Chapter 32 - The girl and the ballistae, an early morning intermezzo (First Evolution arc)

　　The prince awoke early—his body could tell though there was no light of dawn. He got up and roamed the halls of hell; the empty beckoned. A handful of guards stood stoic near the major entries—there where loot could otherwise be had by some mindful nomad or other. Greedy goblin hands unattended in the night.

　　The trappers` hall was closest, shared with the tinkerers—they worked on similar stuff, goblin gadgets meant to maim or worse. With the door half ajar, a guardsman held watch, ears pricked to the sounds of earnest toil, the nighttime shift being worked.

　　As the prince sought to enter, the guard gave pause... assessed the hopeful entrant clad in beggar`s drag—still the same brown cloth of a starter. Then the mark on the forehead lit up a light blue, and the time for doubt was done; the prince walked in to see what his soon-to-be subjects were building. He was getting good at harnessing the mark`s power—he had but to think of Gael or Gendrin or Gorkon, one of the three hard G`s, and the boil of his blood did the rest.

　　There were a dozen goblins present, all of them rookies going by size and lack of strength—not a single one had a breath of aura; the prince could sense that now, he thought. Zazra and the raid captain... even Uggon, they all had a scent, thinking back. A warrior spirit that clung like sweat to their lean physiques.

　　None of that here—only runts manning smithy benches, making tools of all sorts: knives, scythes, hatchets, hammers, chisels, and thongs; others made construction hardware: nails, hinges, and brackets. It looked rather efficient, and the prince was mildly impressed—these runts would do well in the hell he now envisioned. A lesser form of tyranny, focused solely on output quality and quantity. Anything to bring down his treasonous half-uncle.

　　At the other end of the room, three goblins worked a run-down old smelter, shovelling in scrap metal and sawed-apart chest armours—the ones so busted that the dents could not be hammered out.

　　Yet more goblins were labouring alone, weaving wicker into baskets; carving out trinkets, spoons and bowls from larger slabs of wood; sewing up leather bags to hold water during travel; sharpening tools and weapons at a lever-operated stone grinding wheel; and most strikingly, there was one clever-looking rookie off in the corner with a pencil and blue paper—she was drawing up plans for rudimentary siege weapons. Next to her stood the woodgrain skeletons of three ballistae in the making, complete with wheeled carriages for easy positioning on future battlefields.

　　The prince moved nearer to the girl, eyeing the ballistae that looked crudely carved but close to ready—metal reinforcements seemed soundly in place, along with the torsion springs and the winch mechanisms.

　　"Did you make these?" asked the prince, though his deep voice or mere presence seemed to startle the girl—she jerked back and froze, crumpling the blue paper plans as she stood stiffly at attention. Waiting to be told off by a second-grade sentry or supervisor—someone with force and authority; this much was clear.

　　The prince took a small step back, giving her room to breathe or at least passed on the notion—it is alright to be scared, though for now there is no need. He pointed at the ballistae, gave the girl an inquiring nod... and she nodded back, holding his eye to assess his status. Clearly someone superior, but who?

　　"Your name?" asked the prince in a softer tone, maintaining his distance—there was a lesson here, trying to accommodate the not-so-savage spawns that were now his kin.

　　The girl shook her head. Nameless. Wordless. A strange combination of intellect and its absence.

　　"Were you human once?" the prince tried. The girl shrugged.

　　There was little sense in further questioning, so the prince simply held up his hand, a wait here` motion that served no purpose save to maintain rapport—the girl was not going anywhere. They were all captives here, though some seemed less cognizant of the fact than others.

　　The prince walked back to the healers` hall, searched through the cupboards and the loosely arrayed everythings—the place was truly a mess. He opened up pots and looked into cups; there was a certain consistency to what he was after. There—a wooden container sealed with cloth... inside a yellow-white creamy substance, more liquid than solid, and with the telltale sheen of tallow. Animal fat. Perfect.

　　He rummaged around for a good while still. Surely, there were more multi-use products around. Ah, here—opening a cupboard in the second-graders` section, he saw a cloth bag, further wrapped in leaves to protect the item within from dust and dirt. A deep yellow colour shone through, and the prince moved in close to catch a whiff of its scent... it gave off a subtle and sweet aroma, betraying its floral origins. Here was a well-stowed-away block of beeswax. The smells of nature and not the damp cave... it moved the prince to know that the world was still out there. But reflections could follow whenever—right now he had a task to complete.

　　Returning to the nameless girl and her ballistae, the prince strode in slowly, bearing gifts. He put the round wooden container on a desk to the side, bidding her closer as he peeled off the cloth seal. She saw the shiny substance underneath and showed intrigue, eyes darting from prince to tallow, a quiet question on her lips. The prince grabbed a stiff brush from the nearby workstation; this one had seen minor use as a tool for cleaning metal parts and debris... and though some of the bristles were frayed and bent, it would suffice for a demonstration.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

　　The prince dipped the brush in the tallow container, then twirled it round to avoid excess drip. He rose gently and inched toward the ballistae, offering the girl his goblin-best smile as he saw her move to the ballistae, standing guard before them with her small arms outstretched—a barrier and a warning. Stay back.

　　And the prince did not press the issue. He sought for a softer way to alleviate her worries... a worn-out tool or weapon would do, something ripe for disassembly. Ah, a crude-looking crossbow lay on the next most nearest workbench; the prince pointed at it, nodding and keeping contact with the girl, who walked up and grabbed it, then came towards him but not too close—she set the crossbow down on the workbench before him, and then scampered off, back to the defence of her treasured ballistae.

