Ophelia the Snow Dancer’s mini-arc. 3/4.

******

Ophelia had wondered how long it’d take for them to stop hiding.

To their credit, the clanking only started when they were halfway up the tunnel. 

Until then, it was passable sneaking. And while the thought of a queue of armoured dwarves tiptoeing like a young elven girl off to steal the forest elder’s favourite toothbrush again was amusing, in reality, it was the last thing most people would never even hear. 

Despite their reputation for destroying bars, the fact was that dwarves could be as silent as they needed.

They had to be. Beneath the surface, everything had better ears than eyes. And when the difference between happiness and being regurgitated by a carrion crawler was a single wayward echo, they learned to soften their footsteps as well as any duck in the night.

Of course, none of that mattered when it came to Ophelia.

She was very good at hearing.

But more importantly, she also had something none of them did.

An impractically shiny sword.

She turned while twirling the weapon she really had no right to be holding. The dwarves clearly agreed. Their eyes winced in both discomfort and disapproval as they marched into the shrine like guards on parade, before forming an impenetrable wall of shields.

Ophelia admired the choreography. 

Not a single sneeze despite all the dust. These were high quality henchmen. They were probably awful when it came to actually stabbing things, but that wasn’t what employers looked for in their goons. 

It was the ability to separate their shields like a parting sea without even looking back, revealing the pre-planned sight of their leader smiling with curiosity.

“Well, now, who might we have here? … Ah, I do believe this is the famed Snow Dancer. And in a place without snow. How delightful that I may find you in such a serene place of worship.”

The dwarf stepped past his guards, managing the feat of being a head taller than any of them despite not actually being taller.

He simply held himself higher. 

Wearing mantled robes of scarlet and gold with a pattern as detailed as a cathedral ceiling, he could almost pass as a bishop. Except that none of the bishops Ophelia knew carried a belt of throwing knives, several daggers and probably an axe somewhere as well. 

They hid theirs a lot better.

The same went for their jewelry.

Necklaces. Rings. Bracelets. Even several clasps topped with emerald nuggets just for his beard. Dark but tinged with streaks of grey, it was both immaculately long and highly complicated, complete with several braids and a twirly moustache.

He wore enough valuables that the only reason he wasn’t constantly robbed was likely because he employed all the thieves. And also because most of his jewelry was ominously glowing.

Elves were naturally attuned to magic. But Ophelia didn’t need any unique senses for this. 

Just her eyes would do.

Every shining trinket the dwarf boasted had been pilfered or plucked from a powerful mage. And the thing shining the most was the ring that had just unleashed an exorcism spell so potent Ophelia could feel her own soul trying to skip away. 

This was someone high up the ladder.

It was always easy to tell.

They weren’t running away. Yet.

“Oh hey, welcome to the Church of Ophelia. Feel free to leave your donations in the bucket.”

The dwarf gave a small chuckle.

Barely a second in and he already had the overfamiliarity of a merchant with nothing legitimate to sell.

“I wasn’t aware you had your own church, Snow Dancer. Have you many followers?”

“Loads.” Ophelia pointed towards a pair of ducks sitting upon the altar. “If you want to join, you’ll need their approval first.”

“I’d never dare. Your reputation is far better than mine. I’ve no wish to sully it.”

“How dare you. That’s reverse slander. I worked hard to make my reputation utterly terrible.”

“Well, in that case, allow me to say you’ve done an outstanding job. It’s still better than mine, though–or at least until word gets out that you’ve helped yourself to Lady Lumielle’s shrine. How’s the holy sword?”

“Great,” said Ophelia, wincing as she held it up. “Eye damage on a stick. Exactly what I wanted.”

“And no more than what you deserve. I tried fetching it for myself, of course. As you can tell, I failed. Repeatedly.”

“Times are getting harder, huh?”

“Quite so. A troubling omen for the future. These days, you can’t even rob a consecrated sanctuary without a guardian spirit blessed by Lady Lumielle and immune to all forms of flames, weapons and bribery insisting on everything remaining where it is.” 

“Did you try headbutting him?”

The dwarf pointed to a goon.

“Some of us did,” he admitted, as a helmet was rubbed in response. “I suppose that says it all. I’ve never known anything to survive a dwarven headbutt, ethereal holy spirit or not. You’ve my gratitude for weakening him.”

Ophelia shrugged.

“It doesn’t really feel like you needed the help. That spell was something only archbishops can cast. Something in the ring?”

