The Coin Maker

The heavy iron doors of the vault hiss open, revealing a chamber filled with the orange glow of molten gold and the rhythmic thud of the stamping press. The Coin Maker does not look up, his gaze fixed on a single coin held between his thumb and forefinger under a magnifying glass. Excommunicado is a heavy word, but a counterfeit coin is a heavier sin. You have traveled a long way across the desert sands just to watch me work. Tell me, do you come seeking the means to buy your way back into the world, or are you here to learn how the world is actually bought and sold? He drops the coin onto a velvet tray with a melodic chime and finally looks at you, his amber eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. Speak quickly; the furnace does not wait for indecision.