Baernis stared, accusingly glaring at me from under her thick brows. She had a good reason. The leader of the Dwarven Shieldmaiden had, in no uncertain ways, set her terms, precise and non-negotiable. My current request, the first one in my official capacity, left her with a bitter taste.

“I presume, Commander Rylonvirah of the Aberrant Irregulars...” stating my full name to make a point, Baernis continued,”... we have already established that the Shieldmaiden will not be under your direct control.”

“And I have every intention to honour our agreement. Your Shieldmaidens would not be thrust into dangerous situations.”My attempt at reassurance met her wall of cynicism and failed.

“You have already violated by putting in the request.” Eddryn’s words were as sharp as the contours of her well-trimmed beard. She did not sit but rather choose to stand beside Baernis with her arms twitchingly holding her favoured shield.

“Their expertise is highly required.” I tried to keep my tone neutral despite the multitude of signs that Baernis would not let her shieldsisters walk a perilous path. A trait, very admirable in a leadership role and very aggravating to any unfortunate enough to negotiate with.

“Then assign someone else for Arlene while I will personally lead my shieldsisters,” said Baernis with the firmness that only a dwarf could project.

“It is my opinion as your commander that a division of power would yield the optimum results.”

“And it is my pejorative that the shieldwarden ignoring commanders who fail their own contracts would yield optimum survival for my company.” Despite her form and the dearth of height, Baernis did cast a long and heavy shadow. She was unwavering as the mountains under which she grew up.

“I would not have approached you if there were some alternate solutions to conjure.”

My plea only met the determined scowl of the two shieldmaidens. The creases in the corners of their lips ran deep and dark, disappearing into the growth of their beards with every moment.

“This is not combat,” I uttered in response to their searing gaze. “This more of a test for Talus’s abilities and I would require someone with consummate abilities given the context.”

“Should you not look to your wife for help regarding the task?” Baernis asked with curiosity furrowing her forehead.

“Her massive hammer wielded strikes the anvil at its own pace,” I shrugged in sheer dearth of culpability. “Besides Colby is too young. Which makes me turn to your shieldmaiden as a last resort.”

“We are shieldmaidens, not shieldmakers,” countered Eddryn Rubyforged with a slightly amused twist of her lips. “Besides none of us know golemancy.”

“And it is stereotyping dwarves to think all of us can work with metal,” sneered Baernis with disapproval running like a veneer across her face.

“The undeniable truth is your children learned to bend metal sheets when our children could barely hold a quill. Given my situation, the shieldmaidens are my best chance of bringing back Talus should anything go wrong.”

A very knowing and very private smile passed between the Shieldwall and the Shieldwarden. A warm piece of sunshine that could have only been achieved through years of respectful friendship.

With a nod, Baernis added, “Take Inga with you then.”

“Keep her away from alcohol,” added Eddryn with a heavily disguised smile that did not go unnoticed.

“And from the mushroom,” Baernis noted.

“And from licking frogs or toads.” Eddryn iterated.

“And from smoking anything she forages,” Baernis elaborated the list.

At that very instant, it struck me that dwarves, and particularly, the weird bunch calling themselves the shieldmaiden under my command, have a weird sense of humour.

*****

A day and a night slipped by when the ragtag group fashioning themselves as intrepid warriors rushed down the still hoarfrost-covered slope of High-Crag Pass. To any, who by happenstance, came in close proximity would have either noted them as a travelling circus of offbeat performers or a hallucinogenic dream-induced vision.

The haggard-looking man in the lead, despite his penchant for walking on two legs, left a perceptible trail of a mangy mongrel on the hunt for scraps, while in the rear, a huge ape with intelligent eyes, stalked. Between them, a meagre group of tiny figures, numbering as much as the fingers in two hands, with a wide assortment of weapons scuttled.