　　It was a gradual process, earning trust from a skittish one like her, but the prince found it oddly rewarding—for once he had the chance to be seen as not a menace or violent warmonger... if only he could convince her to trust him with this ploy he had concocted.

　　He grabbed the crossbow, overly delicately, to show his reverence before the crafts—both wood- and metalworking were involved in the making of a crossbow, a rather refined weapon that took some definite skill to assemble.

　　Gently, he applied a coat of tallow to the parched wood and the metal parts, to which rust clung like a deep-seated infection. But with deliberate and lavish strokes of his tallow-dipped brush, the cracks and crevices began to be less noticeable—the wood regained some of its lost lustre; the metal shed its coat of rust, and the thing on the whole looked restored or at least more resilient. There was life in it left.

　　The girl sat staring... rapt amazement shone from her sharp eyes that seemed alert as ever, but less alarmed, perhaps.

　　One way to find out. The prince set aside the crossbow, dipped his brush in tallow again, and put on his kind face—the sort that might startle Artisan and even Linaria, for they would know the prince was up to something... something presumably no good.

　　He did not approach the ballistae—that was for her to decide if she felt comfortable. But the prince did hold out the brush, an invitation for her to try it.

　　She eked closer, pitter-pattering with eyes wide and pupils dilated, letting all the light in to continually gauge his danger level... her body eager to bounce well away if need be.

　　Swiftly reaching out, she grabbed the brush and leapt back, smiling broadly at her newly acquired tool and mission... and also at the prince, who had kept to the implicit social contract, and was now one step closer to trustworthy.

　　The girl darted off to her ballistae, started coating the first one in a nice protective sheen of animal fat, seeming pleasantly engaged with the new work—it enhanced the look of her pet project, and she appeared able to envision the finished project: the luxurious gloss that would make the ballistae, in her mind, closer to works of art than tools of warfare.

　　The prince put the round wooden container with the tallow on the ground close to her. Then he grabbed the cloth bag further wrapped in leaves, removing both to get to the block of beeswax. He gave a soft whistle to attract the girl`s attention as he put the block in a metal pan lying around near the smelter. Gently, he guided the pan into the smelter... the girl came running to his side to see what he was doing, this fun second-grader who was somehow not quite like the rest.

　　Motioning at his eyes and then at the pan... and then to her eyes and at the pan, the prince made it a joint process—they were both keeping dutiful watch so the wax wouldn`t vaporize or catch fire.

　　The prince looked at her and saw the fire from the oven reflected in her eyes—she was all attention, this keen little pupil he did not know he wanted.

　　When the wax starting melting, she jumped up and down, jerked at the sleeves of his cloth overall. Slowly, the prince pulled out the pan; he blew several times on the liquid to show it was hot hot hot, and the girl laughed, a real emanation of happiness—even hell cannot quash the true spirit of man and woman. There is joy to be found in the slightest of corners, always, to those who go looking.

　　The prince walked the pan over to the ballistae, looking back first at the girl to see if she might protest. She did not; she was excitedly nibbling at the cuff of her sleeve, the drab brown overall that hung like a gown on her—she was tiny as a hatchling, not fully two feet tall.

　　He set down the beeswax pan next to the tallow container, then looked up to see where she had gone. The girl had run off... had he somehow misjudged, and was he now an intrusive bastard like the rest?

　　But then she made a turn, came bopping back, and ah... gave the prince a second brush so they could work together.

　　The prince dipped his brush in the beeswax, blowing on it again to ensure she knew—it was hot and dangerous... he waited for her to chuckle, a sign of acknowledgment, then applied it to the wood of the ballistae in neat and even strokes.

　　He offered her the brush, nodding as if to say—you can handle it, with the hint of a question lingering. She nodded a quick yesyesyes, and gently grabbed the brush, going to work as the prince had shown. He then took the second brush, dipped it in the tallow, applying lavish coats to the metal elements to keep them rust-free and functional. The prince tapped her softly on the shoulder, stealing her attention from the beeswax to the tallow—this they would use on the metal; the beeswax was for the wood. Did she understand? Yesyesyes, she nodded, and the prince nodded back.

　　They sat there for some time, engrossed in earnest toil with the brushes and ballistae, coating these works of art and war. She looked at him from time to time, to ascertain if the job and the mood were still right, and they were. The prince tried to make her laugh as often as he could—she deserved a bit of fun in between the brutal rest of days unending and nights cold with longing.

　　Then the morning bell rang, and the prince had to say not farewell but bye for now—he would be back. Tomorrow, he signed and said, hoping at least one part of the attempts to communicate would resonate in that clever sealed-off mind of her. What ghosts hid there, he might never know. Was she human, yet mostly erased? A full goblin ought not to behave as she did, so calm and inquisitive.

　　Ah, of course—magestones. He would bring her one and see her reaction. Now there was an experiment worth trying.

　　But first the inevitable, no more dawdling. The prince walked into an arena packed with bodies. The rookies, the captain, the lean stone-eyed watchman. They all watched him walk in, giving half-greetings or nods or bows, various motions that shared something real, something akin to reverence.

　　No sign yet from the bone-warrior.

　　So the prince joined in with the rookies—there were more now, newer numbers. "A gauntlet," he offered, "from thirty-sixth to first, attack me. All duels. Winner gets nothing save for undying honour."

　　The rest formed a circle as thirty-six lumbered up to the prince, trying hard to hide his buckling body, its tremors. But failing.