Chapter 1: The Oily Blight

Chapter 1: The Oily Blight

The air outside the Wanderlust Workshop hummed with a unique magic, a symphony of competing sounds and smells that only a Renaissance Faire on opening morning could produce. The hearty scent of roasting turkey legs warred with the sweet perfume of kettle corn, all underscored by the rhythmic clang of a distant blacksmith’s hammer and the cheerful lilt of a lute. For most, it was an escape into fantasy. For Elara Vance, it was the sound of business.

Inside the custom-fitted RV that served as her home, studio, and sanctuary, the air was different. Here, the aroma of tanned leather, wax, and conditioning oils dominated. It was the scent of creation, of a life she had painstakingly built with her own two hands. Her gaze fell upon the half-finished corset laid out on her workbench, a masterpiece of tooled and dyed leather designed to look like overlapping dragon scales. “The Wyvern’s Embrace,” commissioned by a high-profile cosplayer for a staggering price—enough to cover their expenses for the entire Silverwood Faire season. All it needed were the final, flawless seams.

For that, she needed The Beast.

Her industrial walking-foot sewing machine wasn’t just a tool; it was the heart of her craft. A Juki TSC-441, a temperamental, three-hundred-pound monster of cast iron and steel that could punch a needle through an inch of solid hide with terrifying precision. It had cost her every penny she’d saved escaping her soul-crushing corporate past, and she treated it with more reverence than any holy relic.

Turning from the workbench, Elara’s breath hitched in her throat. A cold, quiet fury, sharp and sudden as a needle’s prick, shot through her veins.

There, sitting squarely on the polished chrome throat plate of The Beast, was a greasy, soot-blackened Dutch oven.

Gavin’s Dutch oven. The one he’d used last night to cook a fatty pork stew, the one he was notoriously lazy about cleaning. A dark, viscous ring of grease had already seeped from its base, marring the immaculate surface of her machine like an oily blight. For a moment, the world narrowed to that single, violating object. Her hands, calloused and nimble from years of work, clenched into fists. He knew the rule. No food, no drinks, nothing near The Beast. Ever.

“Maya,” Elara’s voice was dangerously low, a strained whisper that carried more weight than a shout.

The RV’s door swung open, and Maya Valyr bounded in, her short, magenta-dyed hair a flash of brilliant color against the workshop’s earthy tones. “Did you see the line at the meadery? We’re going to make a killing this—” She stopped short, her eyes following Elara’s gaze. The smirk on her face vanished, replaced by a thunderous scowl.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Maya’s voice was a low growl. She stalked forward, her piercings glinting in the overhead light, and peered at the greasy ring. “That narcissistic, lazy son of a bitch. I’m going to use that pot to give him a brand new, custom-fitted helmet.”

“Get it off, Maya. Carefully,” Elara said, her own voice tight as a wound corset string. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the offending pot, couldn’t bear the thought of that filth on her hands.

Maya grabbed a rag, her movements jerky with rage, and lifted the Dutch oven as if it were radioactive. She set it on the floor with a resentful thud. “Where is he? Schmoozing some poor wench into buying his machine-carved junk, I bet.”

They found him exactly where Maya predicted, by their shared sales booth, leaning against a display rack of his mediocre wood-burned plaques. He was laughing, a loud, obnoxious sound designed to draw attention, his hand resting a little too familiarly on the shoulder of a potential customer. He presented the perfect image of a rugged, charming craftsman, but Elara knew the truth—his hands were clean because they rarely did any real work.

Maya didn't bother with pleasantries. “Gavin. Your pot.”

Gavin turned, his smile faltering slightly as he took in Maya’s furious expression and Elara’s icy calm. “Ladies, ladies. What’s the trouble? Can’t you see I’m dazzling the customers?”

“Your greasy Dutch oven was sitting on The Beast,” Elara said, the words clipped and precise. Each one was a carefully controlled release of her fury.

He had the audacity to look confused. Then, a slow, dismissive grin spread across his handsome face. “Oh, that. Yeah, I just needed a spot to put it down for a second. The counter was full of your… stuff.” He waved a hand vaguely towards the RV.

“A second? Gavin, it leaked grease all over the plate,” Maya snapped, stepping into his personal space. “Elara has a rule. You know the rule.”

Gavin’s eyes flickered to Elara, a familiar spark of condescension in them. It was the look that said, You’re overreacting. You’re being emotional. “Relax, Lara. It’s a giant hunk of metal, not a Fabergé egg. A little oil isn’t going to hurt it. Just wipe it off.” He turned his charm back to the customer. “Artisans, you know? So passionate.”

The gaslighting was so blatant, so practiced, it left Elara momentarily speechless. He wasn’t just dismissive; he was mocking her. Mocking the very core of her livelihood.

“Go clean your mess. Now,” Elara said. Her voice didn’t rise, but it cut through his jovial facade like one of her own skiving knives. The customer’s smile faltered, sensing the shift in the air.

Gavin’s jaw tightened. Being challenged, especially in front of an audience, was the one thing his massive ego couldn’t tolerate. With a dramatic sigh, he muttered, “Fine. If it’ll make you happy,” and stomped off toward the RV, projecting the air of a man deeply put-upon by hysterical women.

Elara and Maya watched him go, the victory feeling hollow and bitter. “One of these days,” Maya growled, “I’m not going to hold back.”

“Today, we have a corset to finish,” Elara replied, forcing herself back into a professional mindset. But the feeling of violation lingered, a greasy film on her very soul.

Back in the workshop, she found Gavin had merely moved the pot to the sink and given the machine’s surface a cursory wipe with a dirty rag, smearing the grease further. Shaking her head, Elara grabbed her own specialized cleaning supplies—denatured alcohol and lint-free microfiber cloths. She worked with the focused intensity of a surgeon, her brow furrowed in concentration. The small, intricate leather feather she always wore braided into her dark hair tickled her cheek as she leaned in close.

The surface gleamed once more, the chrome reflecting the organized clutter of her workshop. She let out a slow breath, the knot in her stomach beginning to loosen. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was just a surface stain. An infuriating, disrespectful stain, but one that was now gone.

She prepared to re-thread the machine for the final seams of The Wyvern’s Embrace. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, guiding the thick, waxed thread through its complex path. But when she reached for the tension assembly, her fingers came away slick with an oily residue.

A cold dread washed over her. It wasn’t just on the surface.

With trembling hands, she grabbed a screwdriver and removed the throat plate. Her heart plummeted into her boots. The grease, thinned by the machine’s warmth, had seeped down into the intricate guts of the mechanism. It had dripped onto the feed dogs, coated the bobbin housing, and—worst of all—had saturated the red felt washer responsible for oiling the hook assembly. That small, porous piece was now clogged with thick, contaminated cooking grease instead of the fine, clear machine oil it required.

Running the machine like this would be catastrophic. The grease would burn, seize the hook, and throw the delicate timing into chaos. The repairs would cost thousands and take weeks—weeks she didn't have.

The Wyvern’s Embrace lay waiting. The opening weekend crowd was building outside. And her most essential tool, the key to her hard-won freedom, was poisoned from the inside out. This was no longer just carelessness. This felt like an attack.