The three druids huddled together, clutching their cloaks tightly against the occasionally violent gales hindering their progress. Between them, they frequently exchanged the burden of two big jars, with their openings sealed with multiple layers of veils carefully tied. Theko alone managed to carry another big jar, in addition to other camp supplies.

But the most surreal of the sight was not a dark elf like me leading them but rather the one who walked close by. Talus had a curious purple glow as he took in the sight of all that lay ahead of us. The snaking High-Crag Pass, the mysterious mist disappearing upon approach, the thin layer of frost and the crunching sound from our steps on it.

For once, I was glad for Theko’s company. The rest of the group still held their reservation to the unnatural presence of Talus, despite his demeanour and attitude mirroring nothing but amicability. Perhaps, it was Theko’s involvement with Lyria in the forge or his natural ability to accept beings as they are, but the almost yet-to-be bugbear seemed unperturbed. Even on occasion, considering Talus with gentle scrutiny.

As two nights slipped by, Theko soon adapted to become the bridge between Talus and the rest of the group. The shieldmaidens held their stance stubbornly. A trait of the dwarves and confounded by their nature as an all-women mercenary group. Whatever anatomy and form Talus had -- Lyria had made him -- he is male. His voice, despite its soft carillon, was evidently masculine. And trust would not be extended to Talus, easily.

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Even Ar’Krak considered Talus for a fleeting instant with his intelligent eyes and decided that his massive troglodyte frame would fare poorly against the metallic form shining before him. Giving the alloyed being the respect reserved for the venerable warrior, Ar’krak steered clear of his path. Only interacting under the duress of absolute need.

Just as Narris Ford came into view, I made the call for an early camp. An order that was well received by both druids and the Shieldmaidens. A sigh of relief broke from the shieldmaidens, as they scurried around to rest their travel-weary frames on the hard grounds. Even the druids gave an approving look with unspoken words. Something about the spot for the camp, the very grounds pleased their attuned senses.

As the darkness slowly blanket our group, with the night rolling in, claiming most souls to be a cocooned embrace of sleep, Cossette and Inga still stirred around restlessly. Never to trust even an ally fully, the Shieldmaiden always relied on one of their own for sentry duty. Devoid of a campfire, the two of them felt the boredom slamming on their patience.

“Does the concept of sleep evade you?” Talus engaged the two dwarven women. His soft voice, a rich reverberation like a vesper bell, flew through the silent night. A warm honey bright orange spilled from behind his helmet, filtering through the opaque alloy of his helmet in a manner defying all laws.

Cosette tugged at Inga’s arm cautiously urging her companion to resort to replying. Their gaze locked on each other, arguing wordlessly. In the end, Cosette lost.

“Must be nice. Not needing to eat or sleep.” Even the non-callous words of Inga came like a taunt. The lack of consumption of divine elixir for the past days left her cranky.

“Inga, Talus is anything but curious.” I chimed in.

“Well, we are curious too,” cut in Cosette. “How does it eat? or like the arrogant gnome brat says it can think. How does it think without a brain?”

I let silence be my guide. It felt natural to let them communicate for fostering acceptance for Talus.

“I do not eat. As for thinking, the ordinance crystal embedded inside provides directives to process.”

“So your brain is a crystal?” asked Cosette. Mistrust replaced curiosity.

“That is how the progenitor sees it.”

“The progenitor, who?” I asked with my sudden interest piqued.

“My progenitor,” replied Talus. The orange glow grew brighter, a stubborn brick red.

“You mean, Lyria?”

“Lyria is mother Lyria.”

I scoffed. Like, stating the obvious would add any information to my query.

The glow in his eyes grew brighter casting long shadows of the two dwarves before him.

“So you decided to call the gnome brat, progenitor?” Inga was equal parts amused, disgusted and inquisitive.

Colby was the progenitor! That was awkward.

“Yes, though I preferred to call him creator he felt the moniker did not elicit a feeling of awe in him.”

“Anything is better than calling him a father,” noted Cosette.

“Please stop filling him with weird ideas,” I uttered with a sibilant hiss giving an edge to my threat.

