In the telepad square, I find a job board, which is probably where I should have started. The wall has several messages pinned to its surface, some of them magically affixed, some of them mundane. A lot of them are asks for package deliveries or miscellaneous repairs.

Not the entire wall is dedicated to odd jobs, however. One section is a single crisp piece of parchment, upon which different blocks of texts are displayed. Every once in a while, some of them sink back into the page, and new words appear, rotating through different stories. It’s a news bulletin.

I pause to read through some. A couple warnings about necrotic animal sightings. Predictions on when to expect the first snow. Preparations for a local holiday coming up in a few weeks. There’s mention of the gods tournaments Noli had talked about, too.

It lists dates and locations, though admittedly neither mean anything to me. I scan for some indication of today’s date and find it, and after I get Echo to change the calendar into something I would understand, she lets me know I’m somewhere in Earth’s equivalent of late August. Now that I know to look for it, I can see early signs of autumn in the town’s trees already.

The next round of gods tournaments aren’t scheduled to take place for another few weeks. The names and a few bare details of individuals who were in previous tournaments and ascended to be Champions are provided.

I wonder if I should attend one. The idea of witnessing gods—real gods—is pretty enticing. What would they look like? How would they act? I’m very curious to find out.

Though, I also haven’t forgotten Yedzaquib’s cryptic warning that the gods might not be too pleased by my existence. Maybe going to one of these events wouldn’t be wise.

But the tournaments must have something to do with the lost souls—the timing of their announcement is just too precise for it to be a complete coincidence. If I want to start finding these people, this is the best lead I’ve got. The potential reward outweighs the risk.

I note down the locations and dates for the next few events. Zyneth’s time here will overlap with one of the tournaments, so he might be reluctant for me to go without him. I resolve to talk it over with him and the others at dinner tonight.

Back to the job board, I pluck two leaves of paper from the wall. No sense in waffling over the matter. Time to see if I can still put some of my acting chops to use.

I follow my map to the first address, which is a bizarrely familiar activity. I’d spent my first time in this city also following maps around to different shops, though happily this time I’m doing so without all the existential dread and impending threat to my mortality.

I pause outside Potion’s Boutique. The job post said they needed someone who could repair a crate of glass bottles that was dropped and damaged during its delivery. Sounds like my area of expertise. I’m not sure if I’d have to Attune their glass first—which might take a while—or if I could substitute some of my already-Attune glass, but it can’t hurt to take a look.

I knock on the door.

“Enter!” a muffled voice calls from the back.

I step inside.

The alluded to crate is in the middle of the room, opened and half unpacked, exposing a dozen shattered bottles. The rest of the room is filled with all sorts of chemistry equipment—or maybe alchemic equipment. It’s a lot of bottles and vials and jars of varying colors, at any rate.

“Hello?” I call. There’s a shuffling sound coming from the back office. “I’m here about the repair job.”

An orc ducks out of the back room, grumbling to himself. He’s at least a head taller than Rezira. His gaze lands on me, then he looks about the room expectantly, before returning to me once more.

He frowns. “What’s this?”

“Er.” I also glance around, wondering what he’s talking about. “The broken delivery bottles, I assume?”

His eyebrows lifts. “Is this a joke?” He stomps over to me, and I can’t help but hastily retreat. “Stuck a voice box on the thing so they could send one of their homunculi back to mock me? What, want to break a few more of my goods before calling it a day?”

The predator is alert, honing in on the merchant’s hostile tone and body language.

“Hold on,” I object, my back bumping into the door. “I’m not a—Okay technically I am—but I didn’t break your—”

The orc glares as he reaches for me, and the void beneath my coat shifts, readying for an attack.

I turn the handle and stumble out of the shop, unsure if it’s the predator or the orc that scares me more.

I hold up my hands, swiftly retreating down the street as the orc stomps out after me. “I just wanted a job!” I cry.

He stays standing at the front of his shop, fuming, until I make an impulsive turn down a side street and out of sight.

Well that went about as bad as it could have. Mentally, I glare at the predator.

He wasn’t a threat, you know.

The predator does not know this. He certainly was acting threatening.

