Talking Shop [Gale, please]

In which Corwynn pays an innocuous visit to a budding gunsmith.

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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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Corwynn
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: The Taxman
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Fri Oct 05, 2018 3:45 pm

2nd of Yaris, 2718
SAUNDER'S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
Vienda was so clocking oppressive in Yaris, especially the Soot District, for the capitol was somehow situated in such a way that, to Corwynn at least, every damned ray of sunshine was recklessly attracted to the cobblestones and tightly held captive by the walls of every building. The smog of industry really didn't help matters, to be honest, and as he made his way through the streets, crystalline blue gaze snapping downward one more time to glance at the address on the slip of paper held in his four-fingered right hand before he tucked it away into his vest pocket, sweat pooled with unfashionable persistence against the small of his back.

The beautiful Rose had a sea breeze and lovely weather almost all year round, even in the dry season. But Vienda?

Oh, by the Lady herself, how he hated it here.

The blond galdor sighed, straightening his coat and letting a palm brush over the firearm tucked comfortably against his ribs on his right side under the fashionable violet-dyed linen of his jacket and against the floral brocade of his vest, hidden from view by a holster of his own crafty design.

He'd left his ol' wick pirate bodyguard and friend Wavorly behind for this trip with only a few reservations, and Corwynn hoped he wouldn't regret that decision despite the wary glances the older galdor received as he made his way down another cross street toward Saunder's Forge. He didn't bother to suppress his field or disguise what he was, shorter than any of the lower races that purposefully moved to avoid him at the brush of his aura.

The name Saunder's was familiar to the Bad Brother, but he couldn't place how or why. Rumors had drifted all the way to the Harbor about a gunsmith on the lips of smugglers who often rubbed shoulders with Resistance folks while making a living moving anything illegal for a bird or two in their pockets or a favor tucked away in their hat for later. He knew not the name of who he was hoping to meet, and he had no intention of faking it as a member of that clocking sorry-assed excuse of a revolutionary movement, considering his reputation as Hawke's left-hand man (literally and figuratively, so to speak) far preceded him in the shadowy underworld of the Soot District, he only had the name "Gunner" to go with.

Quaint, Corwynn had mused to himself, deciding this individual certainly had no interest in keeping their skillset hidden from their peers with their codename.

He would simply feel out what he could, not at all considering another gunsmith in Vienda competition, especially since their clientele was almost on opposite sides of the unspoken conflict (for Hawke had no desire for a rebellion, after all). Curiosity piqued, he ran a hand through his fading blond curls before entering the customer door of Saunder's Forge with his typical air of breezy importance,

"Good afternoon!" The older galdor's smile always seemed to border on the predatory, and his well-tailored clothes were uncomfortably out of place here in the Soot District. Still, it was undeniable that the gunman carried himself without a hint of fear, his field taut and proper, heavy with a gravity of confidence all its own.
Last edited by Corwynn on Tue Nov 13, 2018 10:50 am, edited 1 time in total.

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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Sat Oct 06, 2018 7:19 am

saunders' forge | early afternoon
2 YARIS 2718
Heat roared up in the belly of the furnace, bellows pulled as the hot embers sparked into life and burst into flame. Air fed it, a growing roar as it rushed through, spitting flecks of ash and coal along the inside of it. The smoke lingered, brief wisps escaping while the rest of it escaped up through the chimney. Beyond the humdrum of life continued, the clattering of wheels on stone, the coughs and chunters of the bodies as they moved on by. Sunlight slunk in through the open shutters, forming into pools across the inside of the workshop. Sand pit opened, the cover propped to one side, tools and implements ready for use. Alongside stood the crucible, scrap iron resting within its belly and awaiting to be smelted down into something useful.

It was another day as far as Gale was concerned. The usual dirty clothes; buttoned up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, leather apron across the front, hair slicked back and held in place by a strip of cloth. The low hum reverberated up through the throat, some wordless tune that marked out the take rhythm while working. Warmer still, the sticking sensation beginning to cling to skin, finding itself in the creases and folds as the smith pushed on. The heat reached its peak.

