[Solo] Mastering the Load

Gale begins experiments with the creation of firearm cartridges

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Fri Oct 05, 2018 7:58 am

Afternoon
18 Yaris 2718
It was with much care that Gale once more was at work. A narrow strip of heated steel, easily twenty inches in length, was being carefully folded by the metal worker. Hot and malleable, it was being shaped around a solid cylinder of brass attached to an arm of iron – the shaper clamped in place above the anvil. From there it was the process of moulding it into shape, smoothing and rotating around it. It was led along, supported in another cup before inevitably reached the end. In the process however, Gale was thinking.

About firearms to be specific.

The range on the various pistols produced normally sat about ten yards when smoothbore; the length of the barrel and the amount of powder played an obvious factor in this, some reaching further while others under. There was then the additional factor on if the barrel had been rifled – those that were had an increase in accuracy, and by consequence an increase in the effective range in comparison.

Which was what got Gale thinking.

What would happen if the barrel length was significantly increased beyond normal pistol lengths?

The brass rod was withdrawn, carefully being glided out from the cooling metal and smoothing down the interior in the process. Satisfied, the end was pinched within the tongs and quenched within the brine water. Hissing as it cooled, the smith withdrew and inspected the length with interest. Perfectly straight, it was held in both hands as the weight was tested.

The first issue would be the additional weight of the firearm. It would have to be held in both hands just to support and stabilise it. The second would be working out the additional amount of powder to get a shot out the end, and then the limits of how much could be put in without it being a risk to the user. There were other factors; should the barrel be rifled, would it be flintlock or the still being developed ‘Drum’ caps.

Fingers tapped the end of the pipe. A smooth finish was needed, but that would be later. Moving over to one of the work benches, the pipe was placed down alongside several others of similar shape and size. A small tally was ticked off next to them, before she settled upon the stool. The pipes themselves were for a client, a specific set of sizes needed of particular lengths and diameters that most steel mills were unable to provide. The fact that Gale decided to take this opportunity to make additional pipes of this particularly narrow size for other reasons was simply drafted up as them being spares. Or, unfortunate failed attempts at heating the steel right.

Even good metalworkers made mistakes at time. Reality was Gale knew what they were doing; it was all a small ploy to prepare barrels for firearms.

Taking up one of the large files, the long and dull process of proving a smooth surface at either end. A simple and time consuming exercise that allowed her mind to wander through ideas.

The firing mechanism will be similar to the Liberator. Simple hammer, pull back and press. But single shot. A bridge between the flintlock and the revolving chamber. Sure, it would not rely on the spark produced by the flint and wear, but the reload time would be the same.

Which was a good point. Chewing at their lip, the file continued to scrape across steel. The Liberator had one obvious flaw, it was slow to reload. While good at firing off multiple rounds, the speed was something to be desired. No, the thoughts needed to take a step back. What could be done to make firing quicker? Something quick, burnable, but transportable. Light weight and premeasured out.

Separate packages? Each with premeasured gunpowder, ball and cap?

She snorted at that idea. It just meant the amounts didn’t have to be measured. It still did not solve the loading speed problem. Lowering down the pipe, fingers flexing around the file in consideration. The gaze shifted only briefly to the paper, watching the corner of it curl in the heat. Outside she heard the moving of one of the vendors, tugging a cart along while hawking their goods. Food to go, warm and ready for lunch, a greasy meal, boxed and wrapped in a flimsy sheet of paper. The complaint of a hungry stomach forced the smith away from their work, and keeping the conversation light the smith was back within the safety of the forge.

Idly playing with the grease covered paper, the occasional slurp of noise escaped as they chewed through the noodles. A strip of it ripped, coiling it around a digit in idle contemplation. Another mouthful, a small spit when something gristle became caught.

Quick loading. Faster. Package. Premeasured. Whoever said they could never go into the firearm contained? A cartridge premade with the percussion cap at the back. Surrounded by paper and with a shot within it. The paper would have to be prepared to burn up quickly. Along with a way to affix it to the cap. An adhesive suitable for metal. Or perhaps just a covered in some wax stiffened, or perhaps a tallow to allow movement through the barrel. The ball will have to be shaped to fire forward and stay in place. A cone with a flat base perhaps? Lead. Additional velocity would be obtained.

Returning to the pipe, a scroll of paper was coiled and measured up to the pipe. It slid in with enough ease – and with a cap at the end it would stick in place until fired. It took effort to stop the curious mind from taking over. Forcibly the paper was slipped out, neatly put aside before returning to the filing.

