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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
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Joined: Thu Jul 19, 2018 6:07 am
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: Artful Gunner
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Tue Jun 11, 2019 11:01 am

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Saunders Forge | 11th Hour
17 HAMIS 2719
The rain was coming down again, sloshing down the street and rushing into the canal. Beneath the waters swelled, ever gradually rising. To say the smith was suspicious was an understatement, ever eying the few puddles that existed beyond the threshold of the forge. Their lip gave a twitch, gaze lowering to the foot high wooden planks they had installed at the bottom of the doors, before returning to their work.

The smith was out the back of the forge quietly working beneath the overhang. The heat of the coals caused the air to grow humid, but to the smith that did not matter – they were attempting to concentrate on what they understood. The carcass of the large defunct engine was still in the yard, the half scrawled drawings across the walls of the thoughts that rattled through their mind. The engine had been sawn in half, the inners exposing the piston, the intake, the outtake and the cylinder. From there the numerous moving parts had been removed, other parts filled in with wax, the mind following the motions and reducing the strokes.

These thought were what currently urged them forwards. They had made a rough size of the pieces they needed out of wood, largely shrinking down the initial size and comparing it to the bicycle on one of the work benches. With it a glass bottle with some tubing was lashed beneath the handle bar; a temporary engine that served more as a replication than anything else. Coiling the tubing around the frame, they stretched it over the wooden mouth of the mock engine.

The hammer struck against the steel, the pliers carefully rotating it in place. They went for mild steel, choosing to go for a cylinder shape for the core of it. A circle was deliberately shaped into the side of it, the bottom sealed while the top was lacking any closure. The small hammer continued to strike the sides, working it into shape before oil quenching it. They shook the drips from it, carefully placing it on the side.

Replicating was one thing, and this was all it was really. Understanding it properly was another matter altogether. Finger drumming, they lazily turned the back wheel of the bicycle. How did it all fit together, would it even work? Least in principle. They left a smear of grease across their chin as they regarded the forge – they needed to understand more. The wheel squeaked, the finger tracing along to where the engine would sit and the crankshaft would rise up from it. How difficult would it be?

Outside the spray of rain continued, pattering against the cobble stone. It drowned out the sounds beyond, muting against the senses. Damp lingered in the air, the smith turning their attention back inwards. They had the time to practice their trade, the bad weather kept the curious away and served as a deterrent. But, they would come if they were desperate.

Gloved hand reaching forward, the scruffy smith pulled upon the bellows. Heat rushed against them, their eyes looking at the smouldering coals within. Their mind wandered briefly to Dorhaven, of the destruction there that looked to tar the name of the resistance. Serro would not let them go, they were too valuable, too needed for their understanding and skill set. Though the smith wondered if it was because they were perceived as a liability.

Or wanted to spare their mind from things that should not be seen.

A low hum escaped, the smith letting the tune ripple forth. Wordless the eyes looked up to the drawings; they needed to make a cap, then the shaft to fit. Then numerous other mechanical pieces. Part of them wondered why they had grown so obsessed with it; an element of pride or wanting to prove that human kind were able to match and equal the Galdori that suppressed them?

Or was it to be another year of no achievement? Just a reminder that their efforts felt in vain. The smith snorted at that, a small realisation that they were not getting any younger. They were to be the villains in the story of the nation and the temptation to embrace it was becoming very real. A dirty hand rubbed into their hair, nails scratching as they tried to shift the thought. They had an idea to explore and an empty day to do it with.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

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Rhys Valentin
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Thu Jun 20, 2019 1:38 pm

the Dives
the 11th hour on the 17th of Hamis, 2719
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Rhys Valentin had begun to grow comfortable living with his personal hatchers, hiding in the mists of his own mind, snapping jaws and bloodied talons. He'd strayed from the path. He'd broken his oaths. He'd moved on from the realms of carefully-wrought legal justice and into the miasma of personally-crafted vengeance. He wasn't sorry, not really, but what regrets he had haunted him quietly. Whispers of paranoia. Flutters of doubt. Ghostly aches of worry like the phantom pain in his ribs or in his arm late at night as if his body refused to entirely forget just how broken it had once been.

Still, he knew what he was doing.

He really fucking did.

And, in his typical open defiance of everything he should have been doing instead, he'd dressed himself down like just another tsat resident of the Dives he'd slowly settled into becoming when not in the crisp greens of his Seventen uniform, kissed his wife good night and told her not to wait up for him, and hefted the two carefully wrapped boxes by the door on his way out. One was small, wrapped in waxed paper and tied with a striped twine string. The other was larger, heavier, and reminded Rhys that he still had work to do when it came to physical recovery with twinge of nerves in his left arm while he made his way carefully down the stairs of his old home nestled so comfortably in the Painted Ladies.