Plucking up a pair of wrought iron tongs, a secure hold was found on the crucible. Enough to create an ingot, something more useful that scraps - everything had to be made to count. No waste, ever. Easing it in, the crucible was brought steady through its braces before the door of the furnace was shut. Closed, the worker went about the rest of their business. It was the day of little tasks, small unrelated pieces that inevitably aided with the workings of the forge before a rush of shipments came in.

Moving off to one of the workbenches, the metalworker studied the five samples that were laid out before them. While she knew the mills they came from, it was always good to test every now and again before putting in an order for a batch. Two inches wide, eight inches long, a mere quarter of an inch thick - each piece of steel had a name of the producer chalked in along one edge. The first was from Odson, primarily an iron mill that had over the last six months opened into steel production - their expansion saw to that. There was a testing tap, the general observations made at a cursory glance.

Dark steel, no visible or immediate signs of cracking or break down. Seemingly no pitting or laminations. Break test will show if any sign of bubbling within.

Fingers picked it up, the green orbs looking across it then down the length. Squinting, the surface caught in the light, the faint dip within its centre catching her vision. The focus continued, seeing the faint discoloration, the points where the dark steel was replaced with an off grey, the streaks within its surface. Even as this new client came sweeping in did the study continue. The left hand rose, a single finger extended in their general direction, the eyes only briefly swivelling over to drink in the form of this stranger, a mere snapshot of whom was talking.

Galdori. Male. Too fine dressed. Upper class. Placing an order. If so then why not send a message. Out of place. Must have a reason. Trouble?

The eyes moved past then, over the shoulder and to the world beyond. Nothing.

Her attention swivelled back to the Odson steel, "If yeh're lookin' at gettin' somethin' made, ye'll be sittin' on a waitin' list for a bit. Got a back log, waitin' for shipment."

Turning the piece over, it became apparent now with the contrast of chalk against metal - the small nicks, the tiny holes that pricked the surface. The smith frowned, took a step back from the bench, and gave a testing tap of the metal against the edge. A hollow clunk responded, the feeling of metal giving under her touch. Curiosity continued, the smith raised the holding arm, head turning away before slamming the piece down across the edge.

The cheap metal warped a groan escaped. She was waiting for it to splinter, completely surrender beneath being effectively cold hammered. The new angle it had adopted caused the frown to grow deeper, lips twisting before promptly dropping it alongside the other samples. Hand shook out, the faint reverberations still travelling up her arm, she gave her full attention to the Galdori.

Sooner he was out the way, sooner she could be left in peace.

"So, how can I be of service to you sir?"
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Corwynn
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: The Taxman
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Fri Oct 12, 2018 11:51 am

2nd of Yaris, 2718
SAUNDER'S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
Corwynn was a patient man. At just a handful of years into what any proper galdor would consider his prime of life, he'd learned that, for the most part, the best things were worth waiting for. He'd rushed through Brunnhold, eager to graduate and be free from rules and academia. He'd rushed through his twenties, power-hungry and ruthless, full of bravado and the kind of callousness that too much money brought in its wake. He'd been crushed in his thirties, the price of his choice to betray Hawke sending him not to his grave too soon but out to sea, one finger lighter and imprisoned on the Vein as an exile from the Kingdom of his birth.

What had been meant to break him had brought him perspective, had soothed his restless soul, and had reshaped him into a very different galdor—one that didn't seem to fit in anywhere anymore, no matter how handsome he looked in his Vienda-tailored suits, rubbing elbows with Incumbents and Magisters or how bloodied his hands got around the throats of petty thieves who tried to cheat his King of their taxes. The only place that truly suited him was the sky, and he wasn't flying often enough to be able to do anything but miss it, but long for it like a lover he couldn't have.