The moment some element of evening came however the smith wound down quickly. The pipes were put away neatly, tools stored and packed. The metal smith however was quickly away, coat around their form, toolbox clattering at their side. Tallow was chosen as the product of the current experiment, a small tin of it jammed into the pocket before being away. The fact that the Liberator was hidden along her back, the terrifying mask of Gunner locked within the toolbox was merely a side thought. She had all she needed for this particular experiment.
Last edited by Gale on Thu Nov 15, 2018 2:44 am, edited 3 times in total.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Writer: Crosspatch
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Fri Oct 05, 2018 7:59 am

Evening
18 Yaris 2718
Along the darkness the smith moved, mingling in with the noise and disappearing. She knew the routes, the ways into the undercity. A turn here, a right there. Down the alleyway. Down the next. A lift of the grate and down into the sloshing of sewers. It always stunk, but Gale did not care when there was something to be made, something to be realised or had. And as the shape lurked did the cloak come forth, the steel mask and hood; a shadow that disappeared beneath the noise and choked tunnels beneath the factories.

Gunner was on the prowl.

It was in one of the quieter nooks of the undercity that the gunsmith set themselves up. The ever present rumble above providing a comfort that they were not about to be overheard. In the low light the cadet went to work, space cleared upon the stone floor, the firearm produced and displayed clearly. Caps placed alongside, the toolbox opened and prepared. To begin with the pieces of paper were cut into broad strips, enough so they could circle the circumference a couple of times. A small candle was produced then, lit and sending a glow across the workspace.

A lump of the tallow was carefully melted, the pungent smell mixing in with the air around them. Meanwhile the copper cap was carefully aligned with the paper. Curling around it, a smear of the moistened fat around its base, it was held there in the gloved hands while it set. From there, the fine lumps of gunpowder was pinched into the cartridge, packed down before being topped by a lead shot. More of the tallow was rubbed along the base of the shot then, paper wrapped tighter round into a paper casing. The smith inspected it, another smear of the substance around it before leaving it to set.

It was a fiddly process, one that would have to be reviewed. As the tallow returned to room temperature and cooled, the Liberator was dismantled. Carefully maintained steel, the greasy marks left by the handling of the other products being carefully cleaned off with a cloth. It was the process of checking all its parts, the condition it was left in before firing. The reassembly would come next, the cylinder remaining removed. To begin with it was loaded with a cap, before the powder was carefully decanted down into it. Packed in the thumb resting at the base as a level point, the lead shot following. All the while, the smith quietly counted under their breath and reached forty by the time it was loaded. Taking up the cartridge she studied it as it hardened, a few firm flicks to speed the process along, before she placed it into the next chamber round. From there she returned the cylinder to the frame of the pistol.

Stepping across the tunnel and away from the tools, the gunsmith found the needed solid stance. Feet shoulder width apart, back straightening. The pistol moved forward, firstly braced in both hands before the left peeled away. A testing wriggled of fingers, the thumb pulled the hammer back, the pleasant click a mere whisper to the sounds above. A slow inhale, careful, measured. A final inhale, an exhale. The finger squeezed the trigger.

It was the faint hiss before the boom, a mere fraction of a second as the powder was ignited. The cracking noise reverberated out after it, finalising into a pop. With the exhale the arm braced, focused on staying steady - the bullet hurtled into the dark, splintering against the tunnel wall with force. Only as the thin layer of smoke settled, did the gunsmith feel the trembling within their arm, the reverberation of the shot going through, that ringing in the ears from the sheer sound produced. The shoulder was forced into a roll, a gentle urge to chase away the sensation that consumed it. Lingering the faint scent of smoke hit her, before quickly being consumed within the others.

Fingers flexed, the breathing repeating. A steady pace as the firearm was tested once more. Hammer back, another click as the testing cartridge moved into place. There was no target in mind, only to see if the implement fired. From there several more test pieces could be made, the idea refined into something better. The exhale came, trigger squeezed.

Nothing.

The masked head swivelled to the gun. Eyes narrowed in annoyance, there was a long pause. It was only after a good minute passed that the cadet brought it closer for inspection. Unscrewing it, the chamber was studied. The previous cap was still in place, the cartridge however remained where it was. The thumb wiped across the back, collecting a small lump of tallow that had nestled into the back of the cap. The hammer was pulled back then, the same small collection upon its tip. Wiping it away, the piece was reassembled, put into position and the stance repeated.

Gunk on the mechanism. Ensure cartridges are clean before loading.

The other point that grabbed the attention was the stray scrap of paper that peaked out the base, was that another problem? A piece of interference that could be a risk to the mechanism. Pinching between the fingers, it was ripped away, leaving a cleaner edge. Satisfied, the Liberator was reassembled the rotation mechanism checked and tightened. Returning straight, the arm extended out. Hammer back, the deep inhale as the orbs focused through the mask. The exhale, lungs cleared and trigger squeezed.

