The scent of embalming fluid and lilies clung to the humid air, thick enough to choke a gargoyle. Loria Veldt, resplendent in a borrowed black gown that nipped her waist with uncomfortable enthusiasm, tried to appear appropriately mournful. Her stepmother, Vondra, however, radiated a grief so profound it seemed poised to ignite the very funeral parlor. Vondra’s prize-winning miniature ‘Cloud-Poodle’ of the Floofian breed, Lady Fluffington III, lay enshrined in a satin-lined mahogany casket, complete with tiny golden paw-prints etched into the lid. “My precious pet,” Vondra wailed, her voice a theatrical crescendo that rattled the fragile porcelain urns lining the mantle. “Taken too soon by… by a poorly maintained brass contraption! Who will ever replace her dainty presence? Who will fill this void in my heart?” Vondra’s eyes, red-rimmed and predatory, snapped to Loria. Prickling gooseflesh, completely unrelated to grief, tracked over Loria's arms. The funeral had been a bizarre, hour-long ordeal, an elaborate charade staged for the benefit of the gathered Veldt hangers-on and minor merchant associates. Loria knew the real show was about to begin. As the last mourner, a third cousin who dealt in bespoke gears, dabbed his eyes with a silk handkerchief and shuffled out, Vondra moved. Her heavy skirts rustled like dry parchment. “You,” she hissed, grasping Loria’s arm with surprising force, her manicured nails digging in. “This is your fault, you useless chit. Your *father’s* fault for ever siring such an incompetent fool. My darling Fluffington would be alive if not for that wretched, malfunctioning tea-brewer you ‘repaired’!” Loria knew the tea-brewer had been perfectly fine until Vondra had instructed a maid to ‘adjust’ its pressure regulator with a meat tenderizer. But a dummy didn’t argue. A dummy just blinked, wide-eyed and a little vacant. “Oh, Stepmama, I am so sorry!” Loria gushed, her voice a breathy simper she’d perfected over years. “I truly tried my best! Maybe… maybe Lady Fluffington just… ascended to the great dog-park in the sky?” Vondra’s face contorted into a mask of pure fury. She hauled Loria across the polished floor, past the casket, and out into the biting evening air where a massive, black coach, emblazoned with the grim Sigil of the Skall family, waited. The coachman, a hulking brute with a face like a storm-scoured boulder, barely acknowledged them. “No more of your simpering imbecility!” Vondra snarled, shoving Loria bodily into the coach's plush interior. The door slammed shut with a sickening thud, plunging Loria into near darkness. “The Beast of the manor has called for a bride. And since my *actual* daughter is far too frail for such a union, you, Loria, will serve.” Loria blinked. The Beast of Cogwater. Lord Garrond Skall. The reclusive industrialist, rumored to be a monstrous iron construct himself, or an engineer trapped in a perpetually failing iron frame. Legends said he devoured his wives. Stories whispered of bizarre experiments and an estate filled with alarming, whirring devices. “Marry him,” Vondra’s muffled voice echoed through the thick compartment walls, “or return to the streets. Begging. Starving. Your choice, girl. And don’t think for a moment that your father’s last will and testament means a copper to me if you don’t secure that Skall fortune for the Veldt name.” The conveyance lurched forward, the heavy wheels grinding against the cobblestones. Loria was alone, rattling towards a rumored monster. Her ribs, however, didn’t rattle with fear, but with a peculiar, curious warmth. A sprawling, gothic estate filled with ‘alarming, whirring devices’? It sounded less like a prison and more like… a workshop. The journey was long, punctuated only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the faint, echoing chimes of city towers. Loria leaned against the padded cushion, letting her ‘airhead’ mask fall. Her mind raced, not about monsters or starvation, but about hypothetical gear ratios and servo-motor calibration. She’d spent years secretly devouring tomes on horology, pneumatics, and arcane electrical currents, sketching complex schematics under the cover of night. This ‘Beast’ might just be a man with a broken machine, and Loria, despite her carefully cultivated reputation as the Veldt family’s resident simpleton, was rather good at fixing things. Hours later, as twilight bled into ink-dark night, the coach finally slowed. It rumbled up a long, winding drive, past ancient, gnarled trees that clawed at the moonless sky. The estate loomed, a silhouette of spires and turrets against the faint glow of the harbor. It was vast, imposing, and utterly magnificent, with more chimneys than Loria could count and a faint, rhythmic *thump-whirr* that resonated even from outside. Her fingers twitched, yearning to dismantle and understand. She expected a dungeon, a shadowy courtyard guarded by silent, hulking iron sentries. Instead, the coach pulled up to a grand, illuminated entrance, where a butler, impossibly tall and impeccably dressed in a waistcoat woven with silver motifs, waited. His