Shifting on his feet and glancing down for a moment at his expensive boots, the blond galdor shrugged, "No rush on my account." Looking back up, his crystalline gaze took in the other blond's work with a critical, knowledgeable eye, having been around the metalworks factory that was now in his name for almost two decades now. He knew the ins and outs of the metalworking business even if he wasn't a metalsmith himself, just a gunsmith, and a very focused one at that. His skills were varied because his appetite for learning was almost as voracious as his appetite for carnal pleasures, and as he watched the young creature sweat and work, he fancied them an interesting thing.

Finally, the human turned to him and the older gunman realized with far too much curiosity that he was unsure of how to address the metalsmith—

So he didn't ... directly.

"Well, no, I don't believe need anything today, not really. I believe I'm here to be of service to you, actually." The smile that creased its way into his culturally uncharacteristic tanned, aristocratic features was that of a comfortable predator, and Corwynn stepped forward, gliding closer, his blue eyes shifting to the metal instead of the smith,

"I'm looking for Gale Saunders. Are you the master of the forge or merely the apprentice?" Was he judging the other blond's age? Was he making conversation? Was he flirting? It was hard to tell. Perhaps all of them at once. Perhaps none. His four-fingered right hand toyed idly with the cufflink of his left wrist and his tone was expectant.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Sun Oct 14, 2018 1:41 pm

saunders' forge | early afternoon
2 YARIS 2718
Predator. Hungering. Hunting. For what?

I am no prey.

The pressure of the eyes did not miss her attention, the level intensity that gave her enough pause to weigh up what she was dealing with. She did not move from the samples, the usually animated hands slowing. There was a satisfying crack of noise as the knuckles popped, the small amount of pressure easing down through the tendons and wrists. He was too well dressed to be here to simply book an order - a runner would have been enough. The green eyes scanned him once more, noting the fiddling of the cufflinks and the missing finger; it was not her business to pry into that.

They lifted their chin as he approached, catching the distinct scent of something clean and foreign against the backdrop of sweat and salt. An eyebrow raised, attention following his vision to the metals, before moving to the middle of his chest.

"A businessman?" the question hung there. The metal worker folded their arms, thumb pressing into the muscle, fingers lightly gripping. It took a particular level of focus to not let the idle digits play, "If you're lookin' to hire me into a factory, I'll have to decline. If you looking to sell mill stock, I'll hear you out - but I have my preferred products and grades already."

She turned to the metals, moving back to the needed work. The next was a sample from Prise and Co, a company Beckett had brought from ever since she was a small child. Mid-grade steel, the visual inspection began - no flaws, only a slight discolouration at either end of the piece. Running the thumb across the end showed it to only be a thin layer of grease, a few testing taps before a firm strike against the side. A pleasant ring of noise escaped, the metal refusing to give like the previous.

An approving nod, Gale placed it to one side.

"Aye, I'm the master of the forge - as taken up from Pa some years after," Not missing a beat, the smith threw the question back, "And who'd you be? If not a man of business? Not many of your fancy lot come knocking down to the district - smells to bad." The green orbs narrowed, lip curling in brief annoyance, "Not one of those investigating folk are you? Look, I'll tell you like I told the last one who came here. The thug started it, I defended myself, after the Seventen finished it."

If it is another lawman then this is going to just become an increasingly problematic headache. Of course, that's on the basis he actually is.

No. He is not a lawman. Too late on stopping that bone being thrown.


"Or perhaps ye have a complaint, or whateffer," she picked up the next sample, Rolansons. Their other hand gave a flick, eyes narrowing down onto the sample "Come, out with it. What you after?"

If he was after something that was. He was an outsider, something that made her wary as she continued to work. It kept the wandering hands busy. It was enough of a distraction, giving her something to gain time to the advances he was making.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Corwynn
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: The Taxman
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Mon Oct 15, 2018 9:57 am

2nd of Yaris, 2718
SAUNDER'S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
"You could say that. Businessman. Sure. All us galdori look alike to you after all, eh?"

