After the Vigil of the Fallen festival, Isolde and I returned home following a strange yet intriguing encounter with "Uncle Reginald."
That night, we talked about everything we'd seen in his workshop. Among the many things that caught our attention, one stood out in particular: the enormous mechanical bird he was building. It looked like a raven, though its design and structure suggested it was more likely an aerial surveillance device. Interesting. Too interesting to ignore.
That's why, the next day, we headed back to his workshop with a clear goal in mind: to convince him to take us on as his apprentices. Steampunk technology could be a significant advantage—a valuable resource to set us apart from others. And Reginald… well, he was the key to it all.
"You came back?"
Reginald's voice sounded right behind us.
"Aah!"
We screamed in unison. The scare was so intense I almost punched him out of reflex, but I managed to hold back.
"Hahaha. Did I startle you?" he said, without a hint of remorse. "But what are you doing here?"
You laugh and don't even apologize? How disrespectful. Though, to be honest… it doesn't bother me that much.
We regained our composure. They say you should eat bread after a scare, right?
"We came to learn from you."
"What?"
"We came to—"
"Yeah, I heard you."
"Then why make me repeat it?"
Reginald let out a sigh—the kind of exhale that comes when patience is hanging by a thread.
"I don't have time to teach kids. Just go home."
Too direct. Too quick.
"Oh, come on. The things you do look interesting. Let us learn from you, okay?" Isolde tried to sound persuasive, which only betrayed her desperation.
"No."
Without another word, Reginald turned and walked deeper into the workshop. We, in a display of persistence bordering on stubbornness, followed him, repeating our request with the insistence of a mosquito on a summer night. It was obvious we were being annoying, but that didn't seem to deter us. Reginald, on the other hand, was growing irritated.
"Will you teach us? Please, we want to learn about mechanics."
"Teach us, please."
"Enough. I can't. It's too complicated for kids. When you're older."
It was a reasonable answer. Logical. But Isolde wasn't the type to accept "no" for an answer, and she proved it in the most predictable way possible. Her eyes welled up with fake tears, her voice took on a trembling tone, and with the theatrics of a seasoned actress, she threw herself to the ground, rolling around and pounding the floor with her fists. Magic. Of course. Or, more accurately, Syrix.
"Teach us! I want you to teach us!" Her wailing echoed through the workshop as if she'd suffered some unforgivable offense.
Here we go again…
Reginald took a step back, his expression like someone who'd just stepped in a cold puddle with dry socks.
"What's wrong with her?" he asked, clearly uncomfortable.
This was our chance. Without hesitation, I pulled the same trick. A dose of magic, some fake—yet dramatic—tears, and a perfectly calculated sob.
"Please, teach us! Waaah!"
Reginald blinked, the kind of panic only an adult feels when faced with crying children and no clear idea how to handle them.
We had him.
"What am I supposed to do?" Reginald muttered to himself, visibly uncomfortable. Two kids were bawling in front of him, demanding he teach them how to build steam-powered machines. A pathetic spectacle… but an effective one.
We were eight years old. At this age, tantrums were still a socially viable tool. Why wouldn't he believe it?
"Waaah! Please, teach us!" Isolde kept up the act.
Not one to hesitate, I threw myself onto the floor. Execution was everything in these situations. I took a deep breath and amplified the scene with an even more desperate wail.
"Aaargh! Fine, fine! I'll teach you!"
Finally. I thought we'd have to resort to more drastic measures.
"Really?" Isolde went from collapsed on the floor, sobbing, to standing in front of Reginald with a radiant smile. A shift so abrupt that anyone with two functioning brain cells should've been suspicious.
"Yes, yes. Just drop the act already."
I wiped away my fake tears and settled comfortably into one of the workshop's armchairs. Isolde, meanwhile, picked up a hammer with a grin that betrayed her intentions.
"Hehe… Great! So… what are you teaching us first?"
Reginald frowned.
"What? What do you mean?"
"You said you'd teach us. Where do we start?"
"Hmm… Do you like reading?"
Damn it. Were we really going to have to read more? We were already studying healing magic, and now we had to add mechanics to the list. For fuck's sake.
"Oh, sure. I guess," Isolde replied, with noticeably less enthusiasm.
Reginald, seemingly oblivious to our disappointment, walked over to a cabinet, crouched down, and pulled out a book. He placed it on the table with all the solemnity of someone who believed they'd just made a grand revelation.
"Construction of Steam-Powered Machines." A title so efficient it lacked any trace of creativity.
"You think we're gonna read all of this?" I asked flatly. A little realism never hurt.
"Well, if you want to learn mechanics, then—"
"Of course we will."
This was an opportunity I wasn't about to waste. Steampunk, here we come.
And so, we started reading.
The book was packed with information—so much that trying to digest it all at once was absurd. The handwriting had that meticulous air that betrayed inhuman effort. Details, painstaking explanations… an almost obsessive dedication.
This was going to take way longer than anyone would care to admit.