“I hear you’re the best dwarven golem engineer this place has to offer,” the haughty voice of a female elf interrupted my work. Startled, my hand slips and my hammer hits the heated metal gear I was working on at a bad angle, deforming it. Damn it, I’ve just wasted half an hour’s delicate work.
“So what if I am? Did that mean you could break-in?” I ask angrily, in my gruff voice. I had locked that front door, what was an elvish thief doing inside my house, inside my workspace? A dwarf’s forge is their shrine, not to be causally invaded, uninvited.
The elf woman pulls back her tattered-looking hood, revealing a haunted-looking, half-starved yet still beautiful creature. She looks like she’s not slept well in months, judging by the bags under her eyes, but even so, there’s a spark of mischief and wry amusement in her gaze. “Sorry,” she apologizes, “I was desperate, and you didn’t answer the door even though I could hear you hammering. I slipped inside.”
“You better not have broken the lock on my door,” I told her sternly, “I made that myself, as an apprentice.” I knew a careless thief could force it open if they lacked the skill to pick it properly, but that would break the mechanisms inside. In my youth, I’d made a living making locks, and even though I’d graduated to more complicated mechanisms, I had kept one for myself, and it would be a pain to fix as I no longer had the right molds. I would be forced to handcraft any broken elements, like this stubborn gear.
“No, I magicked it open,” The elf admitted her crime easily enough as she floated about my workshop examining my half-completed work. “This is some amazing work,” she added, “I’ve never seen a half-built dwarven golem before. I managed to get my hands on old broken gnomish golems and took one apart, to see how it was made, but they’re nothing like this. These look sturdy without being bulky, gnomish work is just delicate trash that will break with the first hard blow.”
The compliment pleased me. In truth I agreed with her, gnomish made golem frames were too fragile. Even gnomish enchanters agreed with that, choosing to buy from me rather than use their own crafters. I was one of the few golem makers who was well known and respected enough to be considered a master. Since engineering as a whole, was a relatively new art, it had been eager youths with experience working other delicate mechanisms, such as locksmiths, who had pioneered it. In the budding art of golem engineering, the part involving the construction of the physical frames, I was practically a founding father, I could have explained.
I could also have told her to get the hell out of my workshop. But seeing her oblivious unconcern with my anger, I let out a sigh and allowed myself to relax a little.
“Tell me what you want,” I told her. Best to just get the crazy elf out of my shop and out of my beard, I thought to myself, than to try to scold her for being a crazy elf.
“I need a decoy,” she explained, “I’m being followed by some bad people, and I need to give them a false trail to follow. A golem that can wear these tattered clothes with my scent, so that their dogs can be distracted.”
I considered her casual explanation, the proud way she was holding herself did not speak of a maiden in distress, I realized, but rather a woman fully in control, making plans to evade capture. I was intrigued by her strength, the way she’d not given up optimism and despite her seemingly dire situation, she was unbowed, unrepentant, and confident. She didn’t apologize for breaking in, she saw it as what she needed to do to survive. She didn’t beg for help, she simply told me what she needed, and made no move to use her plight to try and manipulate me into helping her.
“I don’t make golems on my own,” I admitted after a bit, “I make the frames, then sell them to gnomish enchanters. Without the magic, they are just dolls.” I say, gesturing at the inert constructs in various stages of completion, hanging by hooks along the walls.
“I’m an enchantress,” the elf said with an easy smile and a shrug, “Give me a finished frame, a room to work, a crucible, and some gold for the etchings, and I’ll enchant it myself right here.”
“I’m guessing by your clothes, and the fact that you’re a fugitive, that you don’t have any way to pay me,” I said, to see what she’d say. Would she threaten my life? I was a strong dwarf, in the prime of my life, barely over a hundred, muscular without a hint of fat, and had some training using my hammer as a weapon, but in a fight against an elven enchantress, even a half-starved one, I doubted I could win. Or would she have some pouch of gold hidden under her destitute disguise? Neither would surprise me, I realized.
“I will give you a chance to watch me work,” The elf said, tilting her head, “I know how gnomish enchanters are, jealous of their secrets. Elves are no different, usually, but I’m an outcast, enemy to my own people, I care not. When will you ever have another chance to see the other side of your craft? Perhaps you will learn ways to improve your work if you know how that work is used to create a finished product. Also, I will enchant a second golem for you, I know that those same gnomish enchanters who pay you a fraction of the price of a finished golem will pay twice the normal price of a golem for an elven enchanted work. They will be eager to try to determine how my techniques vary from their own, they will pay you for the privilege of dismantling the golem to try to pry out my secrets, more if you are also willing to tell them what you saw me do.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
I frown slightly, “I can see why the elves are hunting you if that’s your attitude about protecting the Elven kingdom’s secrets.”