The Bad Brother's expression dulled into a smirk as the young blond asked if he was a businessman. Just because he was a well-dressed galdor didn't mean he was in any particular business, but he was, in fact, involved in a lot of business. Silas Hawke's business, his own business here in the Soot District, the firearm business, and whatever other business he needed to stick his well-aged face into in order to get exactly what his King wanted, "It's no skin off my back if you haven't heard of Wynngate Sheet Metals, young man, but you're probably paying too much for all that shit you feel like showing off just to let me know you don't need what I may be able to offer—Prise and Co? Really? That old bastard's probably conning you out of a fistful of clocking concords a year."

Corinth Wynngate the Third laughed then, a calloused, weathered sound that had him stretching just so in his sarcastic amusement and rather expletive-filled way of negotiating, the motion parting his open coat just enough to give Gale a view of his well-tailored shirt and vest and the leather straps of a holster that nestled a pistol against his ribs on the right side, ready for his obviously left-handed draw (considering the disabled state of his once-dominant other hand). The flash of the hand-tooled, beautifully engraved butt of his firearm was there for the human's view and it was obvious the older galdor moved as he did on purpose because his crystalline gaze focused on the younger creature's face before his hands, calloused from years at sea and crafting guns and flying airships, came to rest on the counter.

There were flecks of blood on one cuff of his shirt, though his coat was impeccably clean as if he'd taken it off to do whatever dirty work he'd just come from before stepping into Saunder's Forge. His nine nails were well-manicured but his knuckles were rough for a galdor. The hints of blue-inked tattooed waves that ran up the wrists of both his arms were just barely noticeable,

"I'm third generation Wynngate, and I'm no clocking Seventen. I don't give a chrove's armored erse what you did to piss them off—not having a field was probably enough, wasn't it?" He rolled his eyes as if it mattered and licked his lips at the annoyed tone the blond human was taking with him, perhaps enjoying their discomfort far more than he should have, studying the face opposite him,

"A little bird told me after a bit of ruffling of feathers that someone here at the forge does specialized work. Seeing as I've been in the specialized business since you were toddling around your Pa's shop here barely tall enough to see over the clocking counter, I'm here to take a peek at what the kids are coming up with these days. I know whose dirty hands these things end up in for the cause and all that shit, but sometimes my King back in Old Rose Harbor is interested in making purchases outside of my own range of expertise."

Straightening, he rolled his well-muscled shoulders (for a galdor of his small stature), expression softening from predatory to something more akin to genuine curiosity,

"I understand if this isn't the place you do that sort of business, but I'm here on a personal visit. Craftsman to craftsman, you could say."
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Gale
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Mon Oct 15, 2018 3:10 pm

saunders' forge | early afternoon
2 YARIS 2718
"What? Smug faced, high boned and full of an air of self-righ-teous-nice?" the retort came while the fingers idly played with the next sample, "Or was it the well groomed hair and features, weathered by sun, missing a finger or not." The head fully swivelled to his then, "You know what? I'm not sure. As for my choice of steel mill, you do realise that old bastard died after a heart attack a year 'nd two back? Prices have been a lot more accom-oh-modatin' since then," a puff of cheeks, she watched the man sidle up opposite her, continuing her work, "Yous think this is just a show?"

Exhaling, there was a small scratch upon the surface of the Rolansons sample - it was an alloy steel, marked up as having manganese within it. Pushing the other samples away, she saw the display of the handle. Eyes narrowed upon it, the brief slither of finer colourations of the butt. She was no idiot, the vision slipping up to his and locking on. Not budging, the metal smith drunk in his form properly; he was not a true Galdori - that was obvious now. Hands rough like hers, various small scars and nicks covering them. Was that a small burn from a spark she spied there, or merely just a shadow in the light of the forge?

"It's gonna be a dead bird if it keeps twitterin'."

Her chin raised in challenge, her own form straightening out to meet his posture. With it the face of the irritated metal smith melted away, an equal curiosity sparking within her vision. The sample was placed down firmly between them, hands planting either side of it. The tone changed, words drawn out in full but still carrying the distinct accent the metal smith carried.