It had come along nicely, the home they'd made for themselves in the Dives of all places—coins and honest work had made a huge difference in the once run-down rowhouse, breathing into it new life and filling it with more than just fresh paint and new upholstery, filling it with a little hope, too.

At least, that's what the young Valentin told himself in the dark when the house was quiet but the shadows restless, when nightmares kept him awake or when guilt gnawed at the marrow of his now-healed bones. He was making the right choices, surely, even if his methods were admittedly questionable given his level of familiarity with the law. He was not only protecting his family, but making a difference in Anaxas, one just decision at a time.

Without a spare hand for an umbrella, the tall blond gathered his field and spoke Monite instead, standing beneath his covered porch and asking the sentient particles that went unseen to form a small barrier between himself and the rain, just above his head, mostly over the packages. He didn't really care if he ended up soaked, but he did care if his presents were ruined. Keeping up his concentration, Rhys picked his way through familiar streets, sloshing through puddles and willingly making eye contact with strangers along the way with the hint of a friendly smile.

There was no reason to make enemies here, hiding among lower races when he was hardly a galdor himself, after all. Neighbors had become familiar and local businesses had begun to learn his name, though no one had bothered to press for details from the pair of apparent galdori living among them as though it was the most natural thing in all of Vienda to do. Not yet, anyway.

Rhys knew his way to Saunder's Forge, picking alleys with a bit of cover or side streets with awnings and better-maintained cobblestones over the flooded sections. The canal was high this time of year and many of the dams that held the Arova and her manmade tributaries here in the capitol at bay were most likely going to be stretched to their limits this Rainy Season.

By the time he arrived, he was a little soggy, sodden, and a little out of breath from exertion but his unusually heavy cargo was safe. He'd planned poorly, however, and Rhys stared at the door to the forge for a few moments with a bit of water seeping into his boots while he tried to decide how best to open it without setting his packages down. Instead, he released concentration on his magical shelter and leaned a hip against the door. It didn't budge, but a bit of noise caught his attention—

There was a moment of panic, the scars of worry for his sister's safety only faded, not entirely healed over. He'd seen too much to forget, really, both in their life and in his own. He swallowed it all like burning coals with a hiss, shaking his head to clear his thoughts and pausing to listen, ignoring the tension in his shoulders and the tickle of adrenaline in his veins.

Oh, thank gods, there was noise from out back, and with a grunt and a hiss, the not-galdor splashed his way around the side of the building. Huffing wet, unruly strands of too long hair from his face as he turned the corner, he made sure to announce himself with enthusiastic festiveness,

"Oi! City records have it in some dusty, obviously never disturbed file that a Gale Saunders was born twenty years ago on this day. I'm here to confirm for the Clerk of Records and then to officiate a celebration with at least one free beer. Well, probably several ... let's be honest here. Anyway, look, some ersehole left these fuckin' boxes out front, though, so I thought I should bring 'em in before they get ruined—"

He was grinning, not waiting for an invitation, shuffling his way under the cover of the forge's awning and into the warm glow of firelight without a second thought. Whatever he had with him weighed enough that when he set the larger box down with a grunt, he leaned away with an expression of physical gratitude, stretching and kneading fingers into tired muscles of his once-broken arm,

"—oh, c'mon, don't even look at me like that."

Rhys chuckled, aware that he wasn't a man for half-ersed birthdays, but his blue eyes narrowed in assessment of the other blond's current project as well as their current state of being. Chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment, he couldn't help himself, adding coyly, "Unless you've got something more important going on."
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Mon Jul 01, 2019 10:24 am

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Saunders Forge | 11th Hour
17 HAMIS 2719
Gale poked at the coals, back to the world as they worked. They were watching the steel begin to warp beneath the heat, the beginning formations of the cap. They knew the measurements, and could forge it to fit – but it was the start of a long arduous process. Tongs grasped and turned it, the hiss and growl of flames halting the pull of the bellows. Withdrawing they took up the hammer to begin shaping it, the loud clanging as hot metal was squeezed against the anvil.

Wood groan.

The ears twitched to it, the forge door, before they continued hammering. The wind, they told themselves; a poor attempt at finding reasoning. It did not stop the thoughts from delving into darker places however, ever aware of events long gone. It was a creeping paranoia that was Gale’s bed fellow most nights – and it would be a lie to say they did not sleep with one of the heavy forge hammers next to their bed. They stuck the piece back under the heat, ochre light flickering against their features as they studied it.

It needed to have shape – perfection could be reached later. Once the idea was tried and tested, once their understanding had reached a new level. If they were even able to comprehend such. Sweat congregated around their brow, fingers adjusting around the haft of the hammer. Was it worth it? Was any of it worth it?