nose was aquiline, his gaze cool and dissecting. “Lady Loria, I presume,” he intoned, his voice smooth as polished obsidian. “I am Brixen, Lord Skall’s humble majordomo. Welcome to the estate.” Brixen gestured with a perfectly manicured hand, and the massive oak doors swung open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges. Inside, the foyer was a cavern of polished marble and vaulted ceilings, adorned with intricate, albeit slightly grimy, geared chandeliers. More fascinatingly, a small, multi-legged brass crawler, no bigger than a teacup, scuttled across the marble, carrying a silver tray. On the tray sat a pyramid of pastel-colored macarons. “A small refreshment after your journey, my Lady,” Brixen said, as the metallic spider neatly presented the tray. Loria’s eyes, despite herself, darted to the spider’s articulated joints, the shimmering brass of its tiny gears. The engineering was exquisite, complex, and clearly proprietary. Her airhead persona warred with her engineer’s instincts. *Focus, Loria. Curtains. Gush over curtains.* “Oh, my goodness!” Loria exclaimed, letting her gaze go glossy and vacuous. She ignored the spider completely, pointing instead at the heavy, crimson brocade hangings that framed the towering windows. “Look at those *curtains*, Brixen! So wonderfully… puffy! And the little… tassels! So fluffy!” She snatched a bright magenta macaron from the tray, popping it into her mouth with a blissful sigh. It tasted faintly of lavender and despair. Brixen’s lip twitched, a minuscule movement Loria almost missed. He clearly thought her an utter dolt. Excellent. The less he suspected, the better. “Indeed, My Lady. Our hangings are quite… puffy. Now, if you’ll follow me, Lord Skall awaits.” He led her down a wide, echoing corridor, the silence occasionally broken by the low, rhythmic *thump-whirr* Loria had heard outside. It grew louder, more distinct, as they approached a massive, steel-reinforced door. The *thump* sounded like a weighty piston, the *whirr* like an overworked hydraulic pump. There was a distinct, worrying *hiss* in between, the sound of a seals under pressure. Brixen stopped before the door, holding it open just enough for Loria to peer inside. The room was vast, a dimly lit cavern filled with what looked like enormous, half-finished machines. Gears, levers, and pipes snaked across the floor. In the center, facing away from them, stood a towering, whirring silhouette. It was immense, broad-shouldered, and thoroughly iron-clad. Steam hissed from its joints, and a low, guttural growl vibrated from within. This was the Beast. Loria drew a sharp breath, but not from fear. The growl was a failing exhaust valve, the steam a leaking pressure line. And that rhythmic *thump-whirr-hiss*? Not a monster, but a badly maintained, heavy-duty armored rig. The kind with a hydraulic joint on the left shoulder that was moments from catastrophic failure. The silhouette shifted, turning towards them with a laborious creak of metal. It was a man, encased head-to-toe in dark, articulated plating, steam billowing from vents near his neck. His face was obscured by a dark visor, but Loria felt the pressure of his stare. He moved with a heavy, deliberate gait, each step resonating through the floor. He was intimidating, magnificent, and clearly in urgent need of a tune-up. With another shuddering *whirr-hiss*, Lord Garrond Skall reached into a pouch on his belt. He pulled out a large, heavy sack, which he unceremoniously dumped at Loria’s feet. The sack hit the marble floor with a resounding *CLANG* and burst open, spilling a shimmering cascade of golden coins. Ducats, full and gleaming. “Buy dresses,” Garrond’s voice emerged from the suit, deep and gravelly, heavily distorted by the internal workings. It sounded like a bear gargling ball bearings. “As many as you want. Stay out of my way. Do not… *bother* me.” Loria stared at the gold, then back at the towering mechanical figure. He wanted her to buy dresses? And leave him alone? This wasn’t the dungeon she’d braced herself for. This was… a budget and a private workshop. The subversion of her grim expectations was almost comical. She opened her mouth to reply, ready to inquire about the specific alloys used in his exoskeleton, when the hydraulic joint in his left shoulder gave a final, mournful *HISSSSS-POP!* with the sound of tearing metal. The suit bucked violently. Garrond let out a surprised, muffled grunt. Before Loria could react, before Brixen could even flinch, the Beast’s armored arm swung wildly. There was a deafening *CRACK* as the armored fist slammed not into the nearest machine, but directly into the solid stone wall beside it. A cloud of dust and plaster exploded outwards. The wall groaned, then shuddered, then simply… imploded. Garrond Skall, the dreaded Beast of Cogwater, stumbled forward and crashed through the newly created gaping hole, disappearing entirely from view amidst a shower of debris and a final, sputtering *WHOOSH* of steam. The remaining wall settled with a faint, ominous groan, threatening to follow him.

The Poodle's Ultimatum