Painted Ladies | Mid-Morning
54 Roalis 2720
The Forge was quiet, the warm coals left smoldering within the furnace while the Smith shifted about the interior. The kettle bubbled as it sat on the side, the tea leaves already steeping in the hot water, while the leather-coated canteen bottle was prepared for the day. Gale quietly poured out a pre-determined amount of whiskey into the brass belly so it filled one-sixth of it before they hid the offending whiskey bottle back inside the wooden anvil base. With a grunt, they shifted the iron weight back over the top and covered up the hole.
It had become a routine for them every morning, a carefully practised and measured amount of alcohol mixed with strong black tea to hide the scent and flavouring. They had to hide what little they had remaining because of the prohibition - One and a quarter bottles -, and going sober was still proving too difficult of a challenge to face. Even the morning sweats were beginning to seep into being a regular occurrence until they partook in their self-medication.
No, it was better to exist in a state of mild intoxication than to attempt to function in sobriety and the devils it brought with it.
Just got to keep it together. Can have your drink when you get there.
The tea leaves were strained off and the fresh tea was funnelled into the canteen to fill the remaining five-sixths. Stoppering it, the smith gave it a firm shake to mix the contents before tucking a small waxed-paper package into their inside jacket pocket. With the Steel horse loaded up with their toolbox and some spare shortcuts of piping, the engine was cranked and Gale headed on to the Painted Ladies. It was just a maintenance visit, was the cover. And in some regards it was, Rhys - or perhaps Charity through Rhys - had complained about some faucet leaking and needing tending to. So, as was quickly becoming tradition, Gale would appear and correct whatever the immediate issue was with the understanding that it should get properly seen in the next few months.
They may not have been in the forge today, but they were still at work; strong trousers with bracers, a clean though worn shirt. The goggles and heavy-duty leather jacket were a new addition, and something Gale was still trying to get used to. The wrap-around collar made their neck itch, and they kept forgetting to do up the buttons on their cuffs. But at least they protected them from potential harm and mishap.
The wheels of the Steel horse passed easily through the puddles, gliding comfortably enough over the cobblestones and past the pedestrians. The steel horse would always be noisy, they accepted that, but it was a damn site more tolerable than what it once was. It chuffed along at speed, a vibrating click going around as the gears ever shifted and the pistons pressed, a continuous noise that blurred out the other sounds of the city. The morning drizzle persisted, coating everything in moisture, Gale was no exception; by the time they reached the Painted Ladies and chained the steel horse to a lampost, their leathers had begun to turn dark and the glass of their goggles was smeared with droplets. The hair, greasy and dark from ash, was doing something of its own volution, windswept even as Gale tried to push it back.
Charity probably already heard them stop. Maybe. The Smith did not guess to know what was going on in the petite woman's mind.
Toolbox slung over their shoulder, the Smith hovered at the front door. They went to knock, shifting awkwardly from one foot to another as they hesitated. What was the correct kind of knock, was it one or two taps? Or perhaps it was a rap-
Paint peeling, bottom left of the door handle.
-No no, it was a knock, rap then two knocks-
Keyhole new. Brass knocker-
Oh, the knocker.
Gale wrung their fingers and reached for it. The back of their neck had gathered moisture; the question was it because of the rain, nerves or the withdrawal symptoms?
The Smith swallowed. Perhaps they were out, or busy. Rhys worked, maybe they should come back in the evening when he was there. When it was safer.
It was not to say they disliked Charity, but the small Galdori made Gale nervous. Not that Gale was certain even nervous was the right word. The inside of the smith's skull wibbled, the grey matter of their brain turning over itself to find the correct word. Terrified? Frightened? Exposed and to be judged? Vulnerable?
Woman.
Yes, but No, that was not right. It was irrational regardless; Charity was different and a whole different segment of society that Gale just did not know how to engage with. Their cheeks puffed, not registering until it was too late that their body had done the work for them and used the knocker.
The smith shuffled on the spot for a moment longer, hand fumbling for the thin package from the inside pocket. As the door opened the package held out in offering but within a clenched fist, the neck having shrunk back into their shoulders and the eyes in their grey sockets searching for something to focus mid-level. To the observer Gale was glowering, their jaw had set into a line, lips twitching and being chewed.
Gale's brain screamed internally.
"Good Day, Missus Val- I... here. Yes. I am here to, the uh.." The Smith frowned and rattled the toolbox. "Leak. Thing. Faucet. Yes. Probably needs tightenin'. I can do that. Easy." Their eyes moved to the offered package. They were still gripping onto it tightly onto it. "This. Made. I." Gale erred and cleared their throat. "Just take it. Hatpin."
It was true, carefully crafted in Saunders' forge and a far cry from the usual large pieces of steel they worked with. It was six inches of patiently hardened steel brought to and ground into a thick needle with a sharp point, while the top was donned with carefully shaped vines snaking their way up to a tiny enamel violet circle capping at the top.