For a moment those hot coals were gone, instead they were spewing smoke and rubble – the wheeze of the bellows were the dying gasps of men and women, choking upon the ash that fell. They felt it snake up around their throat, the burnt taste upon their lips, the heat that singed hair before it flashed away within a spark. Was it worth it?

Was it when they would merely find another way to ruin their name?

Find another way to stamp them down into the dirt?

Find another way to destroy them?

Should they stop trying?

They became still, motionless – seemingly unaware of the world to the observer. But they heard every sound. The difference of the rain against the glass to the dull patter against the canvas tarp. The wet soles that licked against stone. The drip of wet clothing, while water pooled outside. Beyond the distant hum of wind, the tremble and groan of material as it was pulled taught, then calmed. Gale heard his voice – though did not immediate register what he said -, the clunk of something heavy against the ground. A dull sound of a foreign object. Crackling embers. A different clunk this time. Their eyes adjusted, moving down to the hand that once held the hammer.

It had slipped from their grasp, landing upon the floor beside them.

The brow creased, pinching with the other features. The eyes darted away, down to the tongs, then to the still heating metal. What had they missed?

Rhys.

“I… uh…” the smith shook their head, caught off guard by the exuberance of the man. What had he said? “Oh. Boxes. Right. Just uh… leave ‘em there I’ll sort it out later. Thank ye.”

Rubbing their eyes, they became aware of the dark smear upon their fingertips – now across their face. Everything slumped inwards, senses sparking into life as awareness came again. Taking up the hammer, the smith placed it firmly upon the anvil. Across it, they could watch him with ease.

Duller clothing. Small fray on right sleeve. Third button down slightly loose. Shirt, neutral. Clothing, very wet. Hair, plastered – probably due to rain. Nursing arm still. In pain? Something worse. Breathing hard. Not used to weather? Was he the cause of the noise at the front-

“Sorry. Did you need somethin’?” came the question, “If it’s tools y’need then let me know what it is ‘nd I’ll get onto it over the next few days. Or was it the pipe leakin’ again? When the rain stops I’ll help ye sort it, alright?”

What was he so happy about? If it was happy – she saw that he was looking at the upside down bicycle and the contraptions attached to it. Walking round, the smith claimed a large dust cloth and without ceremony covered it.

“Nothin’ important. Just…” they shrugged, “Just nothin’.”

The lie felt sour on their tongue, a poison that dribbled down their throat and took root in their stomach. The shoulders rose, tensing inwards as they reclaimed the tongs. Poking at the coals, they turned their back to him. Why did everything suddenly seem so unnecessarily hard? Why were they so caught up upon things? The heat felt for a moment a little too intense, the embers just a little too bright, “What were you jabberin’ on about before? I didn’t catch it.”

Distracted was the best way to describe Gale. The nostrils twitched at the inhalation of coal smoke, the skin tingling as it felt soot and sweat mingle together. Outside a cart – or something with wheels – rattled on past, and the sound of rain was beginning to become too intrusive. Too persistent. Fingers and thumb rubbed against their forehead, a low, growling hum. They fished out the metal, a few testing taps with the hammer. Their teeth grinded, hairs rising before they slammed down both tools.

Pointless, all of it was.

You’ll never be enough. Stupid. Stupid.
Hush. Breathe. Think.
He's judging. Judging. All eyes. All watching.


A forced inhale, they averted their gaze to the floor, “Hang your coat up if your stayin’. You know where everythin’ is upstairs. Make yourself at home.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
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Tue Jul 16, 2019 2:27 pm

the Dives
the 11th hour on the 17th of Hamis, 2719

"Yeah, hello to you, too." Rhys grinned, hoping that the smith heard the gentle metallic noises of the large box when he set it down. Maybe. He was soaked, clothes heavy, but he waved his smaller second box tauntingly while Gale rubbed their eyes, leaving a smear of grease across their face,

"It's your—" He started, stopping as dismissal came.

"—I don't need—" He tried again, somewhere in the middle.

"—the house is fine, I just—" Blue eyes narrowed, but in that warm sort of way that precluded the edges of them creasing with his well-carved face into a broad smile.

"—godsdamnit." He was laughing, the young Valentin chuckling softly, shaking his head as rivulets ran down his neck and disappeared against the collar of his coat, "It's your birthday. I brought you a present. And some sweets. And I'm going to take you out for a beer. Or four."

