[Closed] Fire power

[7 Yaris 2718] Gunner prepares and delivers a gun

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
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Gale
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Thu Oct 11, 2018 6:41 am

the meeting point | evening
7 YARIS 2718
Every now and again words would trickle down through grapevine. They would seep through the tiny little cracks, seemingly unimportant phrases that would tickle her ears. Ones that would raise a small curious eyebrow to those in the know. So, when a small child came to Saunders’ Forge requesting a skillet like Ma’s good friend Rebecca had the head of Gale was replaced with that of Gunner. How soon was the immediate question; the answer was within the next few days. The smith took the task and shooing the child away, they got to work.

The next day an older more familiar place came by, more information provided to build up a better mental image of the situation. The client was from out of town, male, non-resistance. No names given, which was probably for the best. He was not however, part of the normal sphere of influence. The location for delivery was somewhere in the loading end of the district. Meet at the alley corner and go from there. Another raise of a curious eyebrow, but Gale never the less still worked upon the project.

Gunner had taken some of the ideas of the Liberator and applied them to this next piece. Having it disassemble for one was always a favourable boon for users – it meant cleaning was considerably easier. The barrel and handle as such could be removed with a turn of a few screws. The second point was the use of percussion caps, the few test sessions that had been done proved their effectiveness – even when in somewhat damper conditions where the flintlock failed. Additionally, they were proving easier to make than she first thought – she could forge all them cold with a hammer, a premade metal ring with a ten millimetre diameter and a small iron bar barely eight millimetres across. All that was needed then was appropriately thin copper sheeting.

By the time it came about for the meeting, the pieces were made and the final touches were taking place before the assembly. The smith closed up in the evening, toolbox hooked under one arm - quieter than normal due to the cloak and mask stuffed within. Gloves creaked around the hands, the forge securely locked up. At the base of the back and behind the coat the Liberator was nestled, something comforting with the cool that pressed against their spine. Head down, they met at the alleyway before being guided into the twisting tunnels of the undercity.

The mask was donned, the cloak brought up around the form. It was the half-life, a masked ghost that traversed the tunnels, exchanged and changed by guides. Beneath it all a sense of time was lost, melding into a single stretch of time. It was all important, all necessary – to keep everyone safe. If the Seventen found out what she was capable of they would not rest. The biggest risk of them all, and so the gunsmith lived a half-life, a false life of being a simply humble creature beneath the boot of their current superiors.

It was the price for freedom.

Upper a ladder now, the next set of hands claimed them and guided them on. The whistle pitched noises of factories and labourers, the industrial machineries that went on through the night. The soot district never truly slept. Workers always worked, and rulers always ruled – as was their right. Another turn, it was in through a narrow door now and into a low lit room. Oil lanterns, a soft glow, through to another room until at last the meeting spot was reached. There was one other in the room – Dancer, able to read the sign language performed as Gunner – a table, a pair of chairs, and a tall, metal barrel. The fact that it seemed to be filled with sand and had a target painted on it did not miss their attention. Another was the notably thick walls, the humdrum of loud machinery being drowned out.

Pulling one of the chairs round to the other side, the toolbox was placed onto the table, form leaning back into the chair. A hand signed at the other Cadet, “Evening Dancer.”
He smiled, signing back, “Evening Gunner. Exciting is it not?”
“It is interesting. Do we have a name?” There was a long pause, before a shake of the head. The hollow eyes of the mask fixed onto him, before an exaggerated shrug escaped the cloak, “Never mind. We shall call him Client.”
There was a knock on the door, but Gunner chose not to react to it. They saw Dancer sign at them, “Someone is at the door. Shall I get it?”

The Gunsmith nodded, silently adding, “Let us get to work.”
word count: 793
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
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Tristaanian Greymoore
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Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
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Location: Vienda for a Hot Minute
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: I'm just here for the Sho.
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Mon Oct 15, 2018 4:21 pm

7th of Yaris, 2718
THE MEETING POINT | EVENING
It had been quite a challenge to slip away alone from the Circus, and it was with no small amount of trepidation and self-loathing that Tristaan had made the risky decision of traveling alone into the Soot District. He'd asked around in his own way among the tekaa and the marketplaces, having been in the Harbor so long that he knew the words to coax the kind of information he needed, to get the ball rolling on procuring something he once had stolen—a firearm.