“Something in the ring.” The dwarf nodded, lifting his pinky to show what was definitely not the ring which contained the spell. “Exceptionally high ranking holy magic. Single use only. I rather regret paying for it. Had I known in advance you were coming, I would have purchased a red carpet instead.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a red carpet.”

“The red carpet is for me, not you. In my line of work, I can never quite have enough.”

“... Because they hide all the blood, huh?”

“What? No. Because I welcome a great deal of dignitaries … but yes, they also hide all the blood.”

The dwarf straightened the beard which didn’t need straightening, then offered a bow.

He kept his eyes on Ophelia’s shadow.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with all the candour of someone who hadn’t been stabbed in ages. “Velstric the Black Thane, at your service. I am the lord commissioner of more trading companies, guilds and merchant unions than you can name. Mostly since we don’t bother trading on the surface.”

Ophelia looked at the dwarf’s glossy scarlet robes.

“Shouldn’t you be the Red Thane?”

“Yes, but the Red Thane’s been taken, good for nothing rogue that he is.”

“Okay. But if you want to be the Black Thane, it feels like you need to dress in black as well, otherwise you’ll need to deal with the same jokers who ask me where all the snow is.”

“Your concern is well received. But the black in my name refers to my heart. And also the fact I’m the leader of the Shadowvault Syndicate.”

Ophelia hummed in thought.

The Shadowvault Syndicate. 

That was definitely the name of something a committee had spent months deciding, hunched over a little desk with cackling to themselves.

“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“It should do. We were hired to assassinate you.” 

“Oh, right. Is that why you’re here?”

“Surprisingly … no. We actually excused ourselves from that contract after the third failed attempt.”

Ophelia blinked.

It’s not like she cared about standards. But if people wanted to murder her, they really needed to at least make the effort. It was her yawns she had to respond with, after all.

“... Really? Is that it? Three attempts isn’t a lot.”

“It isn’t,” admitted Velstric the Black Thane, leader of a particularly uncommitted group of rogues. “But business wasn’t harmed. Assassination isn’t our forte, and to our disappointed clients, I always offer a full refund.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. To me. I deserve a refund too. Even if you’re terrible at assassinating me, then that’s still my time you’re using up.”

A small chuckle came in answer.

The common language for ‘no’.

“Your time is indeed important. Which is why I’d like to make an offer. I was right not to order you stopped when I heard you were waltzing around. True, I held more curiosity than hope that you might steal away the guardian spirit’s sword, but you achieved it with only a handful of words. Such ingenuity makes you highly valuable. How do you feel about employment? My organisation mostly dabbles in extortion, smuggling and illicit loans, but there are plenty of opportunities for someone of your skillset.”

Ophelia gave a nod.

“Nah.”

The Black Thane waited for more.

“... What about a brochure?” he said after a long pause. 

“Nope. I’m good.”

“At least let me make my full sales pitch. This is a very rare opportunity. Few outsiders ever have the chance to experience the highs and, well, very lows of dwarven subterfuge. And as a member of the aristocracy, I promise that no two days will ever be the same.”

Ophelia shrugged.

If this was the old her, she’d definitely take a punt at whatever counted for chaos below the ground. But this was the new her. And while there probably wasn’t much difference, she now understood that nothing was better than what she could find closer to home.

A crazy human princess.

“I’ve already worked for guys with fancy titles,” she said, hoping that more than two words was enough to shoo the latest recruiter away. “It’s fine for a time, but even free food loses its charm.”

The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow.

“Human and dwarven nobility are quite different. As are our wealth levels. Rest assured, I would pay you with more than just … free food.”

“That’s what everyone who tries to hire me says. But compared to any regular elf whistling down the street, you only look like a 6/10 on the untrustworthy chart. You need to look a lot more suspicious if you want my attention.”

A genuine chuckle came in response.

“Goodness me. I caution you against such compliments, Snow Dancer. If my rivals knew you thought of me as anything but the monster in the closet, they’d level their complaints directly at your door.”

“They can try. But they’ll need to get past the horde of gossiping aunties outside my cottage first.”

“Oh? Then it sounds like you have a great deal of unwanted admirers. A problem I can fix. If you require henchmen to ensure your privacy, I’m certain it can be arranged as part of any remuneration package.”

Ophelia was almost tempted.

A bunch of coldhearted dwarves from the underbelly of society suddenly showing up would be hilarious. Whatever they had faced in a shady back alley, it was nothing compared to what bored aunties could do when they clearly didn’t live in the neighbourhood. They’d be glared at until they broke into tears.