The tall blond repeated himself without any hint of impatience, offering the smaller box one more time before setting it on top of the large one, "Walked all the way from the Painted Ladies with presents for you and you're telling me to go inside and hang my coat up." He toed the big box with a boot so it rattled, arching a slim, pale eyebrow with the kind of taunting expression he usually reserved for informants he'd just promised not to arrest for telling him what he wanted to hear,

"At least open some shit, would you? I lugged it here. You're going to enjoy it all, I think, brunno. I kind of want to see your face when you do."

Rhys huffed, rocking back on his heels and using both hands to curl fingers through his hair, which had grown too long, and to tie its strawberry blond mess back into the most humblest of tails against his neck. He shrugged off his coat, shaking off more water while he glanced around the outdoor section of the forge, attempting to see what had his sister so busy that they felt the need to cover it from his view,

"Nothin', huh? It's alright. I'm off duty and I don't even need to know." He shrugged back at the other blond, not ruffled by their secrecy, somewhat used to the gruff responses of the human after all that had passed between them. It was still difficult to contain some of his excitement, his somewhat giddy enthusiasm over celebrating birthdays one of those unusual personality quirks he couldn't explain but also did nothing to contain. His smile faltered a little, dampened more by concern that he'd interrupted something important than by the reception he received,

"Listen, I can leave this here and come back. I just—" Fingers curled into thick, wet fabric and he used his chin to point at the covered project before his blue eyes fell toward the small box of sweets and the larger box that held his surprise, "—I just thought—gods, I don't know—I guess I didn't think—I should've let you know I was coming, but I just meant it in fun."

Fun tasted sour.

It was an odd word to use with Gale, but the sentiment was genuine. They'd willingly gotten into trouble together, plotted violence, committed murder. They'd sought with him a justice he didn't fully yet understand, the smith seemingly full of a fire that burned far brighter than their forge for ideals he'd only caught scents of the smoke of, still blinded by the ashes of everything that had been already consumed at his feet.

He couldn't put it all behind him, either—Tolsby's twisted, bloodied face still haunted him and the knowledge that he wasn't even finished yet with the path he'd set himself on still whispered through his thoughts—but for a night he wanted an excuse to not think about it, to not be weighed down by it all, and to just attempt some mockery of a normal life. Birthday beers with his sibling seemed normal enough, didn't it?

Even some semblance of mundanity escaped him.

For fuck's sake.

"Honestly—beer, though? I suppose I'll have to take a raincheck, 'cause I'm not taking you out and paying your tab when you're a mess." He might have winked. He might have just had rainwater dribble into his eye. It was hard to tell which, and yet the cautious grin he wore couldn't hide any of his genuine intentions.
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Gale
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: Artful Gunner
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Wed Jul 17, 2019 8:47 am

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Saunders Forge | 11th Hour
17 HAMIS 2719
Rhys was smiling too much. Or at least with a high level of suspicion. A small part of Gale writhed to it, feeling the scrutiny falling upon their shoulders. Their thumb ran over the shaft of the hammer, brow ceased as they tried to internally wrestle with what was before them. The rain was louder now, an almost hum that clinked and clattered against the roof and echoed through the workshop. Dripping clothing, that drawing sound as it hit stonework. Nails scratched against the anvil, arm tensing and a forced inhale. The stray strands of hair floated before their vision, flicking and snatching their attention.

“Birthday?” Gale asked, voice slow as the word was questioned. Had another year come round so quickly? Had they lost track of time again? “Oh, oes, it is.”

Gale peeled themselves away from the anvil. Rubbing their eyes – and further spreading the dirty smear – they regarded him, the sodden mess, and the rattling box. It was a place where they were not quite sure where to tread, an unknown piece of territory that they were unsure on how to behave. Beckett Saunders never celebrated their birthday, if anything he had a tendency to grow quieter and colder around it. He bore the heavy weight of bitterness and resisting the lashing out of some unspoken blame.

It’s all your fault.

It was not, not really. Or was it? Gale struggled with the thought. Shoulders hunching, they found a rag and began to wipe some of the dirt from their digits. Rhys was right, the Smith was a mess. They could see the flecks of dirt beneath their nails, the organised disarray of the forge, “Well, yes, goin’ to tell you to hang your coat up. Yer fuckin’ drenched.”

“I mean, it is somethin’ but…” they managed a weak shrug, “It’s just stupid. That’s all. You would probably laugh at it.”

It is stupid. You are stupid. It will never work. Never.

“Sorry, this all caught me off guard,” they held their arms, hands cupping their elbows, the eyes looking at a space behind him, “S’not your fault. I’m not used to… well…” the hand gestured to him and the boxes, “this sort of thing. It is weird. Alien. Uh. Shit.” A finger rubbed at their ear, then their temple. Another grinding cart, clacking and rocking as it hurtled over the stones. A firm shake of the head, as the hum of the wheels yet again faded, “Sorry. I get you mean well.”

