TK JOHNSON

His hands are in their pockets again.

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This ought not have been a habit, oil-slick palms plunged in silk and satin purses, blackened tips tracing the rough ridges of copper coins. He is better than this, better than them---but the work needed finishing.

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Enough coin could buy lenses, lights, licensures. Enough coin could buy rank, could buy respect.

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Enough coin could have the workshop running day and night, could put the wits and wisdom of the finest wizards to proper use.

Enough coin could bring him back.

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His hidden hands slide to safety. This is the last night he dipps and darts behind chairs, between knees, beneath the clumsy feet of this bar's world-weary patrons. Narrowed eyes and flexing fists tell him that he'd long worn out his welcome, thief or no. This is no place for smallfolk. He ducks through the sagging, splintered doorway and out into the night air, another gnome lost to the chaos of the city's streets.

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With each fleeting footfall through the winding roads of the city, he counts the copper in his fist, heart swiftly sinking to the pit of his stomach. He pulls the heavy iron door of his rickety workshop closed behind him and silently slumps into a hollow heap beside the corpse on the cold table. There is so much to do. So much more…

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He has so little coin and so little time.