I mean, he kind of was, but that’s beside the point. Don’t attack anyone unless I give the say-so first.

But what if there’s not enough time to give the say-so?

Then I guess we’ll take a hit first, I think, exasperated.

Unacceptable. It will not allow a potentially fatal hit to our core.

I do have that reinforcing spell circle Zyneth painted on it now, remember? I tap my chest. We can activate that if things get bad.

The predator remains unconvinced.

I heave a mental sigh. I guess I’ll just have to try to avoid any more confrontations. Not that that was my fault! The man wouldn’t even listen to me. Though I can’t entirely blame him, either. I am a homunculus. Homunculi aren’t supposed to be able to talk. Of course he thought it was probably some prank or another. And given it sounds like homunculi were responsible for his broken goods in the first place, I can even understand how suspicious my arrival might have looked.

Even if that hadn’t been the case, would I have been able to convince him I really am a person? How much time and effort would that have taken? This also poses an issue for the other job on my list.

Well, I guess there’s nothing for it. It’s time to try that disguise Murrok made for me.

Still in the alley, I channel some of my mana into the enchanted ring. My vision ripples.

[Illusion spell activated.]

I use a piece of glass to look at myself. It really is uncanny how I look like a perfectly frozen human. I turn my head from side to side, and the human head also moves, but that does little to stop the unsettlingly neutral expression and unblinking eyes. Next up, I wrap Noli’s scarf around my “nose” and “mouth,” then pull the cowl over my head to cast my face in shadows.

Suspicious looking? Highly. Human looking? Good enough.

The next location is a residential address. It’s a small stone house along a quiet street, squished up against its neighbors like all the rest. After double-checking the address, I give the door a knock.

Silence. I wait a moment, then knock a little harder—as hard as I dare with my smaller and more fragile finger glass. This time, I hear a shuffle of sound. Then a wooden thump. Then a clunk from the door’s lock. And finally, the scrape of wood on wood as it’s dragged slowly open.

I look down. My employer doesn’t even come up to my hip.

[Check. Molli: Level 41 Goblin Artisan.]

She’s wearing a knitted shawl and leaning heavily on a walking stick. Based on her thin white hair pulled up in a bun, and the fact that she’s practically being swallowed by her own wrinkles, I’d estimate she’s about two hundred years old. Molli squints up at me.

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“Uh, hi,” I say. “I’m here about a job? Something to do with a glasswork delivery.”

“Oh!” Her voice is exactly as frail as I imagined. “Good. Yes, wonderful. Very big! But skinny. Are you strong?”

“Yes,” I say, a little caught off guard and unsure if that’s actually true. When I first started operating this body I couldn’t even lift a book without dropping it. But I’ve gained better control over my glass since then, and the predator can help me use the void to strengthen anything that I can’t handle on my own. “If you need me to carry something, that won’t be a problem.”

“Well, alright then. It’s very heavy! But, come in. Come in! You can leave your coat on the rack. Awfully warm to be all bundled up like that, eh?”

She begins to shuffle back inside. I take one step, catch up, then stand there and wait for her to continue inching her way forward. When I make it in the door, I have to crouch awkwardly to keep from hitting the ceiling.

“Actually, I’ll be leaving it on,” I say. “It’s a… skin condition.” Technically true in the most incorrect way.

Molli doesn’t seem bothered by this explanation, if she even heard it at all. “I was beginning to think no one would come. My grandson said no one takes coppers anymore, they’re a relic of a different age, he says, won’t do in this economy, but I just don’t trust those new magitech bank systems, you understand?”

“Ah, right,” I say, realizing I hadn’t actually checked how much the job paid. I’d been too interested in finding ones that actually seemed applicable to me to look at the pay. But I’m certainly not about to leave the poor woman now. “Coppers should be fine.”

“Good!” She pauses in the front hall, looking between two doors. “Good, good, good... Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I’ve just come from lunch.”

“Straight to business then, eh? Alright. Come on.” She hobbles into the living room.

The room is covered in an extremely dense painting of flowers, from floor to ceiling. And I mean that literally. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, and even the stone table and bench are all painted. Every inch of them. It would strain my eyes if I had any.

