Small Mercies — five windows into warband life. Nothing heroic. Just home.
Nobody could find Reyneese.
This happened occasionally. Ten thousand years meant she’d developed hiding spots nobody thought to check. Brass assumed the temple. Lulu assumed “talking to a tree, probably.” Avelreese assumed meditation.
Vyrneese, applying what she called “logical elimination protocol,” checked the basement.
The smell hit first. Copper, oil, something faintly scorched. Then the sound—a rhythmic clanking punctuated by occasional satisfied humming.
Reyneese sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by schematics, component parts, and what appeared to be three separate goblin engineering manuals held open with empty teacups. She was wearing goggles. She was covered elbow-deep in engine grease. She was grinning in a way Vyrneese had never seen during any prayer or meditation session.
“Ah.” Vyrneese processed this. “You are… happy.”
“Tremendously.” Reyn didn’t look up. A small gear clicked into place. She made a noise that could only be described as gleeful.
“You have been down here how long?”
“What day is it?”
Vyrneese told her.
A pause. “…the tea was from Tuesday.”
On the workbench, a forgotten cup sat cold beside a diagram labeled OC-91: TERTIARY CANNON MODIFICATION (DO NOT TELL BRASS ABOUT COST).
Vyrneese looked at it. Looked at Reyneese. Filed the information under a new category she created on the spot: Ancient Beings Containing Multitudes.
“Shall I tell the others you are alive?”
“Tell them I’m meditating.”
“That is a lie.”
“Tell them I’m communing with the Light.”
Vyrneese considered this. “The Light smells like burning copper today.”
Reyn finally looked up, goggles pushed onto her forehead, grease streak across her nose, silver hair escaping in seventeen directions. The picture of ten thousand years of priestly wisdom and grace.
“…close the door on your way out.”