The hiss came, followed by the boom. It cracked with noise; the scent of burned fat caught them off guard. The bullet, like before, crunched into the stonework and became dormant. The burning eventually subsided, and lowering the gun the smith inspected what remained. Paper partly burned; a scorched sear of black across the inside of the chamber. A thin amount of grease left behind. It was a partially destroyed casing, the force of it ripping the paper as it shot forward. Or, perhaps most of it had burned before firing.

The smith in honesty was not sure. It was something that would require further study and experimentation.

But for now, it was a start.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
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Writer: Crosspatch
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Tue Oct 09, 2018 10:17 am

Saunders' Forge | evening
19 Yaris 2718
The tallow was only the start of the problem. By the time the fourth testing shot was fired using the material, the ratchet mechanism was beginning to show signs of being caked in the fat, having oozed down between shots. In the end, the gunsmith had no choice but to abandon the idea for the revolver – interference with the mechanisms was a problem. However, it did not mean all was lost however; with the removal of the percussion cap it could be easily used within the currently existing flintlocks. So, Gunner went back to their thinking.

The issue was simple: the paper needed to be stuck if it was to remain in place during transportation and not disintegrate prior to firing. It also needed to be something that burned rather than melted. An adhesive of some description that could be worked with in relative ease. It meant, for the most part, that animal based glues were out the question.

Horse glue melts at low temperatures. Need something that can go for longer.

It was back within the Forge that the gunsmith worked now; another day and another flow of jobs. The thoughts were still circulating around the idea of paper and the burning of. Perhaps it did not necessarily even have to completely burn, instead only hold enough consistency that it could be dropped out. A heat resister. What did she know that could resist sudden, sharp, bursts of heat and maintain structural integrity?

Metal.

That was something that made her pause for thought. Enough that the hammer was left momentarily suspended in the air, the orbs intently focused down on whatever was being put into shape. The clanging continued.

There was nothing wrong with that line of thought; it was an idea that tickled at her mind. To create a case that would not burn at all. Of course, the right metal would have to be used which was an experiment in of itself. But making a case small and fine enough to fit down the barrel?

She quenched the iron and set down her tools to think.

Copper for one was out the question. It was good for the percussion caps, being suitably soft enough to send a shock through the base – but to be able to contain true explosive power? She feared it would only clog the inner and result in a similar, if not worse, situation to the chambers and barrel. Iron was too brittle, hard and would probably shatter under enough sudden force, she had worked with enough over the years, particularly when cast. It meant a compound metal was needed, a steel or brass.

Then was the fun of getting it into a suitable shape. Ideally, it would have to be a tube, smaller than the chamber and barrel, the percussion cap sitting at the end of it and a lead shot fitted into the top. She could replicate the process she used on the occasion she needed to create delicate brass piping; starting with a thicker piece and drawing it through to both stretch and thin it. At least then she could confirm some better structural integrity that she would not be able to gain by the simple approach of folding the piece. First however she would need to have the materials to construct the pipe; then, once shaped, it would need to remain warm enough to remain malleable enough to be physically pulled through a finer mould, repeating the process until satisfied with the measurements. Once there however, she could simply clip the new down to size.

Clicking her neck she repeated the process in her mind several times over. What could go wrong? What issues would there be? Maintaining heat for one – she would have to set up the drawing die in front of the smelter and have to work in smaller sections in order to get around the issue of the pipe cooling too much prematurely. Dragging a work bench closer, she cleared it of the clutter and set up a variety of clamps. From there a frame was set up, dominating most of the bench. At one end was a winch, lever based one that a strong chain hung from – which in turn connected to another clamp through a steel hook. Halfway down was another clamp, and it was there that Gale took pause to remember the diameter of the inside of the barrel.

Away once more, she shifted through a collection of thick steel plates, each with a hole in the center, each a different diameter across. She picked one that seemed right, 10mm across, before installing it in the central clamp. Secured, the smith located the long mandrel she had used the day before, screwing off the brass head to exchange it for a much thinner one that could slip into the gap and still leave. All that was needed now was material.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
User avatar
Gale
Posts: 254
Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
Topics: 42
Race: Human
Occupation: Metalsmith | Resistance Gunsmith
: Artful Gunner
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Crosspatch
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Thu Oct 11, 2018 5:02 pm

Saunders' Forge | evening
24 Yaris 2718
Much to the frustration of Gale, ten millimetres was too broad for the chamber – wasting her time and sending her into the hours of the night. The foot of brass tubing was loaded in once more to the drawing die, the pulled end being hammered into a point and being fed into a smaller hole – this was nine millimetres across – and the mandrel now being a slender eight. Locked in place, she began the tiring process of forcibly winching the metal through – technology was the only reason she was able to. Every clunk and crunch, every hook in and easing back. Teeth gritted, arms strained, the foot of brass being stretched and thinned until it reached its end. A time consuming process where the smith had to stop on several occasions to shake their arms out. The lever may have done most of the work, but it was sapping.

