favor, anticipating it would grow to become world renowned one day. Unfortunately, its future now looked bleak. The artisan had died—perishing among his cheapest sets of armor, and it was by Herek’s own hand. Not only would Durehn be missed, but he would also be sought after, especially if they attempted to hide the body.

By way of getting here required passage through an alleyway and in that narrow path came the sound of footsteps.

“The guards!” Banst chirped, his mood brightening.

“The guards,” hissed Gerad, waving along Herek with urgency, his mood in the opposite way. “We must be away!” His accomplice followed him to the door before Herek turned to threaten, “Adventurer Banst Vale, if word leaks of this incident, we will stop at nothing, and I mean nothing - no matter how steep a price needed to be paid nor the lengths of how far we need to go - nothing will stop us from killing you.”

With a loud smack, the door shut behind the noble Adventurers, rushing to escape. Voices and footsteps were in pursuit after them - the guards had seen their backs, yet still needed sight of faces to truly reveal these suspicious runners.

Beyond the smithy door, the voice of a guard roared, “Halt! In His Majesty’s name, I say, halt!” Marching guardsmen could be heard giving chase.

Banst sank into the pile of armor next to his dead friend. A gaze was shared became shared between his sight and the still portals of Durehn’s eyes. Laughing and playing had made up the world their world once, back when they were but orphans, stuck in the orphanage made for children of Adventurers who did not make it back home. Like swallowed by a whirlwind, change had wrought unexpected turns, leaving what used to be to what no longer remains.

A gray, cloudy light covered Banst as if a a storm had come into being within the smithy’s walls. However, that wasn’t the case. No, this was a sight for only those with “Soul Sight” could see. From the depths of the dead Durehn came a floating spherical, ethereal substance - his soul.

Tragic though it may be - the departing of a soul. It still was somewhat joyous as there was some place much different than here - some might say better, livelier even, as impossible as that might seem since this was death. Durehn’s soul could only bid farewell to the world, unshackling from his mortal coil, elevating toward a place beyond thought and reason.

The soul was abruptly snatched up into Banst’s grasps. Like a night crawler it squirmed to escape, attempting to follow the path God had intended it to go.

“Soul Catcher,” Basnt whispered the name which had been revealed to him by a source unseen by the outside world. As if following a path by God himself, Banst threw the soul into the nearest armor. “Soul Binding!” Another name unrecognizable to Banst, another act influenced by what had been instilled in him.

Mistakes occurred and the soul flew past the armor and into what had been wearing it - a display mannequin made of wood.

The influence rose from Banst, freeing him. No longer did the foreign memories compell him, though Banst knew he had erred. Soul Binding, told to him by the passenger memories in his mind, was meant for empty suits of armor, not mannequins.

Fearful screams erupted from his mouth the moment the mannequin began to move.

“Demon!” Banst cried out, “To hell with you! Go back home to hell, decrepit thing. Unclean beast!”

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The mannequin fell to a knee in front of Banst with a thud. Like a ghost from beyond the pale, Durehn’s voice emitted from the puppet, prompting Banst to nearly fall. “Your wish is my command, Master,” the puppet said.

The sound of sliding metal came along with the unsheathing of Banst’s iron sword. No matter if his armor was rusted, his weapon never was. Only tenderness and care was all Banst had ever treated his weapon with. That loving habit would come in handy as he decapitated what he saw as a wooden demon.

“State your name,” Banst roared to his perceived enemy.

The mannequin, servile in its bowing, answered, “I am the soul of Durehn Tettlebom, servant to the Puppet Master, Banst Vale.”

“I am no such thing! Stop gossiping about me, demon!”

“Your wish is my command.”

Silence took Banst over. Things were not as they seemed. A thought or two, then reasoning, plus conjecture would lead Banst to a conclusion - a conclusion of what the strange happenings were and the strange knowledge that wouldn’t stop sharing to him its secrets of “soul this” and “soul that”

“Do the dance we used to do as kids, soul of Durehn,” Banst commanded. A theory thought up by Banst needed to be put to practice.

Wood feet slapping against stone, the mannequin pranced about, hands splayed out as claws, its mouth baaing like a goat. Yes, this was the chimera dance Banst and Durehn had conjured up when they couldn’t decide which mythological beast would be scariest and eventually chose the chimera - multi-headed beast with a lion’s body, tail of a complete snake, led by two heads of differing creatures - one head goat and one head lion. Fear had been struck in the other orphans when the dance of the chimera was set loose, forcing the clerics who ran the orphanage to come personally and stop them.

“Now stop,” Banst ordered and the mannequin froze in place. “Fascinating. I would love to continue but if someone were to catch me with a living mannequin, I would be tried as a practitioner of demon magic.” Luckily for Banst, no one was around.