He was trying to be nice. Or something similar, an awkward shuffle closer, the eyes darted towards the covered bicycle, then down to the various gifts given. There was a moment of hesitation, fingers writhing, hairs rising as they expected some form of catch to reveal itself, “So, just this and beer, right? Mean, I’m used to a catch or somethin’. Guys who pay for things normally have a goal in mind. So, no tricks? Mean, beyond me scrubbin’.”

It was with caution that Gale tended to the first, smaller box. Taking it from him, it was turned a few times, inspected with precision and care,-

Box. Single. Small. Not too heavy. Small crimple in surface. Some water damage? No. Wax paper. Lightly warmed in forge. Hence tactile sensation.

- and raised an eyebrow at him. Fingers shifted, pausing upon the string as they contemplated tugging it. Their tone turned serious for a moment, a level of intensity that dripped in uncertainty, “I am supposed to open it, right? How carefully?”

The string was tugged a little more. Unravelling, the green eyes looked to the contents taking a moment longer to realise what they were – sweets – before looking back up towards him. Lips turned, twisted, before a hum escaped. What were they supposed to do now? What was the next step? Was this his attempt to cross some boundary between them? To work out what the exact nature of their relationship was? Or was it a matter of upbringing and difference of class – an exercise to highlight such.

No, surely not.

Gale placed the open present down on the work bench beside the tarp. What were they supposed to do now?

Say thank you.

“Mujo ma.”

An awkward attempt of a smile. They were trying. They had to. For all their other share moments were often ones involving gore and violence. The skin where the injuries once were tugged and complained at the memories. The sensation of cold ice, of how the knife long ago twisted and caught – they should have been dead. Yet here they were, still alive despite the odds. It was the same for Rhys, both of their shadows hid a multitude of sins and stories that they both so desperately were trying to bury. But beneath what?

Whirling. Motor. Wheels. Powered by machinery instead of people.

Gale stooped, and inspected the bigger crate. Hauling it up onto the side, the rough fingers brushed along the edges. The difference in weight was one thing, along with the scraping contents. They moved to open it, focusing through the sounds beyond.

“Do you dream Rhys?” Gale's brow furrowed, “As in, dream so intensely that it haunts you in the day. Relentless and refusin' to let go. The sort of dream that sinks its fangs in. I…” they sighed, “I’m not good at this stuff. I should just open the damn thing, right?”

They sighed, letting their shoulders relax.

“… Beer sounds good.”

And with that, Gale began to work their way into the present.
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
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Thu Jul 18, 2019 11:54 am

the Dives
the 11th hour on the 17th of Hamis, 2719

Rhys' understanding of what a family was supposed to be like was far from a normal one. Raised in a lie by a father who'd claimed him in full knowledge of his half-blooded heritage and yet who still hardly spent much time with him at all, sent to Brunnhold at ten as an only child, and surrounded by the often conflicting values and relationship structures of galdorkind, the blond wick had no idea how to navigate the strange waters of being someone's brother, let alone accepting the realization that his sibling was a human who'd lived a life so vastly different from his own socially, emotionally, and physically, that he was totally just making shit up as he went along.

He wanted to make this work. He longed for some kind of connection in a world that continued to betray him the more he tried to be a part of it. He had no hopes of familial perfection, no idea what happiness really looked like when unbound from the social constructs of wealth and standing. He knew what friendship was, however, and he was confident in his ability to feel and offer love and support to someone else other than Charity.

He continued to make mistakes. He'd tangled them all in a mess that surely wouldn't end well, fully aware that Gale had their own problems long before he staggered his way onto the street in a bloodied uniform at the height of the Yaris Riots. Whatever they were involved in, the tarnished Seventen officer wasn't fucking stupid and he had very clear suspicions. But, for some as-yet unspoken reason, blood ties had made themselves far more important than his legal obligations, than his sworn oaths to King, Queen, and Kingdom.

He was forging something new out of what he'd been handed in life.

If Gale didn't want to be a part of it, he'd under—

"It's Loshis. Some things can't be helped." He blinked, offering the hint of a smile when the other blond commented about his coat, bringing him back from his panicked thoughts and self-doubts and back into the conversation. He held the dripping outer garment and shifted on his feet, as if suddenly aware of just how soaked he was now that it was pointed out.

