The courier's knees buckled as he was mentally dragged into the golden office. The great chamber was lit by braziers of blue fire reflecting across the polished bronze panels that passed for walls. He was trembling, his lips pressed tight as though by force, eyes darting in frantic, terrified glances. A street rat dragged too far from its burrow.
At the desk sat Alþjófr, the dwarf who had founded and ruled the Auctioneers. His white-gold beard draped down his chest like a waterfall of coins, rings clinking on his stubby fingers as he tapped the polished desk. Behind him in front of him were the Golden Automata: his prized golems, statues of block-shaped perfection.
"You are a Courier," Alþjófr rumbled. "What is your name?"
"It...it doesn't matter," he said.