He'd left his where his dead body should have been, there on the streets of the Rose next to his smeared blood on the cobblestones. The trusty old pistol he'd stolen from just outside of Vienda all those years ago. The longer the Circus hovered outside of the capitol, the more uneasy he felt, the more he missed knowing he had protection against vroo-wielding bastards of any kind, wick or golly, within reach. He had two lives to look out for, now, not just his own, and Tristaan couldn't be everywhere at once.

So he'd convinced himself to purchase another firearm, knowing full well the risks of searching for one.

Knowing full well the risks of heading into town alone.

He'd dressed like any other tekaa today, short-sleeved linen shirt half-unbuttoned as if to ventilate the oppressive Yaris heat that already came crashing into the dry season, tucked into his dark pants and knee-high boots. Vest open, pocket watch tucked neatly into one pocket as if it even was able to tell time. The beautiful bright ink of his red crow and yellow eye tattoo stood out on his well-muscled left bicep, a brilliant diversion to the passive tattoo that wasn't entirely hidden from view beneath the cuff of his sleeve. Dark hair pulled up into a topknot and weeks-old scruff hiding his aristocratic features from all but the most studious of gazes, Tristaan was just another wick to the Seventen at the gate, to the strangers on the streets, blending in and disappearing, unassuming and lean.

The sun was setting and he knew where he was going. As the Dives gave way to the Soot District, the dark of dusk settled in. The place looked the same. Smelled the same. Felt the same. The magic-less son of a galdor felt the smog and the dirt settle into his soul, digging into old scars and rubbing against the wounds deep in his mind that still refused to heal.

He knew where he was going.

His feet took him there before he could stop himself, narrow alleys and charred buildings leading him toward the Onthian Textile Mill. The lights were on. The machines were humming. His pulse was thrumming as he peered through the fence and the murky windows. Children were in there, children just like he'd been. Working and sweating and bleeding and dying. Grey eyes stung for a moment and he felt his heart attempt to beat its way out of his narrow, scarred chest as he stood just a street away from where he'd grown up. He'd been nothing when he'd been dragged off the streets, starving and forgotten. He'd been nothing when he worked there, just another body running the textile machines, just another scrap with no future. He'd had friends there. Watched them die.

Was anyone left? If he was only twenty four, then surely, he wasn't the only one still alive.

He stood there longer than he should have, a rage filling his lungs like fire and searing his very conscience. He'd sworn to himself he'd never, ever, come back here. There was nothing for him here. There was everything for him back in that kint where Sarinah held within her body something they'd made together.

Something he'd do anything—anything—to protect.

His aquiline features hardened, jaw clenching, as Tristaan lingered, aware of the time that passed but unable to look away for a few moments longer. All of this was who he'd once been, but none of this was who he'd become.

He exhaled through grit teeth and told himself that again.

He wasn't defined by the mark on his arm any more than he was defined by his horrible past experiences of servitude.

He was free. He was tekaa.

He was a passive.

He was nothing.

But he'd been given everything he'd ever wanted and more. His life was no longer his own to live as he pleased—or die whenever he wanted—but instead his life belonged to a lovely olive-skinned witch, belonged to a child whose face he'd see in Ophus whether he was ready to or not. He'd been other peoples' property before, but this was different and he knew it. In order to become this new man, however, he wasn't willing to continue to pretend that there was peace around the corner when he knew there wasn't. If the wilderness wasn't dangerous, if the cities weren't dangerous, the Bad Brothers were. They were still in debt. Some day, someone would come to collect and it wouldn't be without a fight.

Tristaan was never without a fight.

Lithely muscled shoulders sagged and he finally tore his gaze away from the buildings that were as familiar as they'd been horrifying, turning and disappearing down more side streets, weaving his way through the filthy maze of alleys and narrow thoroughfares, slipping his narrow frame through the crowds.

The dark-haired passive was vaguely aware the contacts he'd gotten a hold of were probably Resistance members or at least fringe members of some splintered cell. He had money. He didn't care. So long as everything remained anonymous and no one asked philosophical questions, the dark-haired passive didn't have to tell them how he didn't believe in their cause, how he felt they were just as misguided as the galdori they claimed to oppose. He just wanted the gun. He just wanted the firepower against the Bad Brothers, against the world he felt was so hellbent on harming what he had claimed as his own.