Immediately, his blue eyes were dragged toward whatever the smith had hastily covered with a tarp, "Stupid? Why—" They apologized somewhere before he could finish his next sentence and the young Valentin shook his head, "No, I get it. I'm intruding. I mean—yeah—I do mean well, but also, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. I'm just making it all up as I go along, really." His well-carved jaw clenched, pale eyelashes fluttering heavily as if the admission stung. Maybe it did. Guilt was there, creasing its way into his face with the sudden frown that crossed it,

"Gale, I'm just trying to make something out of this—" Long fingers waggled between them, his otherwise well-disciplined glamour full of a jittery sensation, a nervousness, a collection of more emotions he didn't know what to do with, "—this common ground we've got. I though that—I don't know—I thought that since you've said yes to the dangerous shit, the illegal stuff you should have said no to, that maybe, just maybe, you'd say yes to something more. To, uh, trying out family."

His free hand raked upward, tracing fingers over the back of his neck, catching rivulets that escaped his hair, curling nails against the skin there, awkward and apologetic, hopeful and confused. There were few people who reduced the sharp-tongued once-Inspector into stumbling over his words, into such a verbal mess as he tripped over himself and backpedaled verbally, "I'm pretty shit at it so far, and—"

The other blond opened the box of sweets and stared at them as if they'd never seen such a collection of chocolate-covered confections before in their lives. Well, godsdamnit, of course they hadn't,

"—I promise they're top notch. There's no catch to drinking—I don't have anything ulterior about paying for your drinks other than making sure I can keep up. Beyond a little wash behind those ears, Gale, it's just an offer of my time. Not worth much, I know, especially considering—well—considering all the other time you've been willing to spend with me, I just want to ... hang out. No strings. No violence. Just drinks." Rhys winked, then, shrugging off the Tek words for thanks with a dismissive smile. It was alright. He'd tried to hard when he shouldn't have, and where he'd overdone his own birthday by getting married and he'd somewhat overdone Charity's on Clock's Eve with a gramophone, here he was doing it all over again with expensive candy and a box full of legal loopholes.

"Do I what? Dream? You're assuming I fucking sleep." The young Valentin scoffed, tossing his coat on the worktable instead of hanging it up and shoving his hands into his trouser pockets to hide how they balled into fists, a sudden tension in his body language, defensive and vulnerable at the same time, field fraying at the edges for a few moments until he gathered himself back together again, "I mean, I do sleep. A little, but it's mostly nightmares since Vortas. Or Charity's nightmares keeping me awake. Every once and a while, sure, I've got a stubborn dream or two. The ones worth chasing, anyway. Maybe those sorts of dreams—those good ones—keep me from completely stepping over the edge I keep cutting myself on."

He shrugged then, Rhys suddenly made aware of how honest he was being. Perhaps too open, but some part of the not-galdor might have been curious whether or not the offering of his real self would be reciprocated or not.

"Anyway, yeah. Open this one, too."

Inside the box was a collection of gears and probably engine parts—to be fair, the tall blond wasn't entirely even sure what he'd managed to snatch up out of the evidence department before it was all sold for scrap—but he was at least vaguely aware of Gale's mechanical curiosities and so he made sure to squirrel away the most interesting bits and bobs into a box. A heavy box full of things he knew absolutely nothing about,

"Maybe some of that will do something for you." He smirked, though there was the warm creep of smugness in the tone of his voice because he did truly enjoy giving gifts, no matter the occasion. It was a strange thrill, and while offering anything to his human sister perhaps came with unspoken risks—whether emotional or legal or otherwise—he was willing to take them all in stride, consequences be damned. Teeth toyed with that scar again, its existence so distracting that he'd not yet been able to get over the location of it,

"And, gods, I'm really looking forward to the beer, even if I'm still getting a feel for where to go drinking here in the Dives." Rhys' jaw clenched at that, the admission that his new home was both familiar and yet still very different. Wet shoulders hunched a little and he glanced down into the box as if anticipating some form of reaction, good or bad.
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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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Mon Sep 23, 2019 10:39 am

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Saunders Forge | 11th Hour
17 HAMIS 2719
A gentle clink of noise. The soft shift of metal pieces brushing against each other. Not a screech but the smooth sound of plates gliding over the other before clinking at the bottom. Thumb and finger shifted over the rim, the small subtle turns of the head as it listened. The smith chose to focus in on his voice, hearing the cracks and peaks in rhythm with his field. The hairs bristled, the back of their neck tingling as they worked their way ever in. There was a small groan of noise from something beyond. A momentary pause as they realised it was nothing more than the wind in the eaves. It was not their home, they still needed to get used to it and the differences.

“If I said no, then I’d have no excuse for complainin’ about the state of the world and not tryin’ to do better. Besides, can't let you hav' all the fun.”

The forge gave a spit and the smith continued.

The brow creased as they looked back down into the box. The fingers became still, the rest of them motionless. Fingers carefully reached down, pulling out the parts. The small careful pulls, the fingers feeling the bumps and divots in the surface of the pieces. The expression fell, the lingering grease upon the tips, the small parting of lips as they carefully twisted and pulled the parts. Parts of a cylinder, pistons and the smaller wheels – other pieces that they recognised but had no name for.