"But sir, I believe you are at the wrong sort of place and time for such a service," there was a small tilt of the head to one side. He was still on the other end of her spectrum - well dressed and clean on the surface at least, "Yet, let us play a game of hypothetical's. If you were looking for different ways to say... make a skillet or a pan and you got them from another's efforts, what would you do with them?" Her lip gave a curl, "See, I look forward and see a cunning fox. One who knows when and how to snatch the prizes of hard working farmers. Would I be mistaken in assuming such of you?"

A single digit tapped upon the steel sample that stood between them, "You call yourself a man of specialised work, who has been doing it since I was little more than a twinkle in my pa's eye. So, let us see your measure." The steel was nudged towards him, "Alloy Steel with Manganese. Relatively new mix on the steel market - three years at most. Increase of surface hardness is its property. But what else?"

It was a challenge, a throwing down of the gauntlet and a dare all wrapped into one. She was not about to hand over her secrets to a stranger, even if he did flash a something all too familiar to her eye. Leaning in, fingers pressed onto the counter, her voice all but growled, "You're right, you may have spent the last two decades of being a specialist - but I carry fifty years of knowledge, experience and mistakes in my skull born of sweat, tears and a lot of blood."

She snorted, "Your turn, Craftsman."
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Corwynn
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: The Taxman
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Mon Oct 15, 2018 10:32 pm

2nd of Yaris, 2718
SAUNDER’S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
"Heart attack? Is that what they called it? How generous of the press." The older galdor purred without a hint of being ruffled by the younger blond’s snarky attempt to slash in his direction with words, the weight of his field suddenly settling between them with the weight of threat, with a gravity that seemed to whisper that he was, in fact, too aware of what happened to that old bastard two years ago because he’d been there.

Oh, he'd really been there. In clocking person.

And he’d enjoyed every last breath of it.

The old man’s grandson had, in fact, been much more willing to work with Hawke’s economic goals and paid his clocking taxes on time to both his Kings. That the price of his manufactured metals had dropped in the process wasn’t entirely a coincidence, for what he lacked in quality, he at least made up for in quantity. While immediate profits weren’t the goal to the blond gunman, he'd sought instead to make his family business look better in comparison so that plenty of others would be willing to pay more in the long run. It had worked, a little. But for this youth, well, apparently not.

"Everything’s a show to someone, intentional or not." Corwynn grunted, serious and far more jaded than he usually attempted to appear when wearing his Vienda face. Fire and metal were comfortable to him. The tilt of the young human’s chin in such sarcastic defiance enticing. The combination drew a direct sort of honesty from the sea-weathered creature and he smirked at Gale’s admonishment that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, "I’m very careful with my appointments. I know for a fact that you’re not expecting anyone else today. Even if you were, trust me when I say you’re not any more."

The flatness of his tone revealed the extent of his reach even here, this far from his imaginary Kingdom run my Silas Hawke. He’d come alone but that didn’t mean he’d worked alone to carefully orchestrate this moment. Sure, he couldn’t stop someone from walking in and surprising them, but he could deal with the situation should it arise.

"Hypothetically, let's say I made pans and I decided to go and find a maker of, say pots. If I found one and decided to buy a few, would I resell the pots I end up not needing or would I keep those pots for someone under my employ who may make use of them? Is this the question you’re asking an old fox whose seen too many hen houses? Hmm? That depends on how good the pots are, doesn't it?" He was chuckling now, but in a surprising move, he was also slipping off his coat, the heat of the forge reaching beneath his clothes and caressing his sun kissed, tattooed skin. He tossed the expensive finery onto the counter as if it was worthless and reached for his weapon without hesitance, setting it between himself and the human as if he was answering the question.

"You're amusing—in all the right ways so far—I'll give you that. I’ll steal any chickens that strike my fancy, but you know my business’ name now. You can look up my production list in your spare time. I’m not here to talk metals or alloys or appropriateness. I'm never clocking appropriate. Get used to it."

It it was a double-barreled pistol. Flintlock and at least a decade old. Worn and well-loved, the barrels were longer than usual, carefully bored but lacking any evidence of a sight. He didn’t need one, he was known to brag, for even if he didn’t hit where he wanted to, he knew he was leaving damage in his wake. He didn’t miss often. Not often without intention, anyway.

