Vienda Fields | Tenth Hour
34 Loshis 2720
Dear Mister R. Valentin,
You have been formally invited to a pre pre prelum preliminary test of the 'Iron-Horse Prototype Mark One' upon the Thirty-Second Day of Loshis. The point of meeting is at the Vienda City Gates at the tenth hour. There will then be a short jaunt outside of the city limits up towards the local fields. Please bring suitable footwar wear and prepare for wet weather. Goggles, gloves and wool for earplugs are recommended.
Respectfully,
Mister G. Saunders
Metalsmith
The Iron-Horse Prototype Mark One was to be the first of many ventures tried and tested by Gale Saunders. It was a heavy feat of engineering in of itself, a weighty bicycle nearing a hundred and fifty pounds that required some muscle to shift it manually, and something Gale inevitably fit metal triangles to either side of. It had already fallen once while at the forge, a loud clatter that caused it to splutter loudly and left the metalsmith struggling to right it. It was a forewarning of two things; that firstly any future versions would have to lose weight, and secondly that Gale would not want to be trapped beneath this prototype. But it was more than just a mere bicycle frame that weighed it down; the motor still remained in position at the base, the long iron exhaust reaching alongside and up the wheel. The spokes were reinforced, a thick rubber tire wrapped around the metal frame. The rotary arm clicked as it went around, spinning on its flywheel that was attached in turn to the engine. This Iron-horse, as Gale had come to dub it, was now in the point of doing some real testing. With the main body of the motorised bicycle frame covered and wrapped in a blanket and a large pack upon their back, the smith left their forge in the early hours of the misty Loshis morning. They paid their polite greetings, wheeling the bicycle down the street without too many curious looks. Mister Saunders, after all, was clearly off upon a job of some form - probably in one of the factories to inspect the machines within.
The mist choked streets lingered, the gloomy grey smothering the outlines of structures, the sounds echoing off the brickwork. Every click seemed louder than normal, every splash through the cobblestones lingered as it rippled, it caused a small pressure that rattled within Gale's chest; anticipation that bit upon their skin and set a nervousness within their bones. The air was too still, stagnating as it craved a breeze to move on and growing bloated upon the coal fumes and sulphur it pumped into the atmosphere. They did their best to keep their head down, they did not make eye contact as they shrunk past the early morning crowd of mill workers, turning their collar up to protect their neck from the damp cold. They stopped, briefly on their journey, to collect their cigarettes, a half-gallon of lamp oil and small loaf of fresh bread; before continuing on through the narrowing streets and main roads towards the outskirts of the city. There it was finally at the main gate that Gale stopped; they took refuge beneath one of the slanted roof, leaned the bicycle against the wall and waited.
Normally Gale was a mess; but on this occasion, the smith had decided to put in some thought on their appearance. The hair was clean, but tucked beneath a brown wool cap, a bulky coat buttoned up around their torso and a rough knitted scarf peeked out of the top; a loose buff leather boiler suit similar to the other mill workers, sat beneath that, protecting the more valuable layers beneath - faded but recently cleaned. Yet still, Gale looked like the lad they presented, even as they quietly checked through their equipment. The Kerosene lamp oil was still there, as was the warm flask of tea with two steel cups stacked in each other. Their toolbox was still there - wrench, hammer, screws, bolts, plyers - with a smaller flask of lubricating oil neatly tucked in alongside. They squinted at the contents, their lips quietly moving as they mumbled into their chest.
It was anxiety, really; it was the first time testing something that may not work in the field, or it could work and then the Smith would have to try and explain how it did. Then it was the entire matter of Rhys being there, the Galdor not Galdor, the Seventen but also half-brother; the one who kept dragging them into trouble or vice versa. Gale frowned, they fumbled through their pockets for their cigarette case, opened it and placed the end of one in their mouth. A quick strike of the match against the ribbed metal edge of the case, the end became aglow and they inhaled the sweet taste of tobacco. It was far from their father's preferred brand; recently they had taken a liking to the sweeter tasting ones, they were softer on the pallet and did not cause Gale to loudly hack.
They leaned their head against the brickwork, the slow cautious inhale forming as a lump within their throat.
Breathe. Just Breathe. In and out.
They pushed past the lump, forcibly swallowing the air and smoke. They did not realise until that moment that they were shaking, the fingers had curled into fists and the nails dug into the palm of their hand. The smith winced and shook the offending hand out.
They slid the note beneath his door a few days ago, written hastily in pencil on the cleanest, crispest sheet they had - the fact they had to dissect it out the back of their ledger was another matter entirely. A letter felt the best way to communicate; he was busy, he had things going on and Gale did not want to get in the way of whatever they were. By writing a letter it avoided a whole heap of awkwardness and embarrassment with all involved parties.
He will be here. It will be fine.
Of course, Rhys could also not come. They had considered that as a possibility, not that it was something they wanted to think too closely on. They sharply pushed the thought aside, lingering on being hopeful as opposed to pessimistic.
It's not like you need him. And you know he definitely doesn't need you. You can get on fine by yourself, just like you always have. You don't need help.