Gale’s eyes looked up to him, and in that moment they realised their face had pulled into a grin. The cheeks tinted, puffing as the shoulders came up to their shoulders. A squirm, the eyes darted back to the tarp that covered the bicycle frame, and then back down to the pieces. The itch scratched at their mind; that whisper to continue their building. To experiment and learn.

They swallowed, “Oes. This is… well. Yes.”

Sheepishly the smith carefully laid the pieces out upon one of the work tables. Loosely marking what parts would go where, and leaving empty spaces where others would sit. They paused again over the pieces, the internal mechanics working together and piecing it in their mind – replication, rebuild, insert and construction. They could hear the faint whirling loudly in their ears.

“I guess that kind of dreamin’ is the case for both of us. Though, meant another kind of dreamin’. Like an obsession?” The finger tapped against their skull, “Like, I know it’s possible. Just workin’ out the how. It’s right there.” The smith sighed. Still covered in dirt, the patina of shades across their exposed skin, they gave him a shrug, “Can’t grasp it. Not yet. Somethin’ is missin’.”

The crate was moved alongside the pieces, the brow furrowing again, “’Course, could all be stupid anyway.”

He thinks you’re stupid. Never work. Never.

He was there, watching back with similar interest. Both inched over unknown territory, unsure on how far to tread. Both wore their own masks, hiding themselves from the world in the name of self-protection. Was it safe? Was it sensible? What if they came for him too? What if they would try to use him as a thumb screw? Or better yet, what if the hounds that chased him came for the smith?

They were Galdori. They were Gale’s superiors in all matter of the world – they could unleash whatever punishment they desired in a blink of a moment. Was it worth the risk?

Gale’s finger twitched, the small curl of movement as if it was pulling around a trigger.

They were a revolutionary. A resistance member. They were the Artful Gunner. Their very existence was risk.

“Gonna go scrub. Be a few,” the smith moved past him, reaching the spiral steps, “You know this place. So, make yourself at home.”

In comparison to downstairs, upstairs was always a lot cleaner. The smith had gotten into the habit of kicking off their boots whenever they went up there. Across the wood floor, bare feet padded, across over to the small bathroom. They left the door open, a slosh of water from the pump into the basin, the mad scrubbing in an attempt to get the grease from their hands. Uncomfortable winces, a few hisses when the nails scratched too closely on the skin. They looked at their reflection in the tiny mirror – some well-polished steel that took the edge mostly off.

Small fleck upon left of chin. Stubborn patch. Eyes, tired. When did I start looking so drawn?

They splashed the water upon their face, fingers rubbing at their features. Drinks was all it was, there was no need to get so wound up about it. The hands pushed the hair back, dampening and holding it place. It was easy. A small snort, the droplets rolled down their brow and into the basin below. The hands tightened around the rim of the basin, the slow measured inhales as their brow rested against the mirror. Eyes closed, an exhale, the noises of outside growing quiet beneath the sound of the rain.

Your fault.

The grip tightened, the unwelcome heavy weight resting upon their chest. They felt the knuckles strain, another suck in of the air. It was supposed to be a good day, a pleasant occurrence where Rhys made an attempt at trying to bring them into a shape that vaguely resembled famil-

If you had never been born-

Gale smacked the wall. The mirror juddered on the spot. A small uncomfortable pain crept in, a moment of clarity as they winced. The other hand was gripping tightly onto the side, drawn white as they felt the bitter taste collect in the back of their throat. The momentary lightness, the dull hum of the background, the realisation their breathing was shallow. The smith pulled away, shaking the droplets aside. Coat and scarf, they bundled into the layers, the boots laced up.

Stomping down the stairs, they paused to pick up their tool belt – the hammer slotting into place. A curt nod to Rhys, “There’s more if you know where to look. Depends how much you want to scratch at the bottom of the barrel. Suggest Clockwork, less you got a better suggestion.”

The smith adjusted the scarf, wrapping it around once before flicking the end over a shoulder. Buried into it, nose barely peaking over the top they gave him a shrug, “Less you on about somewhere fancy. Or you got a plan in mind…? I'm no good at this birthday malarkey.”

They would accept his offer, for now at least. But even with his admission the small scratch of paranoia itched away. The hammer on the tool belt was a welcome weight in this situation.

