Mid-winter, and the River Sene slides through the city at a crawl. You walk alongside it through the docks, kicking up the snow with your brisk pace. Aside for the taverns, this area of the city is deserted, the silence deepened by the falling snow. You have been summoned on urgent matters by your financial adviser, Bezzal.
Bezzal's barge is safely moored in its little inlet, and his warehouse - usually a sight of manic energy staffed by Goblin's running before their master's whip-like tongue - is now all but empty, populated only by Bezzal's small army of golems standing to attention. There'll be no trade, not while the Sene is a churning, brown slush of dirt and pulverised ice, and the roads and mountain passes blocked for the winter.
The barge is unoccupied but the golems stand aside to permit you entry to the warehouse. In the office at the back, you find Bezzal. The Goblin is naked and strapped to one of the long, wooden tables he uses for his part exchanges. An Orc is strapped to the table beside him, the leather harnesses securing him there stretched tight over the musculature of this impressive specimen. Looking at the inadequacy of the constraints, you surmise that the Orc is here freely, though he seems unhappy about it. His massive, barrel-chest heaves in deep breaths. His entire body steams in the frigid air.
"Ah! A friendly face, thank gold," the Goblin smiles when he sees you. "I trust these machines more than I trust anyone, but I fear if they drop me they might not have the brains to pick me up again." With that, he nods at a waiting golem. "Continue."
The golem steps forward. It is a different model to the copper-and-iron sentries that guard the warehouse; this one is steel-and-brass of a more slender, refined design and it moves fluidly, taking off the Orc's head with a single stroke of the goblin knife clamped in its claw. The Orc's head rolls across the table, its body going immediately limp, and the golem moves on to its master.
"I hate this pa-" Bezzal winces, as the blade slices through his neck.
The golem wastes no time in setting the Goblin's head on the Orc's shoulders. Another flick of the knife fuses the two. He flexes his new, powerful body and sits up, the leather straps snapping like wet spaghetti. He looks absurd - a tiny, mottled-blue head sitting atop a mountainous, green body.
"Happy?"
"I am now," Bezzal says. His voice comes out a deep rumble, still his own but amplified by the bellows-like lungs of the young Orc body. "Always a risky business, transferring, even with golems. Top of the line, totally new," he says, rapping the golem on its steel chestplate. "But you never know when they might do something really stupid. Knife. Give."
After a pause, the golem releases the knife from its mechanical claw. With it Bezzal sets about uniting his client's head with his own, old body. The resulting amalgamation is even worse. The Orc clutches his head in his thin, scaly hands, perhaps in despair, more likely to stop the weight of his massive skull snapping his scrawny, goblin neck like a dry twig. But even in that tiny body, the pouch of silver handed to him seems small.
"That's a poor price for such a trade," you comment, once the Orc has waddled away unsteadily. "I wouldn't take your body for all the gold in the kingdom."
"Nor would he," Bezzal chuckles. "I convinced him it was merely a temporary swap and he'll have his body back in time for spring."
"And will he?"
"Of course! I am a merchant of my word," the Goblin gasps in mock outrage. "As I explained to him, I hate to be landlocked. It gets me on edge. If I don't have a river to escape on, I'd want to have a body to fight with. And this boy's body is built for fighting. When the river thaws, he can have it back. Although I may have forgotten to mention that my racial regeneration factor is a heartless bitch. In a few months, this beautiful body will be only so much paltry goblin-flesh. As will his."
"At least his head might match his shoulders."
"Aye. Robbed of his orc-strength, his identity... I think I might give him a job mucking out the stables..." Bezzal runs his hands over his body gleefully, soon locating the large, green, orcish member. His eyes light up.
"Would you like me to come back later?" you offer politely.
He composes himself quickly. "No, we have important business to discuss. It would appear that..."
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