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Shorty folds his arm over his chest. The old leprechaun watches the hobgoblin as she stops in front of one of the displays, her bright eyes twinkling at a pair of crimson pumps set up for display. She picks one of them up, spinning them around, her fingers running over the sole and up along the heel.

"Not many people would be botherin' me about my old war days," Shorty says. "And even less would use such terms for it. Ask more of the taller folk, and you say it was more a failed rebellion or acts of terrorism."

"Ah, you're willing to tell me about it?" She asks, gasping.

"Stories are for payin' customers, and this ain't a story for the inebriated to half-remember."

"Got something like these in my size?" she asks. "I really admire the gold markings on them," she says, running her hand over the indentations of swirling symbols. "Do they mean anything to you, Shorty?"

The cobbler is already at the back of the store, pulling out a small case, which he places on the floor nearby. He motions to a small stool meant for the smaller folk. "Never any pairs of shoes here for someone who walks in last. A true master of his craft makes every work of art special."

The hobgoblin gal sits down, gripping the edges of the seat, smiling as he gets down onto his knees before her. He reaches into the bag, his eyes down upon the floor.

"It all started back when we were a younger race and when this was a younger place, dedicated to the feelings and forces of nature and to the gods who represented them."

He places a sheet of paper onto the floor, unfolding it and tilting it parallel to her seat.

"In those days," he continues, grabbing the other pump, spinning it in his hands, "we lived as we wished where we wished, without the trappings and the desires of the rigid do-gooders and order-seekers. We didn't need rules and whatnot, and we just were."

He pats the paper, looking up at her.

She nods, pressing her heel against the leg of the chair, pulling her stockinged foot out of her simple pumps, wiggling her toes in her new-found freedom. She does the same with the other one, stretching and curling her toes before she hops up and steps onto the paper.

Shorty pulls a pen out of his pocket, biting the tip and then parting his lips to let the cap clatter to the floor.

She watches him with keen interest when he moves his hands down, pressing his thumbs along the top and up to her ankles.

He watches with a stern focus before he nods and presses the pen to the paper on the back of her heel. From there, he drags the tip around, letting it make an outline.

She bites her lip.

"As for the war itself, I was in a division of my clan that wanted to keep the place as natural as it always was. I always wished to help newcomers instead of driving them away. Hold still, lass."

"It tickles."

He sighs and looks up to her. "Do you want these or not?"

She nods quickly. "Oh, I do, I do!"

"I need to get under the heel."

Okay, okay!" She huffs.

"Now, then, my old man was the leader, and he knew with the skills I had, I could help the army traverse large distances with much less money and far less danger to themselves."

"Old Boot-making Shorty, eh?"

He sits back on his knees, looking over the marks he made. "Aye, that was me, in a sense."

"Don't see a lot of regulation boots around here, Shorty."

"That's because regulation won't get you far, even if made well. Everyone's different. Sit back."

Shorty pulls out a ruler, grasps her by the heel, and presses the ruler to her side. "You don't have the marks of a soldier." He notes this, taking the end of his pen and brushing it along her toes.

She curls them, pulling back with a squeak. "W-whatcha doing, buster?"

"You're a girl who hasn't decided what she's going to do with her life, but you're conscious about what others think about you."

She brings her feet back in, gripping a horizontal bar between the legs. "You can tell all that just by lookin' at my feet?"

"I've seen many, lass. So, what's a gal with all the bluster like you looking for an old shoemaker like me? Tell me plainly."

Robin breathes in deeply, gripping the sides of her seat. She looks away, biting her lip, and then glances back at him. "I'm here for your shoes, mister, and I need some great ones that could guarantee the independence you and your fellows fought for all them years ago."

He runs a hand over his balding head and stands up. You're talking about magic footwear, but there are plenty of kinds like that. What do you look for freedom from?"

"For starters," she says, fluttering her eyes, "I'm sure you're looking to live a life where you don't have to dip into your treasure reserves just to work here in town. An old soul like you deserves better, mister."

"Your kind are a tricky kind, miss."

"And you know we're generally for the playful tricks, not the nasty kind."

"That was different," he says, picking up the paper and rolling it up. "Times change, and you could get in trouble just for the asking to buy enchanted shoes from me."

"All the more reason to trust me, Shorty?"

"You know a bit too much for my liking."

"So, what are you going to do?" she says, holding her hands out. "If we aren't working together, I could tell the boss that you're not cooperative."

He digs into his pocket and tosses a gold coin over toward her. "That should cover this month's insurance."

She pads over to him, grabs his wrist, and slaps the coin back into his palm. "And that should be a down payment for the magic item."