He had an address and he barely found it, calloused fingers running over the karambit hidden in his belt and over the colorful hand-woven sash at his waist that covered it. He inhaled soot and suffering, scarred knuckles rapping on the door twice, quick and hard, before he attempted to relax against the alley wall, waiting with thinly veiled patience.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 1152
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Gale
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Tue Oct 16, 2018 6:21 am

the meeting point | evening
7 YARIS 2718
The door was opened, the worn, tired shape of a man welcomed in. Behind the mask Gunner studied him, eyes pulled into narrows behind those dark sockets. The fingers had moved up into steeples, jaw forward as they regarded the stranger. Beneath the layer of dark steel the expression twisted, able to do so without giving too much away. What was he? Tanned, tattooed, no overly oppressive field – human? No, he was something else. There was something off about him, and it was that something in return made Gunner uneasy. It was close, a single word on the tip of their tongue – but that did not matter when there was business to be had.

Inside secure once more, the gunsmith went to work.

A gloved hand gestured for him to take the chair opposite, before the hands began to slowly sign. Almost as if taking his cue, Dancer – a short and scrawny man - began to translate, “Gunner welcome you and invites you to be comfortable for the duration of the work. The piece is in its final stages and may take some time.”

The toolbox was opened then, a collection of pieces neatly pulled out and tools neatly lined up alongside. The last pieces needed to finish the firearm. To begin with the smith moved to attaching the main body of the grip to the rest of the frame, a squeak of noise as a u-shaped structure – smaller than Liberators - was affixed into place. A few testing pulls of the trigger, the pieces carefully being lined up as the ratchet and pawl caught. Towards the back the fingers pinched and secured the hammer, screwdriver carefully tightening it before lowering. Pulling the hammer back, the dark hollows watched the ratchet rotate round, held in place. A squeeze of the trigger sent the tiny hammer forward with a loud click.

Satisfied, the gunsmith lowered the in progress firearm to study the reaction of the client. It was spun round, held in gesture for them to take the end and obtain a feel for it. The hands meanwhile moved, the voice of Dancer speaking out, “How does it feel in your hand? Is the grip comfortable enough for your liking? Not too small? Not too big? Whatever- I can’t say that.”
The masked head of Gunner swiveled to Dancer, the long hum of machinery in the background filling the silence. Sighing, the hand gestured to the Cadet and then to the door. It was hard not to miss the screwing up of his face, that momentary flicker of dejection, “Very well, as you wish.”

The cadet left, the door clunking shut behind them.

Gunner was still for a moment, hands brought together to halt the animation that would have taken them. Yet slowly, a small hiss from behind the mask sounded out, muffled by the grill but otherwise still audible.

“As I was saying,” the gunsmith began, words slow and measured – the eyes did not move from the lips of the one opposite them, “Whatever you have planned for it, is your business to be had. But understanding the nature of how you wish to use it is important to know. Preferences can be refined should you choose to raise them.” The hands turned upwards, an exaggerated shrug, “Perhaps an alternative question – what game are you hunting? How fast do you need to be?” A shaft of steel was placed between them then. The hand gestured for the return of the frame, before laying it down next to the shaft. Presented next to it was a barrel, the screwing thread notable at the end of it. Finally a cylinder, six chambers drilled through with a central shaft. In all it, when assembled, was considerably shorter than the Liberator, barely nine inches in length due to the removal of the excess metal in the name of weight and being transportable. It otherwise followed the same process Gale had used before.

A small tin of percussion caps, powder and shot was then placed next to it – the eyes locking on expectantly, the voice filling the space between, “It is a rotary piece, revolving if you will, built around a single barrel but featuring multiple chambers. Each carry a primer and each do not require flint. As such, there is the wet weather advantage. Any current questions?”
word count: 729
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
User avatar
Tristaanian Greymoore
Posts: 107
Joined: Wed Mar 28, 2018 7:02 pm
Topics: 12
Location: Vienda for a Hot Minute
Race: Passive
: I'm just here for the Sho.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Thu Oct 18, 2018 9:59 am

7th of Yaris, 2718
THE MEETING POINT | EVENING
Wicks occasionally produced non-magical offspring, called them parses, and treated them just like any other wick would treat one of their own kind. Galdori occasionally produced non-magical offspring, called them passives, and turned them into servants to treat them like garbage. Tristaan dressed like a wick. He spoke like a wick. He lived like a wick. But he was shorter than most wicks, possessing a lithe, narrow frame of almost pure muscle and scar tissue. His facial features when not hidden behind several days' worth of scruff were aristocratic and fair.