Molli takes me over to a hearth in the corner of the room. She taps her cane against a large black stone that’s sitting on a ledge there. “Well, here it is.”

I cock my head. “I thought the ad said there would be glass?”

“Hmph!” Molli grumbles. “It is! Can’t you see, boy?” I’m starting to think she can’t, actually, which is probably the only reason my disguise has lasted as long as it has. “It’s ink glass! My husband dug it up himself. T’was made into our wedding tureen, see?” She grabs a jagged knob on the top and lifts.

What I had assumed was a rock is actually a bowl and lid. Upon closer inspection, its surface is etched to display a miniature forest scene of incredible detail. I give it a Check.

[A wedding tureen made of obsidian,] Echo summarizes. [Such bowls are traditionally used during marriage, where the involved partners all take turns serving each other their first meal as wedded companions. Oftentimes the tureen is made by one or more of the partners.]

Is obsidian ink glass? I ask. Wait, is obsidian glass?

[Affirmative,] Echo says.

The more you know. That opens some interesting possibilities.

“And you want me to take this somewhere?” I ask.

“And bring it back!” Molli cries. “Just need to get it fixed up is all. Developed a crack last year when Jame dropped it. Only gotten worse since then. Worried it’ll crack in two one of these days.”

“I’ll be very careful with it,” I promise.

I’d been hoping it was something I might be able to fix myself, but given the artistic nature of the bowl, this is probably something best left to the professionals.

“Good!” she says. “Good. That is why I didn’t want a homunculus for the job.”

Well, this is awkward.

“Needs a gentle touch, you see?” She pats the tureen fondly. “Can’t risk it being handled carelessly. Now that Jame is gone, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost this, too. Only someone with a soul would understand its importance.”

Well I may not be alive, but at least I still qualify for ‘has a soul.’ “On that I can agree.”

Molli’s eyes are swallowed by wrinkles when she smiles. “I’ll give you the directions.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say. “I have a map. You can just give me the address.”

“Of course.” She nods. “So you just need to head south along Gravel Lane for a few blocks, then take your third right onto Mountain View.”

“Thank you,” I hastily say. “But I do have a—”

“There will be a park on your left,” Molli continues, undeterred. “You can cut through that and take Hallow Street another four blocks, or you could go around Green Glade—that’s the park—and head down Meadow’s Lane instead…”

It takes another five minutes to deliver the full instructions, including all possible travel iterations.

“Got it.” I slump, head spinning. “I’ll definitely remember all of that.”

Molli hands me the coins next—I’ll have to ask Zyneth later if they’re actually worth anything—and then shuffles out of the way so I can pick up the decorative black bowl.

“Ask the glassmith if they know when I can expect the piece to be done,” Molli says, continuing to give me instructions she’s already given me as I kneel before the bowl. I hold my hands out hesitantly, worried about doing any more damage to the fragile design. “Then come back here and let me know the date. And if you’d be a dear, I’d appreciate you retrieving the piece when it’s complete as well.”

It’s the quest that never ends.

I summon void to my hands, wrapping them around the glass to help cushion my grip. The illusion around my fingers flickers while I do so, and I hope Molli doesn’t notice. Gingerly, I grab the tureen and lift it up.

She was right that it’s heavy. No wonder the old woman couldn’t move it herself. I pull more void to my hands and pool it beneath the bowl for a little extra leverage and support. At least the shadows are faint enough no one should notice them against the black stone—even those with good eyesight.

Bidding Molli goodbye, and declining yet another invitation for tea and biscuits, I head out into Harrowood. Hands now preoccupied, I use some of my signing glass to hold the map up before me. The glass shop she wants me to take it to is about a half hour walk away. How many hours would it have taken me to make this same trek the first time I was here?

After about ten minutes of walking, I turn the illusion spell off. Murrok had warned it only had a couple hours of charge in it, and I’d rather not waste it all just walking through town, especially when so many homunculi are also about delivering packages of every kind. The only thing a bit strange about me doing the same is that I’m made of glass and wearing clothes; I can’t change the first part and I don’t intend to change the second.