It was loaded right there on the counter and the blond galdor didn't seem concerned in the least.

He grinned at Gale’s admission that this family business had been just that—young human's father hadn’t only run the forge, but if he read the blond’s tone of voice correctly, the man had taught them gun-smithing as well. Had Corwynn ever desired an heir, had he ever considered passing on his family name to some offspring of his own, what would he have taught them? Would he pass on what he'd taught himself? What his father had encouraged?

"I've clocking worked harder than my peers, not that it means anything to you as a human, of course. I've paid my own dues in sweat ... and blood." His less whole hand came to rest on his weapon and his crystalline blue eyes were full of mischief.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Tue Oct 16, 2018 7:58 am

saunders' forge | early afternoon
2 YARIS 2718
“Glad I can be entertaining for you. But understand, why should I talk to a man who speaks of lists when he himself cannot answer a question posed from one craftsman to another?” Peacocking was the word Gale was looking for. It was a display, each refusing to truly give in to the other. Gale, young and stubborn – him…? She was not too sure in honesty, but she was not about to let him parade about in here as if he owned the place. No one owned Gale, and the very notion rebuked her efforts. Even as he laid down his heavy threats, the steel face of the smith settled into one of neutrality.

Besides, if he was a capable craftsman or worker of metals he would be able to answer the question. And that was before they even got to the level of knowing and understanding. It was an exercise of weighing up his intellect and deciding on how technical the language was going to get.

“Then you would understand why the farmer starts putting out fencing, or looks to securing what is theirs – It is their investment after all, and within their right on whether or not they wish to share. Of course, the right incentive goes a long way for a craftsman to give up their secrets,” Gale shrugged, “And rightly, I do know your name.” The eyes slid down, past the exposed skin and knuckles and to the fifth and final sample, “Wynngate Blue Tool Steel. Surprised you didn’t recognise your own brand.”

Inevitably, he seemingly gave in first. The double-barrelled monster was place between them, the gunsmith giving it a quick cursory glance. The frizzen was worn, small dimples left on its surface from years of weathering; the flashpan had the thinnest smudge of black upon it; the jaw screw on the hammer did not seem to be the original – but those were easily lost through mishaps and accidents.

“So. Now we are done showing off each other’s feathers-,” they paused then, head tilting to look upon the firearm at a different angle, “I think you have a crack formin'. Anyway,” to Gale it was not important. It was the careful navigating around the current conversation that was. Reaching into their pocket, the gunsmith pulled out their tin of cigarettes; but instead of choosing to ignite one they placed a small bundle of matches down between them. The hands withdrew, catching that look within his eyes before at last speaking.

“Are you familiar with the properties of matches? Who am I kidding, of course you are,” She picked one of them up, turning it over in the digits. A quick drag along the counter top ignited it, “Strike any surface and they ignite, some burn longer, others not so much. Regardless they work due to friction and the chemicals in them that, well, react.” The hand shook the match out before it reached the tips. Another was taken up then, a small knife plucked up from one of the shelves and before with more care, the smith shaved the dark skin around the match head away – leaving a powdered residue on the surface. A digit dabbed it up, the thin powder being shown to the Galdori, “Even when ground it still displays the same properties.”

Gale winced as she clicked her finger, the quick burn short and instantaneous. Digits left pink, they shook away the pain, “Any quick movement across ignites it. This we both accept as fact. Now,” she took up two of the samples, placing it to one side. There a few more match heads were stripped, carefully powdered and nudged into a pile on top of one. The second sample was placed over that, effectively sandwiching the powder between the two metals, “So, if I asked you to ignite the powder, how would you do it? What would you do?”