Pulled out now, the tubing was weighed in her hands. Twisted end snipped off; she measured it up to the chambers of the Liberator. It slipped in, minimal resistance. It was pinched and trimmed into inch long pieces, edges rounded and smoothed. Twelve of these tiny tubes sat before her now, the gunsmith pulling away to find the percussion caps. With much hissing the caps were loaded into the base of the tubing, pinching and pressing it in. Rough edged, the gunsmith began to make the next move. Gunpowder was carefully loaded in, the cartridge held firmly in place as the content was packed down. As the content began to climb up to the top did the loading stop. The lead bullet was taken up next, being eased down into the packing and past the lip.

With the rough top exposed, a small wiggle showed the shot had not taken purchase. Cautiously, firstly with a set of pliers and then being smoothed down with the flat head, the open end was crimped in, pushed and smoothed in. Stable she held the piece in her fingers, turning it with curiosity.

It was a brass cartridge, loaded and ready to do something. Hiding the rest of her evidence, the smith found a similar sized piece of piping and hammer. Promptly she set off out into the night. It was only to be a short journey, somewhere noisy and beneath the crowd of the city. Down into the depth, curiosity and wanting to know sent her onwards. Above the city whined, grumbling as the smith once more found a secluded spot. The bullet was pushed into the back of the pipe, the lip of the cap holding it in place at the end.

Length of pipe in hand, she held it out straight and across her – mouth pointing somewhere down the tunnel. It was with the other hand that she tightly grasped the hammer, a small, nervous tap to test it. Her face turned away, jaw screwing up as she gave another, testing tap. She should of, she realised in hindsight, probably have brought a collection of clamps and stands down with her.

But such was the active mind when it came to invention. It often overlooked immediate and personal safety.

The hammer swung back and struck.

The resounding boom echoed through the chamber, enough noise that forced Gale to instinctively let go. Out from the end the crack of noise thundered down the tunnel, a brief, bright spark as gunpowder ignited. Somewhere out there the lead shot made contact with stone, but for the moment the Gunsmith was distracted with her hand. It ached, the palm beginning to feel bruised under the force. She winced, flexing the fingers of her left while inspecting the pipe with the other. The cartridge fell out the back, rattling on the floor with the primer cap still attached. The lead had fired, a thin glaze of burning around the mouth of it - she would have to bring it back into light for a closer inspection and to check for any defects.

Ears still ringing, she took the moment within her experimentation to simply think.

This changed everything. Of course, she would have to make repeat tests in safer conditions - but this was progress. If these could be applied to the flintlock pistols, then this would be a game changer. Of course, she would need to work out a way to mass produce them - or at least show others on how to safely make them. Standing, the smith began the slow careful steps back to the Forge. Up through the underbelly, length of pipe hitched over one shoulder. The cartridge was jammed into a pocket, out of sight, out of mind. Through the ever living streets, the ideas grew.

Ahead she saw the forge, eyes squinting as she picked out another feature. A slither of white, one that as she grew closer the crisp edges became apparent. A single lone nail staked an envelope to the door. Had she missed it on the way out? Her fingers tugged it off, brow creasing as ideas were forcibly pushed aside. Entering she closed the door, opening out the envelope.

Rough. Middling quality. Paper is heavy. Weighty. No name on the outside. Obvious who it is to howev- Well. Shit. This got interesting.
WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE. WE KNOW WHAT YOU CAN DO.
IF YOU WISH TO KEEP YOUR LITTLE HALF-LIFE SECRET, THEN YOU WILL DO AS WE REQUEST.
OUR WORD IS NOW YOUR LAW, IT WILL BE THE ONLY THING YOU CARE FOR IN THIS WORLD.
ASK YOUR 'FRIENDS' FOR HELP, OR CRY TO THE SEVENTEN AND WE WILL KNOW AND WE WILL REVEAL THE TRUTH.
REFUSE, AND THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES. CONTINUOUS REFUSAL WILL RESULT IN HARSHER PUNISHMENT.
OBEY, AND WE WILL BE MERCIFUL TO YOUR EXISTENCE FOR ANOTHER DAY.
 ! Message from: Muse
This thread has been reviewed and approved for Character Progression for Gale Saunders.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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