He was more often than not mistaken for a wick, but those who spent enough time around the passive always doubted that truth eventually.

The door opened and his grey eyes took in what was offered him, tensing for a moment at the realization that he had to enter a room alone with strangers. He was armed, and memories of his own diablerie reminded him that he was dangerous in more than just the way he knew how to fight with his own two hands. It was with an uneasy glance around the alley that he agreed to enter the building and sit in the chair indicated, already feeling the chill of regret crawl its way up his spine. Was protecting his family worth this sort of trouble?

Oes.

His grey gaze took in the scrawny creature and the person in the mask, and while he managed to keep a rather casual expression on his aquiline features, especially once he settled in his chair and leaned one arm over the back, he was aware of the elevation of his pulse and the flutter of a concerned heartbeat in the scarred cavity of his chest. He watched the skilled work of the masked person, suddenly aware that he'd never seen a weapon like they were crafting before in his life,

"Listen, th' last gun I had, I stole from a shipment o' weapons an' drugs from under th' nose o' Silas Hawke himself. It served me well, it did, an' I left it with a smear o' m' own blood in th' Harbor when I was dragged out 'f it. I ent got any fancy notions o' what I'm lookin' for so long as 't clockin' works an' drops luggers when I need it to. Ye chen?"

Tristaan swallowed hard, far from ashamed of his admission, and leaned to let his calloused hands take the finely crafted gun as it was handed to him. He took his time with it, obviously not a stranger to weapons or combat in general, given the thick scars on his knuckles and the obvious lean muscle his arms were made of, wiry things disappearing beneath his sleeves. The tattoo on his left bicep was bright and still only a few months fresh, the entwined symbols of his tribe and Sarinah's less a political statement than a personal one, a declaration of his love for a woman who saw past everything he considered glaringly obvious to see the man beneath the garbage. The passive tattoo wasn't hidden. It was there in plain view, cleverly tucked against the beak of the red crow.

"I have a fami t' protect, an' these are fightin' times for us lower races. I ent jus' got th' gollies t' worry 'bout neither, but th' Bad Brothers didn't take kindly t' me leavin'. That's a story y' ent gotta know, eh? Most times, I jus' wanna leave well enough alone, but I know times 're changin' an' I can't do that forever. I ent daft, but I've got a rosh an' a child—" He paused, grey eyes losing focus as if saying those words out loud were new, tasted different. The world he was bringing life into wasn't entirely to his liking. This Kingdom wouldn't welcome a new wick any more than it would welcome the knowledge that a passive had reproduced at all,

"—we're jus' here for this business, no' m' life story. My game? Vrunta. I ent huntin', I'm defendin'. I can hold m' own in a fight, but sometimes it's nice t' up m' chances b'fore they're up in m' face, if y' get what I mean."

The dark-haired passive smirked, clearly appreciative of the workmanship he couldn't even pretend to understand. He lingered where the chamber was, but he handed it back when the masked person asked, curious about their voice and listening carefully to each inflection. All three of them in the room were without fields, the space around them comfortably devoid of the mona who had abandoned him at birth. Human, probably, the both of them. They had their own struggles, and more often than not Tristaan had found himself just as marginalized by their race for being born of galdori parents than he was by his own kind for being born without access to magic.

But he was a forgiving sort and held no grudges, especially not of strangers who made him firearms for whatever price he was willing to pay.

"I'm fast. I want what I'm shootin' t' be faster. This—this fires more than once? I ent ever used anythin' but a flintlock. What's different?"

Wet weather advantage. Gods, how he could have used that all those months ago. A calloused hand rubbed absently at his chest at the memory of crushed ribs and slow suffocation, of his diablerie and the Deep Water healer who brought him back from the brink of death.
A wounded chrove will fight harder.
Passive Proverb
word count: 972
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