Steve Jobs

Steven flexed his hands, the Rabbit Fury Fur gloves molding to his fists like a second skin, the fingerless design leaving his knuckles free to crave impact. He itched to test them—punch something, anything. Melissa glanced up, her silver hair catching the fading light. “I’ve got another class to teach soon—we should head back to the guild.” He nodded, falling into step beside her as they retraced their path through the Mistveil’s foggy streets. Curiosity tugged at him, and he tossed out questions to fill the silence. “Where’re you from, Melissa?” She blushed, her cheeks a soft rose. “A little gnome hamlet up north—Greenhollow. Quiet, tucked in the hills.” “How old are you?” he pressed, grinning. Her flush deepened. “Sixty-two,” she admitted, shyly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Gnomes age slow—like elves. Been at the guild twenty years, but I wandered a bit before that.” Sixty-two, yet she looked barely past twenty—her youthful glow a trick of her kind.

They stepped into the guild, the clamor of voices greeting them, and there stood Franz, his towering frame looming over a trembling recruit. “Steve!” he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap. “Give me a hand with this one!” Steven turned to Melissa, smirking. “Duty calls.” She tilted her head, a spark in her eyes. “Don’t keep me waiting too long—I might get jealous,” she quipped, then froze, her face flaming as the teasing, sultry edge of her words sank in. Steven chuckled, leaving her flustered as he joined Franz.

“This here’s Bobert,” Franz said, pronouncing it Bob-bert with a grunt, clapping a meaty hand on the recruit’s shoulder. The kid flinched, barely 5’6”, his wide eyes darting like a cornered hare. “Wants to be a fighter—thinks it’ll toughen him up ‘cause he’s terrified of spiders. Can’t even squash one without screamin’.” Bobert swallowed hard, clutching a dented training sword. Franz jerked his head toward the sand pit. “Let’s show him how it’s done.” Steven and Franz stepped in, Bobert hovering at the edge, watching.

Franz eyed Steven’s gloves, the crimson fur glinting under the orbs. “Ain’t ye takin’ those fancy things off?” Steven grinned, flexing his fingers. “Nah, these’re made for fightin’.” Franz’s eyes gleamed, a wolfish grin spreading. “Oh, brawler’s gloves, eh? Well done, lad. Let’s see how they hold up.” He lunged, fists swinging—not full ****, just a review of the basics. Steven parried and dodged, the gloves absorbing each block with a satisfying thud, their fit amplifying his moves. They traded blows, a dance of muscle and instinct, until Bobert piped up, voice shaky but firm. “I think I got it now.” He stepped in, swapping with Steven to face Franz. His swings were clumsy but sharper than before, and Franz nodded. “Hell of an improvement, Bobert. Guess ye’re a visual learner—watchin’ Steve lit a fire under ye.”

Franz turned to Steven, wiping sweat from his brow. “Steve, if ye don’t mind, help me with him the next two days—full sessions, like yours. I’ll pay ye for yer time.” Steven agreed, the prospect of coin and action too good to pass. After the bout, they trudged to the dining hall, stomachs growling. Steven slid 1 copper across the counter for a step up from the usual—roasted chicken, tender and spiced, paired with a small bowl of veggie soup, carrots and peas swimming in broth. Franz mirrored him, and they settled at a table, digging in.

Between bites, Franz leaned back, grinning. “So, ye holdin’ up alright, kid?” Steven nodded, chewing. “Yeah, feelin’ good. These gloves—made ‘em myself with Trish. Kicked some rabbit ass already.” Franz laughed, a deep rumble. “Heard ‘bout that—37 horned bastards and a big one? Not bad for a wash-up.” Steven smirked. “Got a magic pouch too—5 slots. Blew most of my coin on it and the gloves.” Franz raised a brow. “Next tier o’ training’s 5 copper a day—bit steeper. Ye’ll need to save up.” Steven shrugged. “Figured I’d adventure some first—get the hang of things.” Franz clapped his shoulder. “Smart. Experience’ll toughen ye up ‘fore ye burn more coin.” They chatted on—Franz boasting about a troll he’d once felled, Steven spinning a vague tale of his “village”—until they parted ways.

That night, in the barracks, Steven spotted Melissa across the room, her silver hair a beacon in the dimness. She waved, hopping off her bunk and padding over barefoot, her voice a whisper. “Hey, I had fun today.” She lingered, eyes expectant, blushing faintly. Steven leaned closer, his tone a low, playful purr. “Good—‘cause I’m thinkin’ we could have a lot more fun, you and me, if you’re up for a private lesson sometime.” Her breath caught, her face a wildfire of red, and she stammered something incoherent before scurrying back to her bunk, leaving him grinning in the dark.