The Rougher Edge
Day of Rule, 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)
The fire burns low in the cluttered shop as every gadget, every gear casts shadows in the fading light and in that darkness there is a light, not ruby red but blue like, bright and searing in the eye. It moves with the sound of hissing and moving pistons that would have been alien before your visit to the city of the Little Folk. Now it is merely unnerving... and then it is a touch more than that. The being that steps out to meet you with the clump of too heavy boots is as much black iron as flesh and the part of him that is flesh is stitched together like a child's doll, though no child would bear such a countenance without bursting into tears. It...
he cracks his neck with the sound of metal scraping metal.
"So that's to be my fate then, for daring to dream of iron and not just brass and bronze?" Before you can reply to the complaint, for Ro does not seem of a mind to do so, he waves a gloved hand upon an arm of iron. "Oh, never you mind, I'm happy to go instead of drone-buzzing about fixing what was lost. No doubt it would come out as my fault in the end."
"Pleased to meet a fellow student of the world," Zaia says extending a hand, very deliberately bending his knees so that he would reach lower without seeming to try
too hard.
"Hmm... an alchemist then, pleased to be making your acquaintance," the strange being speaks a little faster, as others of his breed you have met. "At least you are one to be trying to make new things, too many mortals have their heads screwed on the wrong way around, looking over their shoulders at the glorious ancestors. Feh... if they are so glorious why are they dead? I'm Mog by the way, Mog the Ironsmith."
His master, or you suppose now former master, coughs in clear doubt at the proclamation, though Mog does not seem to care, taking the old man's hand in his and then stomping out the door... where he almost gets kicked into the ground by Megin after he tries to ride on her. To be fair he is carrying bags almost larger than he is and clanking with metal that pretty much have to be carried by a horse if you are to make good time...
"Not all those who walk on four...." you break off, recalling Megin herself. "Not all those who walk on more than two legs are beasts."
"Yeah, yeah," Mog waves the matter off, picking non-existent dust off the leather of his right glove. "So, who is going to carry this?" he lifts up the bags with wry strength not wholly his own.
"What do you need that for?" Esha ask carefully.
"My own work," the little gremlin speaks slowly as if addressing a child. "Now..." Unfortunately for him you will never find out now what as something inside one of the bags flashes with the same cracking blue light as his eye lashes out and strikes Tom in the chest, shrouding him in a veil of its power.
"Fuck!" Tom slurs the curse as he forces his lips to move.
"Numbing power, how fascinating," Esha's tone is now as sharp as the gremlin smith's, as one speaking of a particularly clever toy.
"Is there a problem?" you ask worry and anger in your voice as in your mind. The damn thing had hit Tom.
"None that you won't find worse in a thousand other places," Mog scoffs even as Esha shakes her head with a smile.
"I suspect our new companion thinks my way of using power without proxy or mechanism is primitive and wasteful. I would counter that I never unintentionally hit someone with a numbing spell."
At that Mog clicks his teeth so violently together you are half concerned that he bit his tongue off. "Let's just do the binding and be off."
What do you do?
[] Bind the gremlin into service and move on
[] Try to smooth things over
-[] Write in how
[] Set down the law
-[] Write in how
[] Write in
OOC: Meet Mog the Imjarvi Gremlin smith. For the record, Roland does not know anything about the types of gremlin so it's not in the update, but Esha rolled high enough to know what manner of being he is. 
