SAUNDER'S FORGE | EARLY AFTERNOON
"Toft, eh? Probably a little. Boemo." The Bad Brother all but snorted, crystalline blue gaze coming into focus on the metal sheet placed on top of the powder. He didn't brace himself or even jump at the force of his blow or what followed, obviously curious and engaged by whatever was happening. If he was perhaps also amused by a human giving him science lessons, well, he kept his pretty mouth clocking shut. Just this once.
Why was this other gunsmith sharing?
Corwynn studied her and her explanations, his smile fading into something much more serious—the closest expression to genuine interest he ever could wear—and he followed where she pointed. It was obvious he thought through her words, the steam-powered gears in his mind churning while he processed discoveries and refined them into fine, mechanical details, filing them into references for future experimentation in the privacy of his own workshop later.
"Capsulated. A self-contained, improved bullet instead of just a metal shot. Came up with this all by yourself, did you?" The calloused thumb of his less-whole, four fingered hand rubbed his nose with his words, which sounded far more smug and conceited than he meant them to, but the motion made it obvious that he'd once been right handed, that his trigger finger was missing for a very good reason, "The ingenuity of those who work in secret never ceases to amaze me. Were we all so inclined to sweat for freedom in the same way, where could this clocking Kingdom be? I'd tell you to patent that shit, but, well, those aren't the times we live in, are they?"
His chrove-toothed grin again, though it was almost apologetic. Would he change things if he could? Did he give two shits if everyone was equal and free? No, not so long as the coins and drugs flowed along the Vein and the underworld flourished under whatever clocking government three very different species could ever come up with had they the balls and the brains to ever work together. Fat clocking chance, that, and he knew his views different from his King's, Hawke staunchly against the Resistance and their government-toppling, economy-threatening ideals.
Gale was examining his weapon, the finely crafted steel alloy of his barrels carefully bored, possibly more by magic than simply manmade tools. He smirked at her assessment, "Perhaps I like to tone myself down—my accuracy—for the sake of my prey." He liked the chase, and his words revealed he enjoyed the suffering, too. His boast implied he was too good of a shot for his own preferences, and so he challenged himself with new designs and different options, "Birdshot. Shrapnel, really. A bunch of smaller projectiles fired at once from a short distance. Clocking painful, that, but if you're looking to change a tune? I'm a taxman, my young friend, and those that survive refusing to pay what they owe find it hard to forget the task of picking little pieces out of their flesh. I promise."
Sure, it could be fatal too, sometimes, especially when aimed at the face or the gut, but more often than not? He wasn't murdering. He was maiming. He was committing to memory his purpose in the minds of his targets.
Aware of what kind of monstrosity that made his small-framed, freckled, magical self, his salt-smoothed smile softened and he rolled his broad, well-muscled shoulders that strained the tailored lines of his suit coat,
"I wanted to see where my peers were at in this arms race, that's all—" Corwynn breathed as if he was keeping up with Viendan fashion or catching up on inter-kingdom politics, reaching for his gun and taking a moment to peer more carefully at the hairline cracks. His field seemed to coalesce into something even more tangible as if he gathered it for a spell, and he breathed a few words of Monite that appeared to do nothing, the Quantitative spell only filling his thoughts with calculations instead of making anything visibly happen. He scowled, tucking the weapon away against his ribs and under his coat,
"—if we're going to casually talk some more shop, sure, I'll pick your impressive brain. Maybe you've decided I don't have much to clocking contribute to where you're going, but feel free to do the same. I bet you can't answer this, but how much of that is in distribution?" The Bad Brother cleared his throat and leaned his palms on the worktable surface, remaining index finger tracing restlessly over divots and grooves, "Have you experimented with anything else inside these ... capsules?"