harold

Somewhat, I guess.

Then, how about admiring a disabled old fogey dancing a jig?

Huh? But... your leg...?

Who said you can't dance with one leg, eh?

Harold says no more. With his cane in hand, he steps in front of the young woman, giving her a bow befitting a gentleman.

Huh?

As she gasps in surprise, Harold begins to dance, waving his cane this way and that.

First, he revolves around it, his foot moving with grace and aplomb.

His cane and his leather shoe rap against the ground, their rhythm a perfect match with the music being played in the nearby stores.

But the best has yet to come. As the music reaches its crescendo, he flings his cane into the air. It spins, spins, spins, before he deftly catches it like the most graceful of acrobats, all as the woman claps and cheers.

It seems she too has caught the dance bug as she joins him, and together they dance merrily on the street.

Passersby are unwittingly drawn in by Harold's magnetic energy. Some are happy to stand on the sidelines and applaud, while others join in with gusto.

The plaza has found itself the epicenter of festivity.

Better to join in and look a fool than sit out and be a bore, as I always say!

You're right!

As the music slowly draws to a close, Harold intends to use one last beautiful toss of his cane to serve as his curtain call.

But—

(Now? Of all times?)

Perhaps it's due to lack of practice, or perhaps the lively atmosphere got to his head, but at the very last second, his hand slips.

The cane traces a beautiful arc in the air, but its destination is far from his reach.

Uh-oh.

As if refusing to let the show end on such a dour note, a figure streaks across the plaza like lightning, lightly tapping the cane in midair.

The cane changes its trajectory, falling gently into Harold's hand.

And with that, he bows once more. The show is over.

He takes in the thunderous applause.

Do you think I could be like you one day, sir?

Now why would you ever want to be like me, young lady? You've got two good legs, a beautiful face, and plenty of time.

You'll be even better than me, guaranteed.

I'll try my best. Thank you.

It has been a privilege to impart some courage unto a young soul such as yours, madam.

Now then... How long have you been watching, Madam Degenbrecher?

I spotted you while I was enjoying a meal nearby.

You dance well.

*sigh* Yes, well, if one is to hobnob around the upper echelons of society, one must put in some effort.

Some nobles were fond of hiding my leg for a laugh, so I put my nose to the grindstone with the help of my wife.

Nowadays, Old Harold's One-Legged Dance could be considered my calling card.

What happened to your leg?

Haha, my prosthetic fell in the line of duty. As for why, I'm sure you can guess.

I see... It must have been of good quality to last so long.

It's beyond repair?

Only one of Rhodes Island's technical experts can fix it, but Mr. Weiss doesn't feel like telling me where she is. So what other choice have I but to sigh in sorrow here in the plaza?

Are you sighing because you can't find the engineer, or because you can't get a relationship going with Rhodes Island?

Madam Degenbrecher, you would be a most terrifying presence to encounter on a social call.

I'm not interested in your parties.

But since you have time on your hands...

Kolod.

What is it, ma'am?

Your dad needs men to help sow seeds this afternoon, correct?

Tell Matterhorn that this Victorian veteran will come and help.

Huh?

(Wait, Matterhorn... This might end up being a golden opportunity.)

(Moreover, I'll have to face him down sooner or later anyhow.)

But—

Are you going or not?

Of course I am.

I find I am compelled to repeat myself.

Madam Degenbrecher, you would be a most terrifying presence to encounter on a social call.

Degenbrecher said Sir Enciodes asked her for help, but she's too busy, and she sent this man instead?

Yep.

It's been a rather long time, Mr. Matterhorn.

I won't ask too many questions. You know your farm work?

But of course! Whenever I have the time, I head down to the fields on my land myself to help out the farmers.

Those fields might be my closest friends.

Good to hear.

Ah, however, do wait a moment, if you could.

Hmm?

If it's fieldwork, this cane will just get in the way.

I'd like to borrow a couple of things from you to fashion a simple leg.

What do you need?

Some wood, a knife, some cotton, and a length of rope. Nothing too difficult.

You can make a prosthetic out of that?

Naturally.

Matterhorn is somewhat incredulous, but Harold gets to work like he's done it a thousand times before.

He starts with a cylindrical piece of wood, measuring out the length of his missing limb, before shaving both ends of the log flat to use as his 'leg'.

Then, he finds a round, flat piece of wood, bores a hole through the middle, and inserts the 'leg' through it. And with that, he has finished his simple-as-can-be 'prosthetic'.

I'm guessing you've made ones like those before?

Naturally.

The army gives out proper ones, of course, but battlefield conditions are fickle. If something goes wrong with yours, there's no repairing it in the middle of combat.

Times like that, a simple yet practical prosthetic such as this will suffice for marching.

Moreover, a proper prosthetic isn't cheap. Especially not for a serviceman, who will ask a lot more out of one compared to a civilian.

As he speaks, Harold carves some wood into a bowl shape, filling the inside with cotton.

He then puts the bowl flush against the wooden 'leg' and ties them together with rope, finishing it off with an incredibly tight knot.

He stands, then takes a couple of steps before making a circle. To top it all off, he bows to Matterhorn. Mission successful, it seems.

It is a somewhat comical scene, but Matterhorn can't help but applaud.

I have another one of these handmade prosthetics back at home. Whenever it's time to head down to the fields, on it goes.

After all, the one I normally use has a terribly high price tag. Not that it's unworthy of it. It's lasted me many years, with nary a peep out of it.

I'd often joke with my men that if aught were to happen to me in battle, save my leg first!

It's worth more than any compensation I'd get.

Heh.

Do you have many fields back home?

We do.

But not like Kjerag's. The ones at home are awash with golden wheat.

But I'd say there's still plenty the same. Wouldn't you say so, my good sir?

Hnnf—

I believe that's the last of it.

It is.

As the sun sinks into the west, Harold, Matterhorn and the farmers stand between the fields to look at the results of their afternoon's work. As one, they let out a deep breath.

Work like this always gets one puffing out the chest, eh, Matterhorn?

You're right. I never did expect to share a moment like this with a Victorian noble like you.

Haha! Well, don't expect anything like that out of any others, or you'll be sorely disappointed.