Still, she shook her head.

“Thanks. But I’ll pass. You can also tell that to whoever’s in the queue after you as well. I’m busy with my own stuff. And since you were listening, you already know why.” 

The Black Thane’s smile widened, even as his eyes took on a more opportunistic gleam.

“Indeed. A curious tale, to seek the favour of a princess. But while such an endeavour is reason to procure the finest gift, I’m afraid it excludes the one embedded in that fine sword.”

The armoured dwarves behind him fidgeted, as though waiting for the smile to fall. 

Instead, their leader continued to wear his merchant’s façade.

“An amicable exchange is in order. Please permit me to safekeep what the holy poltergeist gave you. In exchange, you may have a crate of precious gemstones from my own personal vault–none of which lack for lustre. There’s no princess above or below the surface who wouldn’t be enamoured with what I own. Would you like a sample?”

“Sure.”

“Excellent! In that case, I can arrange–”

“The sample can be for being bad at assassinating me. I’m still keeping this diamond.”

The dwarf paused, betraying a flicker of exasperation.

“... Snow Dancer, despite what marketing material you may have heard, allow me to assure you that the Heart of the Forge is not a diamond. And while I understand you wish to impress a member of royalty with it, there are far more suitable alternatives.”

“Yeah. But the guy you vapourised was sort of nice and I want to honour the fact he was obviously really annoying about not letting you have it.”

“I see. And what would you accept, then? A kingdom’s sum of crowns? Residency of the dwarven cities? Access to the Kingdom Under The Mountain’s deepest vaults?” 

Ophelia glanced up in thought.

“Nope, I’m good.”

“... Excuse me?”

“I don’t need anything.”

“My apologies, Snow Dancer, but that’s impossible. As far as I’m aware, you’re now a wandering fugitive. You’ve nothing to your name.” 

“That’s a lie. I have a cottage with a pond, two ducks and now a sword. What else do I need?”

The dwarf gave a sigh.

All at once, the surrounding goons tensed–because as nobody ever said, if the third time murdering Ophelia wasn’t the charm, the fourth would probably do it.

“I see,” said the Black Thane with a nod of understanding. “That’s unfortunate. I was hoping that for a thief, you might possess a better sense of self-preservation. And maybe an instinct for good value. So allow me to tender a second offer instead.”

“... You’re going to offer to let me live unless I hand over the shiny jewel, huh?”

The dwarf looked shocked.

“That’s far too cliché. You’ve dealt with too much human nobility. Rest assured, I wouldn’t have risen to where I am today if I murdered everyone who declined to do business with me. It’s crude and barbaric.”

“Oh, okay. What’s the second offer, then?”

“The second offer is that I’ll permit whichever princess you admire to live … ergo, I’m threatening to murder her instead. Nothing officially to do with me or the syndicate, of course. As I said, assassination isn’t our forte. But accidents do happen. It’s only natural if in the dark of night, a knife should–”

“Pfffffffffftt~”

The dwarf stepped away as Ophelia practically spat at him.

Except it wasn’t as an act of petulance.

Instead … it was just laughter.

“Ahahahahahahahahaha~”

Doubled over, the beautiful elven maiden instantly became a mess of tears and flushed cheeks. 

She pointed at the deeply unimpressed face of the thane, whose every feat as a ruler of an underworld empire was seemingly being mocked for a reason only her ducks understood.

The dwarf’s nose wrinkled.

“I see you doubt my sincerity. Or perhaps my capability. But it’s no difficult thing to see a human princess dead. Especially those who rule the tiny crop of land above. Granted, I’m not sure which one you refer to, but there are only so many to go around–and professionalism also means thoroughness.” 

Ophelia stopped laughing at once.

The dwarf was right. There really were only so many of them. Three if she recalled.

That crazy girl could definitely handle herself. But the others were probably actual princesses. It’d definitely look bad if she was partially responsible for them dying. 

“Ah, that’s better,” said the Black Thane, his merchant’s candour returning with a smile. “It seems you understand now. Indeed, whether or not every princess in the glorified farm over our head perishes will be decided purely by your judgement. Are you ready to consider my offer?” 

“Sure am. Luckily for you, the glorified farm is really good at teaching an important skill.”

“Oh? What would that be?”

Ophelia smiled. Just as she raised her sword.

“Diplomacy.”