There was a deliberate, long pause, allowing him to speak. In the meanwhile a hammer was found. Once done speaking, she offered it to him, “Hit it. Hard and fast. I’m being serious.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Corwynn
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Race: Galdor
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: The Taxman
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Tue Oct 16, 2018 12:25 pm

2nd of Yaris, 2718
SAUNDER’S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
"Aren't you a clever, petulant beast?" The older galdor laughed, utterly unashamed as the young thing subtly attempted to call his bluff. And he let them. He leaned his elbows on the counter, cuffs hiking further up his wrists, well-aged tattoos visible as he set his stubbled chin onto the fingers he entwined together. His sharp blue gaze drifted upward and the troublesome galdor all but purred, "I haven't ever dealt with the manufacturing side of the business that bears my family name, nor do I give a shit what we make here in the Soot District so long as it's of quality and keeps my financial affairs in order while I do my King's bidding in Old Rose Harbor. My father once set to ruin us all and I won't be repeating his clocking mistake in the same fashion. Now, your position demands that you worry about such things. My well-crafted illusion of privilege does not."

He shrugged then, smug and self-aware, the weight of his field seemingly heavier as if in emphasis of his admission. Did he entirely give a fuck about the power he wielded as a galdor? No. It was small change in comparison to the power he wielded as the left hand of Silas Hawke. He'd shared quite a bit of information with the young human who could have taken it all and sullied his name to the Seventen, who could have his factory overturned and his records seized, who could come for him even in the Rose to drag him to trial and to prison. But the blond in front of him had given just enough of themselves away, and he'd made it clear he knew just enough outside of this moment about their connections, to make such a choice one equally dangerous for Gale and for those the blond called their compatriots,

"I have an eye for detail and I enjoy taking things apart, piece by piece. My craft isn't metal smithing. It's gun smithing, thank y—"

Leaning to one side to rest his cheek against a weathered palm, he let his other hand point to where the crack was when the young creature brought it up so pointedly, "—oh, that. I'm sentimental, I suppose. I'm not ready to let this one go yet, though I'm quite aware of the risks." He hummed, so comfortably casual in the moment as if his friendliness could at all disguise the predatory nature of his existence. He was the fox, that much was undeniably true, and he rather enjoyed how the human seemed bent on pointing out his flaws, on how the blond was desperate to make him less than with every word. It didn't ruffle his pretty feathers one bit, and instead he may have even devoured how much Gale's choice of demeanor revealed about them without a single syllable, so delicious was all that was left unspoken between them.

He was observing. He was gathering the details he wanted. He knew exactly what he was doing, willingly putting himself at risk by disarming himself in front of a stranger in their place of business as if he hadn't a care in the world should it all unravel with explosive force in his face.

The Bad Brother arched a slim brow at the demonstration that unfolded between them, reminded in the obvious display that the blond was a mere human, though it was not with the typical superiority his kind was known for. Humanity in their magic-less need had invented the firearm. Humanity in their lacking had mixed gunpowder. Humanity in their desperation had turned fire against their conceited oppressors despite the knowledge that galdorkind could manipulate the flames at will.

Corwynn smirked.

"You clocking well know how I would do it. I'm a jent, after all." He slid away from leaning and stood again to his full, unimpressive height. Average for even his own kind, the older gunman was a spry thing, and he gathered his field as if to breathe a few phrases of Monite and demonstrate what he was capable of without a weapon. Instead, however, he ran his less whole hand over his face, lingering over his stubbled chin, and took the hammer Gale offered in his whole, now-dominant hand, crystalline gaze taking in what was between them with a studiousness that revealed honest interest.

He had never been a good student in his Brunnhold days—chasing gratification and finding trouble—but that didn't mean he possessed a mind incapable of academic thought. His learning style was simply unconventional, needing to have his hands in it all, needing to be in motion instead of still at a desk. He developed his relationship with the mona outside of his education. He learned to fly airships without formal training. He taught himself gun craft where there were no textbooks and no apprenticeships. He taught himself politics. He learned how to deal with people under Hawke's direction. His was a self-made education, but that didn't mean it was at all complete. Nor would it ever be.