Only fright could describe Banst’s expression as he witnessed, in a dark room, a pair of eyes reflecting the light exuding from magic circles on the ceiling him.

“Oh, no…” he murmured. For any sort of perceived dabbling in dark arts condemned all to death. Demonic influence of any kind received only the harshest treatment.

“Peace, human,” Marlo urged, shedding the dark for the light, emerging from the room cautiously. “I am not an enemy.”

“…How much did you see?”

“There is no such thing as soul binding puppet magic in any land,” the dwarf stated as fact. “It bodes ill for you wielding such an unworldly magic - Banst Vale, was it?” Marlo needed to be taken seriously as this was the beginning of the negotiations.

Banst gulped. “I beg you, please do not tell anyone. I am not a practitioner of demon magic.”

No part of Marlo cared if Banst consorted with demons or not. Half buried in the pile of reinforced leather vests, Durehn’s gaunt face stuck out, lifeless. So, you did have a soul after all, Master, the dwarf thought, glad to be rid of the overbearing Master. Years of unmitigated torture and ridicule Marlo had suffered under this fool.

Yet, the fool was also the artisan of this place - a place sought after by many, which led the dwarf to his current desire.

“You can command that thing, can’t you?” Marlo prompted Banst, who had begun to sweat. Marlo’s stumpy finger pointed to the motionless mannequin, unassuming in its frozen state.

“Um, I believe so,” Banst answered, willing to do whatever it took to keep from being dragged in front of the church for heresy most profane.

“Command your puppet to smith some armor.” Marlo opened wide the door he had appeared from, revealing a stone place of extreme heat and metal - the room where the forge lay.

A featureless face, the mannequin seemed unaware and incapable of seeing where it was going, seemed wholly unreliable for any task. Still, on Banst’s command, the wooden man marched into the forge and began to craft armor.

“By God,” Banst murmured. “It’s a miracle!” High pitched bashing of hammer on metal rang from the forge, the Durehn mannequin hard at work crafting armor with design that would be considered profound by most.

“It’s just what I needed,” Marlo muttered with a grin. The dwarf turned to Banst. “You let me keep the mannequin and not a word would be breathed of your strange abilities.”

Though considered the “Weakest Adventurer,” Banst was no fool. A tireless slave with the knowledge and capability of a talented blacksmith was priceless. Not only would he be losing a means of income in relinquishing the skilled puppet, he still could be betrayed down the line. There was no guarantee Marlo would remain silent of this matter of soul magic.

“Don’t play games with me, dwarf,” Banst retorted, staring down at the short figure. “Your pockets get to overflow with gold all while I shake in fear that you might not keep your word? Don’t think so little of humans, dwarf.” Banst coughed awkwardly. “The ‘little’ part - I wasn’t implying anything by saying that…”

After a brief laugh and a trip to a small room no bigger than a cupboard, the dwarf’s dwelling - yes, the bastard of a Master, Durehn, had granted him only this cramped space to sleep in - and he returned with a parchment that hummed with power once opened. A magic circle, drawn by a practiced mage’s hand, came to life upon its face.

“A Lifeseal Pact,” Banst awed with a whisper, “Heaven take me, how did an apprentice smith get his hands on this piece of magic.” The world knew of the Lifeseal Pact as the unbreakable deal. Who so ever signs such a pact would only risk their life in signing it, for if any terms upon the contract were breached, the signee in breach of contract would certainly die.

“Don’t think your kind so big, human,” Marlo scoffed and puffed out his chest, “We dwarves are a magic race with many means at our disposal!” Despite his bravado, in truth, he’d stolen the Lifeseal Pact. In fact, the theft was the reason he’d been kicked out of dwarf lands.

Soon there lay scribbled across the magic parchment their wishes and underlined at the bottom with finality - their names. For Marlo, the dwarf required in the Lifeseal pact that the puppet would work solely for him - to take on the tasks of crafting armor so that he may sell it and grant himself a life without worry of money. If Banst were to take the puppet from his possession without proper consent - disregarding threats and otherwise any kind of compelling force - he would die.

Only two things were required from Banst. One, Marlo needed to retain his secret of soul magic no matter the circumstances, as well as never hinting in any way toward the secret, even if the puppet and its nature were to be discovered. Two, Banst wanted free repairs. Rusty and creaking like door hinges desperately in need of oil, his armor showed signs of wear and cried out for a blacksmith's attention.

In negotiations before, an attempt was made to cut out profit for himself, and even wanting to settle for free armor when that failed, yet both paths led only to suspicion in why a low-ranked Adventurer was enjoying such perks from a smithy growing in popularity. Banst could only settle for repairs free of charge.

They not only signed but also shook hands firmly. What disrupted their shared satisfaction was the sight of flames devouring the wooden puppet—it had gotten too close to the forge and caught fire.