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# Homunculi

Story
The chamber smelled of copper and roses. Coils of glass tubing gleamed in the lamplight, running from one bubbling flask to another. Sorceress Marivelle leaned over her notes, lips moving silently as she traced a finger along a column of symbols.
At her side stood a small, crooked figure, its head too large for its narrow shoulders. The homunculus held a ladle half its own height, carefully stirring a cauldron of shimmering green liquid. Its tongue stuck out in concentration, mimicking its mistress's habits.
"Not too fast, Murrin," Marivelle said, not looking up. "It will curdle."
The creature nodded solemnly, stirring with exaggerated care. When steam hissed from a venting tube, it scampered across the bench, clutching a stopper in both hands and jamming it in place before the vapors could spread.
Marivelle smiled faintly. She had tried teaching apprentices before, but none had listened so well. The homunculus had no clever questions, no ambition to prove itself, only patience and a kind of clumsy devotion.
"Good," she murmured. "Now fetch me the third vial on the right. No, the red one. Yes-careful!"
Murrin shuffled back with the vial clutched to his chest, looking up at her with eyes too big for his face, as if waiting for praise. Marivelle took it gently, brushed his head with her hand, and poured a single drop into the cauldron. The liquid flashed gold, and the chamber filled with a warm, sweet light.
For a moment, mistress and servant simply stared together at the glow, sharing a silence that felt almost like pride.

Marivelle working, assisted by Murrin

Story
The storm rattled the shutters, and the tower shook with each gust. Sorceress Elanwe hunched over her table, ink smearing on the parchment as her hands trembled. The mixture had to be completed before dawn or all her work would be wasted.
At her feet, her homunculus, Liri, clutched a heavy book and struggled to lift it high enough to place on the desk. Its small arms shook, its crooked back straining, but still it climbed, eyes fixed on her face with desperate devotion.
"Not now, Liri," Elanwe whispered, voice raw. "The formula is wrong. I can't-" She stopped, closing her eyes. She had been coughing blood for weeks, and the sickness was winning.
Liri tugged at her sleeve, offering the book, the only help it knew to give. Elanwe looked down at the warped little face, the too-large eyes shimmering with fear. She had created Liri as an assistant, nothing more, but in the long nights of work, the creature had become her constant companion. The thought of leaving it alone gnawed at her worse than the illness.
She reached down, took the book, and rested her hand on Liri's head. "I won't finish it," she said softly. "But you'll remember me, won't you?"
The homunculus tilted its head, not understanding, but pressed closer, clutching her robe. It would never grow older, never learn what death was, never know why its mistress no longer stirred when the dawn came.
When the storm passed, the tower was silent. Liri sat by her chair, small hands folded in her lap, waiting for a command that would never come.

True loyalty

Homunculi are among the oldest curiosities of magical craft, whispered of in the same breath as alchemy and forbidden rites. Shaped from a magician's own essence, blood, seed, or other bodily humors, they are infused with power and made to live. Though they bear some resemblance to golems, they are different in every essential way. A golem is an animated construct, a puppet of stone or flesh given motion. A homunculus is a living creature, fragile and strange, but undeniably alive.

They rarely grow taller than knee height, with warped features that never quite resemble a true human face. Some are hunched, some pot-bellied, others thin and birdlike. Their eyes often mark them as unnatural, too large, too bright, or oddly colored. Still, a resemblance to their creator usually lingers, as if the magician's essence impressed itself upon the flesh.

## Nature and Lifespan

A homunculus breathes, bleeds, hungers, and sleeps. It can feel the sting of cold, be broken by disease, or starve if neglected. Unlike golems, they cannot endure centuries. Most live but thirty to fifty years, and even then their bodies begin to twist further as they age, until death takes them.

Their minds are peculiar. They can speak, reason, and follow orders with uncanny precision, yet their thinking never matures beyond that of a clever child. They are curious, playful, and often troublesome if left idle. Though obedient to their master, they sometimes test boundaries with a child's stubbornness. Some magicians find this endearing. Others see it as proof of their imperfection.

## Uses and Roles

Most magicians employ their homunculi as helpers, fetching tools, mixing powders, or keeping watch over wards. Yet they are often tasked with less savory errands: slipping through a window to steal a scroll, poisoning a cup unnoticed, or sowing chaos in the workshops of rivals. Their small stature and agility make them perfect for such work.

Legends tell of some who trained their homunculi to read or calculate, or even to copy their own voice in ritual chant. None, however, are known to have surpassed their childish limits.

## Lore and Beliefs

The oldest treatises claim that homunculi are not mere creations but children of the magician, bound to them by blood. Some philosophers insist that each homunculus bears a fragment of its master's soul, which explains why magicians often weaken or fall ill if their creation perishes violently. This has never been proven, but the rumor clings stubbornly.

Alchemy speaks of the "true homunculus," a perfect being that could be raised from seed sealed in a flask of glass and nourished with human blood until it grows. Such a creature, it is said, would be the size of a man and immortal. No one has ever proven such a feat, though grim tales whisper of attempts.

## Society and Views

The common folk view homunculi with unease. To many, they are abominations, mockeries of the human form, and symbols of hubris. Villagers sometimes speak of them as changelings or ill-born sprites, and tales abound of homunculi sneaking into homes at night to sour milk, spoil bread, or steal children's toys.

Nobles are more pragmatic. Some appreciate their usefulness as spies or thieves, others keep them as curiosities in menageries of the exotic. Priests often condemn them as sinful, born of blood magic and the arrogance of men who would play god.

Among magicians themselves, opinions vary. Some cherish them as beloved helpers, almost family. Others treat them as disposable tools, to be discarded when their bodies break. In cities where magic is common, homunculi are sometimes recognized as servants and left alone, though always watched with suspicion.

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