His sharp blue gaze flicked downward for a moment to gauge the position of his hand and the hammer, looking up again at the instructions. Vaguely aware of the results of this experiment should he do what was asked properly, Corwynn shifted his body in a defensive sort of way. Raising his arm with no small amount of curiosity, always one to take pleasure in risk and danger where others did not, he brought everything together with one quick, forceful strike, far stronger than his magical heritage generally produced after years at sea and in the air.
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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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Tue Oct 16, 2018 3:59 pm

saunders' forge | early afternoon
2 YARIS 2718
"At least you are aware," they shrugged. Gale did not like this one bit. Or more correctly it was beginning to grind against her. Playing a begrudging service to someone who now knew way too much as far as she was concerned. It made her skin crawl, despite locking the thoughts behind a cold mask. It was an unnecessary danger she would have much rather avoided in hindsight, listening to the overly bragging tone of the Galdori. In one form or another they were normally like this - and it made her cringe. Bemused, she frowned.

"Oes, and a toft vroo to boot," she hummed. She tested the Tek upon her tongue before shrugging. Whether or not he actually understood was another thing, but right now that did not matter. Instead it was a little more than a show of what she had learned, the lecture ringing all too clear in her ears. There was no move away as the hammer came back, the expression cooled as the hammer came swinging back. She had performed similar experiments so many times that now it stopped the smith from jumping.

The metal rang, the striking clang drowning out the majority of the other sound. There was no smoke however, perhaps the faint scent of something having been burned - but nothing more. Shooing the hammer away, she lifted the upper metal plate and promptly flipped it over. The inside showed the burned remains, the once powdered content having rapidly ignited and burned out.

"As seen, content also burns when suddenly struck by a quick and powerful enough force. A percussion based hit will ignite it," her gaze lowered. She was not really sure how to explain things, or for that matter how much more she should explain. Even with the looks that began to show active interest, her brow frowned. This was her invention, a thing she had made - and she imagined the Galdori was going to snap it up and steal it, no doubt branding it as his own. Swallowing, she gestured to the pistol that sat between them, "So, how could you use this?"

A finger pointed to ignition system, "You would remove the frizzen and pan, closing up the powder chamber and having a small nipple or the like positioned over where the powder would once be. From there down into it would be a small tube into the barrel proper. The usual flintlock hammer would remain, Minus the flint and more hammer. It'd strike the nibble carrying this material."

"The spark would travel down the small tube, hit the main charge and..." she shrugged, "You know the rest." Clearing her throat, she continued with the point at hand, "You'd need to have it in a capsule in some way, to ensure it doesn't get mixed or clogged in. Premature mixing will result in failure." A small frown, she rested her knuckles against the counter, "But that's the development of us kids. It's working out the next step, how to evolve from there."

She trailed off, gaze turning to the long barrels. They were broader than what she would usually work with - which in turn raised its own questions. The first was what material he used for the barrel - what did he understand about metals in his gunsmithing?

"Broad barrel, reduction in accuracy yet..." She scratched her head, "A broad spread? More designed for a large blast than a smaller one? So lots of smaller shots loaded into one barrel? I mean, interesting if it is the case."

What did he want? Did it matter? He was getting all the information, everything necessary - his status and position had little care to her. What mattered more was protecting the little she did have, the ideals that she have to cut herself on for a future. It was perhaps with all the thoughts that the smith had not realised they had grown too quiet, the internal mind caught tightly in a loop. Pinching the brow, the smith leaned away to lean against the forge wall. A slow, cautious survey, expressions briefly shifting.

People were exhausting, and only now was it beginning to place a toll upon Gale - the social pressure to stay one step ahead, yet not fall into a state of simply being passive. It was energy draining, sapping at strength and focus. And Corwynn with his directness while satisfying at first was beginning to grate. The pinching turned into a firm grinding of the forehead beneath her palm. What was she to do with a man whom - on the surface at least - thought he was the best thing in the world, where she held little to no care of his existence. There was no common ground beyond their shared taboo, something that was growing increasingly obvious.

Gale yawned.

"So, that's that. Or at least where I'm at. Questions?"
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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