The morning was dawning just as it had the day before. The golden rays of sunlight arched over the mountain ridges and entered through the open window, coming gently to rest on the balding head of the one that occupied a desk cluttered with glass vials, clay beakers and cork stoppers. Slumped over a collection of parchments covered in hastily scribbled notes the short man snored lightly, sleeping once again at his workbench.

A distant predator screeched far off in the clear blue skies and the old man stirred. Raising his weary head slowly and wiping the drool collecting on the side of his mouth, the old man squinted as he opened his eyes to the bright rays streaming into the laboratory.

He admired the glorious view before him but sighed softly to himself. More time wasted sleeping when he should be working. Returning his gaze back to the bench he eyed the top piece of parchment and nodded satisfactorily to himself. Snatching up the paper he turned around shakily on the high stool where he had been perched and eased from it. Dropping to the hard stone floor he made his way to a closed wooden door. Upon opening it he promptly called out.

"Coppers."

The sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps ensued, echoing up the dank hallway.

"Yes, Master."

"Coppers. Seek out some souls willing to work for items of trade and let them fetch these things for me. Have it done before the moon is new. Understood?"

Reaching up with discoloured fingers the old man handed the parchment to his companion, who stooped low to receive it.

"Yes, Master."

The leviathan turned and receded down the hall with the same rhythmic steps as it came. The wooden door slammed shut behind the old man, another day devoted to his life's work.

***********************************************

The slow, rhythmic footsteps of Coppers was once again heard coming up the hallway and stopping outside the laboratory door. The old man squirmed from his stool, made his way to the door and opened it to reveal his long time companion.

"Coppers, I presume all went well."

Coppers replied in the same rumbling tone as always, "Yes, Master."

The spark, once gone from the old man's weary eyes, lit up once more, if only for a fraction of a second.

"Excellent Coppers, this is indeed good news. I shall have some more tasks for you in a matter of days. Dismissed."

The old man greedily snatched a rough leather bag from Coppers and returned eagerly to his workbench. Upon opening the bag he carefully removed the items within.

"Southern salt..check. Pure sand..check.."

It was all here. Now the real work began...

*************************************************

The gentle flame from a small wax candle had been lit, and a vial filled with a white, gooey substance was lingering over it warming gently. Coppers stood in the corner of the room, the moons rays reflecting brightly off his iron form.

The Master was once again crouched over his workbench, perched upon his favourite stool. He was scrawling his work notes hastily, much like his experiments.

The candle continued to burn, but the wax and wick was inferior. The flame grew stronger, brighter and the formulae began to bubble unchecked.

Coppers said calmly, "Master."

"Not now Coppers", he replied while making a shooing motion with his hand, "work to be done."

The heat grew more intense, and the vial began to split. Formula began to ooze out from the crack in the glass, coming in contact with the flame.

"Master", the golem called.

Whirling on his stool, the alchemist turned around. His eyes widened in alarm, but it was all too late. The fire had engulfed the vial and it was bubbling ferociously. The golem moved to dull the flame, as if in anticipation of his Master's command.

The thundering explosion echoed throughout the walls of the Alchemists workshop, followed by an ear-piercing cry, and a guttural growl.

Bruck turned with a start, then realizing where the sound come from, he sighed and chuckled to himself. "He's at it once again.", he thought. He counted, one, two..

"Bruck!", his father's yelled.

But he was already on his way. Turning the last corridor he saw a familiar sticky ooze of the new creation his father was working on.

"Oh, not the glue Father", Bruck yelled.