There was a bakery down by the Old Penitent’s street. It was not renowned or anything such, but if you asked around the neighborhood, anyone would tell you it was the place to go - be it for pie, bread, or a cookie. Well… almost anyone, but that is for later.
You see, the owner was Gramma Rose - no, that is not misspelled, she insisted everyone call her that - the kindest old lady anyone could name. Though gray-haired and a bit gnarled around the edges, she was still spry enough to run everything by herself. She didn’t have any family as far as people knew but made up for it by looking after every patron as if they were her own.
Any time of the day her shelves would be full, the loaves fresh. The Gramma would smile at you and wave. Smile back and she might just give you a little extra on top of your order. More than little if she recognized you as a regular.
Then if you cared for it, she would talk. Old as the Gramma was, she knew many things. Far more than one would think. Rumour had it she could outwit a riddler, speak every language, and read runes like normal letters. Who knew what was the truth, kids made up all sorts of stories about her after all.
Needless to say, she was quite beloved.
And people knew all that about Gramma Rose. What they were not aware of was that she poisoned her leftovers before throwing them out. Just the stuff for rats, nothing fancy, and not so much that it would kill anyone larger than a child. Why would she do that? Her Patrons may ask, if they knew. Then she would tell them it was because of pests. Too many breed, she was prepared to say, and then you can never truly be rid of them.
Gramma Rose knew very well what she was doing. Old habits died hard. Oftentimes, slower than the person.
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“Stupid,” Gobsmack lived up to his name, gently bonking Pebblethrow at the back of her head. Not enough to really hurt - he meant nothing unkind by it. As he would say ‘A stupid little gob only remembers pain. Better little pain than a big hurt.’
“Not stupid, hungry,” Pebblethrow glared at him. One palm was miming rubbing her stomach while the other was pressed against the spot she had just been hit. Not enough to hurt, but it did sting.
“Everyone know: Eat here, get sick.”
Like many street gobs, they both wore clothes barely a step above rags. Both were not taller than human children, though certainly stouter. Pebblethrow was not much older either - goblins grew faster to their full height.
“Really hungry,” Pebblethrow reiterated.
“Stupid,” Gobsmack repeated. Pebblethrow raised her hands in defense as her raised his palm, so he instead poked her in the shoulder. “Very sick. Dying sick.”
“Why?” she pouted. Shops usually threw food out long before it went dangerously rotten.
“The gray hair lady bad, duh,” he shrugged.
“All humans say she good?” Pebblethrow questioned with a frown.
“Good for human, bad for gob,” Gobsmack nodded firmly twice, his chin touching his chest. “People be like that.”
That didn’t quite sit right with her. But what was she to do? Even if she dared go for the bind again, the other gob would stop her. Gobsmack gave her one last good poke to make sure she remembered, then he thankfully helped her salvage something to eat.
He was much older and remembered when which shop usually threw out their leftovers and which were the best to eat. More than that, no one argued or fought with Gobsmack. She could see why: She was not eager for another bonk either. Either way, she had her fill that evening.
Then Pebblethrow snuck back into her little hiding hole on a spot between two roofs. She snuggled between her two mostly intact blankets and a half-filled pillow, then went to sleep.
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Still, she thought about the old lady. She had seen her in the shop, heard the humans and others talk about her. Everyone liked her. Usually, those who were bad for gobs were also bad for humans and others. If she followed the people who spat in her direction, soon enough she would see them arguing with someone else, maybe even fight.
They would throw hostile glances at the small-men, snarl at tall-ears, or curse at scale-people. Always… almost. But in that shop whose leftovers no one dared salvage, all of those were welcome. All of those liked the owner.
So, why then was that lady so beloved?
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Amir carefully, excruciatingly, connected the last few circuits. Then with great care he double, triple, and quadruple checked everything was in order against his schematics. When that was done, he carefully lifted the finished scroll.
It was still warm to the touch, almost humming as he held. Amir liked to think it shared his nervous anticipation. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak the invocation then frowned. Quickly, he put the scroll down, scrambled to find his half empty glass of water, wiped away his sweat and checked the time: It was not quite noon but close.
Nodding, he stepped back, picking up the fruit of his labours again. His workbench was full of tools, loose components, leftover much, and a good number of stains. What mattered though, besides the scroll itself, was a small glass dome covering a moldy piece of bread. The bread was quite ordinary, worth approximately nothing given its state of decay. The alchemical glass was quite literally more expensive that the sum of everything Amir owned, though he tried not to think about that. His face scrunched in concentration, then he finally spoke:
“The ravage of time
of things beyond prime
for moments few
emerge untrue.”
Amir watched intently as the piece of bread began to slightly glow, then the mold started to recede - fast at first, then at glacial pace. A moment later, it exploded. Quite literally. The hard loaf disintegrated into thousands of crumbs flying in all directions inside the dome, some leaving specs of stain on the glass.
Amir sighed. In disappointment, yes, but as a man who knew of bad news coming and only just confirmed what he already assumed. This was not the first failure, nor the tenth. Instead of mulling in despair, he got to cleaning up with practiced speed. Not ten minutes later, the workbench was orderly enough to not offend, the glass cleaned, and the scattered sample all thrown out.
Amir stepped out of the room, the pounding of anvils and hissing of heatsinks immediately engulfing him in an orchestra of noise. With a spring to his step, he headed down the hallway, quickly getting through the door at the end. The lobby beyond was not perfectly soundproof, but the noise was much more bearable.
Amir still slightly cringed when he saw the little green figure sitting behind the front desk. He liked his boss but… he was not looking for a conversation. And everyone had to have a conversation when passing by Smartspeak Lohart. An unusual-sounding name to a human, but goblins were all called something strange like that.
The only ones Amir had met that even had last names had married across species. Mind you, that was still a minority. 40 years after the Briar wars and some folk still couldn’t stand the sight of green.
“So?” She immediately noticed him and waved both her hands in an exaggerated gesture. She looked almost like a child in the high chair she needed to climb in order reach the top of the counter. Of course, saying that out loud would be terribly rude.
“As ever,” Amir shrugged as nonchalantly as he could manage.
“Don’t let it bring you down,” she shrugged. “Any craft takes time.”
“Usually less than a hundred times,” Amir muttered.
“Boy, how many tries do you think it took my hubby to make his first proper sword?” she inclined her head so much to the side it touched her shoulder. Not that it was unusual for her.
“Less than me.”
“If you ask him, he will tell you 20 years,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “Everything before then was pig iron, or so he says.”
“Already slandering me, my hilt? It’s not even past lunch.” a booming voice broke their conversation as Master Lohart coincidentally walked out into the lobby, a smile quirking at his lips. Amir was not one for stereotypes, but Master Ferodin Lohart was quite literally exactly what every bumkin imagined when hearing ‘dwarf’. Beard halfway to his belt, thick arms, and an obsession with smithing… He was just the kind of person from who such generalization must have first sprouted.
“I don’t know, am I?” his wife excitedly waved both her hands above her head again.
“I would say a proper sword took me at least 30 since I first apprenticed,” he nodded, pruning his mighty beard. “Look up lad, perfection takes time. Since you aim high, it will be all the better when you do succeed.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Amir politely nodded, though he kept to himself that he did not exactly have decades. They were kind enough to let him use the workshop for a personal project and buy materials at supplier prices. They did not deserve any snide. “I will see you for my shift.”
“Bye,” Smartspeak waved again, then turned to talk with her husband. Amir left the lobby and left for lunch. Perhaps it would improve his mood.