Inga ignored the exchange between us and with lines of intrigue furrowed on her forehead asked, “But you are a being of metal with considerable weight. It is impossible to move without energy being supplied from somewhere.”

“Mother Lyria provides nourishment.”

For a narrow instant, still, silence, the sort to induce madness, reigned amidst and then the two shieldmaidens broke down, laughing.

“Aye, he is alright,” said Inga over the sound of Cosette’s uncontrollable giggle.

“I thought he is some weird golem but he is just one of us,” added Inga. “Just like our men.”

“yes, yes,” continued Cosette with laughter and contorted mirth holding her both sides, “Just like average dwarven men, waiting for mama to come and feed them thrice.”

Shrouded in obliviousness, Talus dared to ask, “Why did my answer invoke merriment?”

“Definitely, one of us now,” said Cosette while holding her belly, now aching from laughter, forcing a few sleeping shieldmaidens to stir to awaken.

I could only roll my eyes in frivolousness unfurling before me while witnessing Inga walk closer to Talus and with her pudgy fingers brushed imaginary lint of his non-existent lapels.

“Talus, I now pronounce you an honourary member of Clan Inga,” declared Inga proudly.

A whole spectrum, a rainbow of fireworks, exploded behind his visor. From celebratory brilliant green to harmonious blue.

“So if you can think, can you also feel?” asked Inga. Genuine curiosity lurked behind her tiny frame as she nudge closer to Talus.

“I am mostly immune to heat and cold, Though uncertain if the immunity extends to the heat of a magma.”

Cosette reached Talus and wrapped her palms around his massive pillar-like arms. “No dummy,” she giggle again, like a girl who was given a kitten to hold. “Emotions, like happiness or sadness or you know, like feel for someone.”

“I do love my mothers,” replied Talus.

Every shred of willpower, I summoned, to maintain the indifferent look on my face -- to pretend that those words did not reach me. If Talus could feel emotions, they could provide him with a personality. Like a shy socially awkward child. Why should he blurt out without a filter?

“But what about love for a mate?” asked Cosette coyly.

“There are spectrum emotions that I am aware of but unable to access.”

“Can you fuck?” Inga was uncouth and more direct in approach.

“Not endowed for the operation.”

“You got fingers, aye?” forced Inga further.

“Inga, stop,” I commanded, but stopped to issue a slew of unparliamentary curses against those two bearded wenches. Inga was a loose cannon mounted on a battering ram rolling down a hill.

“So you cannot make love?” Cosette’s tone held genuine sadness like a little girl who just witnessed a calf slaughtered by a butcher.

The colour behind Talus’s visor transmogrified to a brilliant healing green, full of vitality and growth. “My reciprocation of love might be different but I am capable of love. My heart, even though it is cogs and wheels, is still a heart.”

Damn! Lyria has taught him some smooth moves.

“Mother, may I pose a question?”

It took me a while to realise who Talus referred to. Baffled by the sudden role, did very little to help me quell the awkwardness surging. Aunt Rillie, is an affectionate word I am used to. Savvas and even Celerim have taken to calling me that. Yet, Delyn never mentioned me as her mother. And on occasions when she alluded to me in public, it was either Matron or Matriarch. I failed. It was a failure to not realise sooner how far the breach between us stretched and I just failed, overall.

“Mother?” Talus’s words broke me out of my reverie.

“Ask.”

“Why did mother Lyria ask me to address you only as mother?”

“Only? Elaborate Talus.”

“Mother Lyria has explicitly forbidden me from hailing you as Consort Mother.”

Just the fact caught me by surprise, but before I could prod more out of him, a heavy pair of footsteps, disturbing the stillness of the night followed. Zurin stumbled forwards, desperately heaving deep breaths while tiny beads of sweat, clinging to his forehead, glistened even in the night.

“The winds have changed and you must be prepared for I caught a rotten stench advancing.”