I make it to the glass studio without any trouble. It’s in a rougher part of town that reminds me of Gillow’s storefront—in fact it might not be far from Vardi’s Tavern. Paint is peeling from signs, the gutters are filled with rot, and the doors all have physical locks instead of magic ones. Peoples’ gazes linger on me just a little too long, and I hurry along, pretending not to notice.

The shop, simply labeled Glasswork and Repair, is locked. I use some signing glass to knock on the door and wait a few minutes, but there’s no response. It’s late afternoon, but it’s still well before dinner, so I wouldn’t expect it to be closed. What to do?

A few houses down, a young group of people who look absolutely up to no good are making obvious gestures toward me as they talk amongst themselves. I deem it prudent to get off of the street.

Glasswork and Repairs is connected to its neighbors, so I can’t circle directly around back to see if there’s another entrance there. A few houses down is an alleyway, however, so I head in the opposite direction of the thugs as I search for a way to reach the glass shop’s rear door. The passage is narrow, and leads me out into another alley, this one full of garbage. Maybe for the first time, I’m happy with my inability to smell. I can make out the back of Glasswork, at least.

Someone steps out of an alleyway behind me. They probably think they’re being sneaky, but I’ve got vision turned on in three panes of the glass in my “head,” which gives me a wider range of vision than most people. I go ahead and turn the rest on while I’m at it. It’s still a little disorienting, looking five different directions at once, but it helps that they’re all stationary relative to one another—not to mention, weirdly, I’m kind of getting used to it. Maybe the predator’s ability to split its attention and mind in as many different directions as it likes is rubbing off on me.

Regardless, the girl is surprised when I stop and address her. “I wouldn’t try anything if I were you.”

She stops. Then she laughs, turning her head to call over her shoulder. “Hey, Vim, get a load of this. It’s got some kind of security feature.”

A dryad steps out behind her. A third thug, an elf, drops down from a roof between me and the glasswork shop. I give them all a Check.

[Pelara: Level 17 Human Rogue.]

[Vim: Level 16 Dryad Bruiser.]

[Zari: Level 19 Elf Enchanter.]

What do you know? This is the first time I’ve been higher level than those around me. I hadn’t felt especially threatened by the teens before, and I’m even less impressed with them now.

The predator, meanwhile, is keenly aware their intentions are no good; whether or not they pose a threat to us is irrelevant. It sees a challenge and is more than ready to engage.

“I’ll again warn you against whatever your plans are,” I say, attempting to calm the predator down—a futile task. Even if these kids are a bunch of thugs, I don’t want them dead, and I’m not sure the predator would be able to show enough restraint to just scare them away. “This will only end very badly for you.”

Zari laughs. “What kind of fancy-ass homunculus is this?”

“Got a speech stone on it, or something,” Vim agrees.

Pelara casually strolls my way, and I can feel the predator tense. “Doesn’t matter. How much you think that piece is worth?”

“Probably not as much as the parts,” Zari says. “Who makes a homunculus out of glass and then sends it to do chores in Vale district?”

“Rich assholes,” Pelara says.

Zari snorts. “Fucking idiots.”

The three of them head toward me. The predator excitedly reaches for my void, and I jump at our shared magic as well, trying to hold it back.

Well this is going great.

I channel mana back into Murrok’s spell, reactivating my human disguise. “Last chance,” I tell them. The three stop, startled by the shift in appearances as I’d hoped.

“What the fuck?” Pelara cries.

“They’re a person?” Vim asks.

Zari squints at me.

[Your magic has been identified.]

“No,” he says. “It’s not real. It’s an illusion.”

Fucking wizards.

“If he was human, he wouldn’t be trying to convince us to leave,” Pelara agrees. “Must be another thief deterrent.”

“I’m trying to convince you to leave for your own good!” I cry, exasperated. The predator strains against my mental hold, and I feel it slipping through my grasp. Don’t kill them, I tell it, trying not to panic. Please, don’t—

Vim pulls a hammer from their belt and races toward me. The predator forms clawed limbs. Aw, shit. Here we go.