The elf spat, a dwarven gesture she must have picked up, though I saw she was careful to then clean the offending spit with her worn cloth-soled shoe. My eyes followed the motion of that dainty foot, so unlike the feet of dwarven females, with interest. “Fuck the Elven kingdom,” She said loudly, “Those tradition-bound fools won't ever manage to duplicate my work, if the gnomes are willing to try, let them, better that than let them be lost forever, I suppose. I developed these techniques, by modifying the base wood golem enchanting formulas, because I was interested in other types of golems. The fools back home didn’t like my methods though, as if working on non-wooden golems was some sort of obscenity, really, what’s wrong with a metal golem, or a flesh golem for that matter?”
The elves relied on wooden golems, I recalled, but I’d not realized that the enchantments would vary depending on the material. This was interesting, perhaps it was even possible to make mixed material golems? Part wood part metal? Despite myself, I was intrigued, but then I paused, processing what she’d said. “Wait, flesh golems?” I asked, incredulously.
She looked embarrassed, “Well, in retrospect that was a mistake. Turns out they might have been willing to tolerate me experimenting on metal golems, but make one golem out of the corpse of a bugbear and suddenly, I’m being labeled a necromancer and hunted down like a criminal. Figures.”
My mouth is hanging open in shock, I realize. I snap it closed with a snort. Honestly, I have no idea what to expect from this strange elf, but a dabbler in necromancy? I should call the guards. Instead, I shake my head in amusement, thinking about the stuffy elves having to deal with a rebellious lass like this one. “How long would it take?” I ask instead.
“A week for both,” she says with a sigh, “Working with molten gold and craving groves into the metal with these weak hands is challenging,” she tells me. She holds up her delicate appendages for my inspection, and I’m shocked to find that I’m tempted to reach out and caress them. Perhaps I’ve got a bit of a kink for physically delicate female bodies, I realize. This would explain why a successful dwarf like me had managed to stay unattached for so long. Dwarven women tend to be as stocky and strong as the men, though of course, less hairy.
“Perhaps I can help with the etching, since you’ve already agreed to share your secrets with me, you could let me do the manual labor. I’ve no problems working with molten gold or cutting grooves into metal.”
“I’d have to draw the designs first, and you’d have to copy them exactly,” she points out, “The slightest mistake could ruin the whole thing.”
I nod, “I could get paper, I helped build a printing press once, there’s a dwarven bookmaker who owes me.”
“I’d need a place to stay, dangerous for me to use an inn. Would you keep me hidden while I work? I’ve got my raven familiar watching my pursuers, I lost them when we reached the mountains, and they wouldn’t think I’d be willing to head into the under realm, but I’d rather not advertise my presence by being the only elf at a dwarven inn.” She tells me.
I hesitated. Not because I was worried for my safety, but because it felt inappropriate for a pretty elvish woman to stay in the house of a single male dwarf. “Doesn’t it concern you to stay in a man’s house, alone? What if I try to take advantage of you?” I ask.
“Why? Do you want to take advantage of me? No need, I find you attractive enough. I’ve always had a muscle fetish, which is a hard itch to scratch among elves, let me tell you. I’ll warm your bed if you’d like. Not like you could get me pregnant.” She paused for a second, to sniff under her armpit. Her delicate nose wrinkled in disgust, “Though I’d have to ask for a nice long bath and a hot meal first, to get into the mood.” She gave me a calculating look, “Maybe you could even find me a tailor friend who’d be willing to make me something that fits so I don’t have to prance around in your second-hand shirts.”
Was she suggesting that she’d be willing to sleep with me in exchange for a warm meal and a change of clothes? I opened my mouth to gruffly refuse her offer, thinking I wasn’t about to pay for sex. Then I reconsidered, in her situation, on the run and obviously penniless, who was I to judge her? It was a straightforward enough exchange, and she did claim to be attracted to muscular men. Perhaps she could even tell how attracted to her I already was, how much prettier would she be after a bath and proper clothes? A few good meals to chase away her gaunt look? Was it wrong to accept her offer? Yes, I decided, I had to make it clear that I wasn’t accepting a quid per quo, despite how tempted I was.
“I don’t even know your name!” I protested, “I’m willing, lass, I find you attractive too, but let’s take it a bit slower than that! I’m not a monster, I’ll feed you and cloth you anyways, you don’t have to pay me for that much kindness. You can stay here if you want.”
“My name is Layla,” she told me with a smile, “And as to sex as payment? That wasn’t how I meant it. I wasn’t lying, I’m interested in muscular men like you. Perhaps it has always been a fantasy of mine to sleep with a handsome dwarf like you? But I’m glad you want to be a gentleman about it, I’m willing to be wooed. just remember, I’ll be gone in a week, so don’t be shy.”
“My name is Grant,” I told her, with a smile of my own, despite feeling shocked at how blunt she was, “Let me show you where the bath is,” I added. She was a bit whiffy, I realized, now that I’d gotten close enough to shake her hand.
She was the least elf-like elf I’d ever met, but that was a good thing, I thought to myself. She was the most unusual woman I'd ever met, and even stinky and dirty, I couldn't help but feel excited just to have her around. She felt earthy, grounded, and real, not the shy damsel in distress I'd expect of an elf maiden pushed to her limits like this. I admired her spunk and her open willingness to do whatever she wanted. This next week promised to be interesting, I thought to myself.