Their hand, stiffly, released the package. Wiping their palm against their side, the Smith turned their eyes down to their feet. What were they supposed to do now?
"Right. Well. Shall I come in and take a look?"
I need a smoke. And a drink.
It had become a routine for them every morning, a carefully practised and measured amount of alcohol mixed with strong black tea to hide the scent and flavouring. They had to hide what little they had remaining because of the prohibition - One and a quarter bottles -, and going sober was still proving too difficult of a challenge to face. Even the morning sweats were beginning to seep into being a regular occurrence until they partook in their self-medication.
No, it was better to exist in a state of mild intoxication than to attempt to function in sobriety and the devils it brought with it.
Just got to keep it together. Can have your drink when you get there.
The tea leaves were strained off and the fresh tea was funnelled into the canteen to fill the remaining five-sixths. Stoppering it, the smith gave it a firm shake to mix the contents before tucking a small waxed-paper package into their inside jacket pocket. With the Steel horse loaded up with their toolbox and some spare shortcuts of piping, the engine was cranked and Gale headed on to the Painted Ladies. It was just a maintenance visit, was the cover. And in some regards it was, Rhys - or perhaps Charity through Rhys - had complained about some faucet leaking and needing tending to. So, as was quickly becoming tradition, Gale would appear and correct whatever the immediate issue was with the understanding that it should get properly seen in the next few months.
They may not have been in the forge today, but they were still at work; strong trousers with bracers, a clean though worn shirt. The goggles and heavy-duty leather jacket were a new addition, and something Gale was still trying to get used to. The wrap-around collar made their neck itch, and they kept forgetting to do up the buttons on their cuffs. But at least they protected them from potential harm and mishap.
The wheels of the Steel horse passed easily through the puddles, gliding comfortably enough over the cobblestones and past the pedestrians. The steel horse would always be noisy, they accepted that, but it was a damn site more tolerable than what it once was. It chuffed along at speed, a vibrating click going around as the gears ever shifted and the pistons pressed, a continuous noise that blurred out the other sounds of the city. The morning drizzle persisted, coating everything in moisture, Gale was no exception; by the time they reached the Painted Ladies and chained the steel horse to a lampost, their leathers had begun to turn dark and the glass of their goggles was smeared with droplets. The hair, greasy and dark from ash, was doing something of its own volution, windswept even as Gale tried to push it back.
Charity probably already heard them stop. Maybe. The Smith did not guess to know what was going on in the petite woman's mind.
Toolbox slung over their shoulder, the Smith hovered at the front door. They went to knock, shifting awkwardly from one foot to another as they hesitated. What was the correct kind of knock, was it one or two taps? Or perhaps it was a rap-
Paint peeling, bottom left of the door handle.
-No no, it was a knock, rap then two knocks-
Keyhole new. Brass knocker-
Oh, the knocker.
Gale wrung their fingers and reached for it. The back of their neck had gathered moisture; the question was it because of the rain, nerves or the withdrawal symptoms?
The Smith swallowed. Perhaps they were out, or busy. Rhys worked, maybe they should come back in the evening when he was there. When it was safer.
It was not to say they disliked Charity, but the small Galdori made Gale nervous. Not that Gale was certain even nervous was the right word. The inside of the smith's skull wibbled, the grey matter of their brain turning over itself to find the correct word. Terrified? Frightened? Exposed and to be judged? Vulnerable?
Woman.
Yes, but No, that was not right. It was irrational regardless; Charity was different and a whole different segment of society that Gale just did not know how to engage with. Their cheeks puffed, not registering until it was too late that their body had done the work for them and used the knocker.
The smith shuffled on the spot for a moment longer, hand fumbling for the thin package from the inside pocket. As the door opened the package held out in offering but within a clenched fist, the neck having shrunk back into their shoulders and the eyes in their grey sockets searching for something to focus mid-level. To the observer Gale was glowering, their jaw had set into a line, lips twitching and being chewed.
Gale's brain screamed internally.
"Good Day, Missus Val- I... here. Yes. I am here to, the uh.." The Smith frowned and rattled the toolbox. "Leak. Thing. Faucet. Yes. Probably needs tightenin'. I can do that. Easy." Their eyes moved to the offered package. They were still gripping onto it tightly onto it. "This. Made. I." Gale erred and cleared their throat. "Just take it. Hatpin."
It was true, carefully crafted in Saunders' forge and a far cry from the usual large pieces of steel they worked with. It was six inches of patiently hardened steel brought to and ground into a thick needle with a sharp point, while the top was donned with carefully shaped vines snaking their way up to a tiny enamel violet circle capping at the top.
Their hand, stiffly, released the package. Wiping their palm against their side, the Smith turned their eyes down to their feet. What were they supposed to do now?
"Right. Well. Shall I come in and take a look?"
I need a smoke. And a drink.