Rummaging in the pocket they summoned the key, their hand shooing them outside as they locked up. There was a shudder as the water struck, louder yet muted now they stood outside. The expression turned into a grimace, as the water collected at the base of their neck, “Come on then Brunno. Let’s play house.”
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance
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Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 19
Race: Wick
Location: Vienda
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Thu Oct 17, 2019 12:00 am

the Dives
the 11th hour on the 17th of Hamis, 2719

The not-galdor managed to stay quiet long enough to watch as Gale turned their attention to the box, Rhys pressing teeth into the scar tissue of his bottom lip, curiosity written without shame all over his well-carved features. He watched with eagerness as the other blonde began to pull out all the various parts he'd borrowed, paid for, and done some favors to garner from the Seventen's own tiny, motorized vehicle collection. He smiled when the smith looked up at him, and it was an encouraging expression.

"Obsession?" He snorted, smile faltering as soon as it'd appeared—fleeting, called out in a away—and he rolled his shoulders as if to shake water off them, as if to let the chill of the human's question run down his spine instead of linger in his skull, "Not like you've got, no. The things I'm chasing—they're not—nothing in my life seems—I don't have any practical goals that aren't going to get me fucking hung, I'm sure. All my dreams, well, they've been pretty shallow. Or impossible. I'm never going to be able to just retire with a couple of kids and Charity far from Vienda—I'm never going to be Captain of the Seventen, not that I'd want to, but, no. I just—I've never had that sort of thing."

He frowned, then, the scar that ran from his eyebrow somewhere into his scalp puckering with the darkening of his countenance. He'd never been able to make long term goals, too busy living in the moment, too busy reveling in the present because he was too afraid to look back and too stupid to look ahead properly.

"You got those kind of brains, clearly. I didn't." Self-deprecating, he dragged a hand through his hair and looked to the forge, an emptiness clawing at his insides, a restless longing reminding him of how futile his motivations in life really were in comparison. At least Gale wanted to do something with their life—
did Rhys?

Did the tarnished Seventen really want anything beyond what now consumed him as revenge?

"Nah, it's not stupid. You know, the truth is you've got more opportunity ahead of you than I do. I'm just—I'll always just be faking it, even with my fancy-ersed education. You've worked for all of this—" The young Valentin untangled his hand from near his scalp and waved it around the forge, "—sweat and blood and tears."

Maybe they worried about the same things. Maybe Gale knew as well as he did that they didn't need each other's company, they didn't need to pretend to be family. He was a Sergeant of the Seventen, overstepping his bounds in the form of self-assigned after-hours justice, chasing a Captain who wore the same uniform he did, chasing a drug ring led by rich erseholes. He was, as far as anyone else knew, a galdor with a galdor wife, even if they lived in the dives like a couple of tsats. Damen didn't need to know who Mister Saunders was.

All it would take was to find out one fact—

"Right. That's part of the deal, after all. Washing." Inhaling sharply, the tall blond smirked, then chuckled, welcoming the shift of subject from his own wandering thoughts.

But then he was left alone, still dribbling a bit here and there, stepping closer to the forge to let its heat sink past his soaked layers and bring a bit of warmth all the way to his once-broken, now-healed bones. Rhys watched Gale go, blue eyes following them disappear upstairs while he hovered somewhat uselessly for the time it took the Smith to clean up.

Glancing around with a once-Inspector's curiosity, he took in all that there was to see: how the human chose to organize their tools, what work was in progress, and all sorts of little details he didn't need to notice but couldn't help but see and catalog in his mind as if he were still on duty, as if he were still working an Investigative case.

Only he wasn't.

Only he gave all of that up—a career he'd come to enjoy—to ride a musky grove and let Damen D'Arthe glare at him every day.

The Sergeant's mind meandered in the dark places, in the flickering shadows cast by the forge's flames, until he heard the sound of movement and his sister came back into view—mostly cleaner, dressed and ready for the wet chill.

"See—a little scrubbing and there really is someone as good looking as me under all that coal and dirt." He tugged on a smile with the same ease and familiarity as Gale pulled on a belt, that hammer sinking into its place the way heaviness settled into his gut, though it didn't seem be able to outweigh his willingness to attempt at humor. He understood, he did. It wasn't as though he was unarmed, either. They both, unfortunately, had their reasons.

With a hiss through his teeth as he tugged back on his heavy, still-wet coat, Rhys nodded while he adjusted his collar, eyes fluttering at the chilled fabric against the back of his neck, "The Clockwork Stag's always a reliable choice, I've heard, but I'll admit I wasn't sure I'd get you out the door—Good Lady, let's just go then—I'm not complaining."

Finally another grin, this time a mischievous one, the not-galdor's indomitable humor and sarcasm never far out of his reach. Shoving a shoulder against the human's back toward the rain, Rhys laughed at the hidden face just as much as he laughed at the question for a plan,

"Other than hang out, buy all the drinks, and get a little guttered together? No. I didn't have any plans for once. I've got too many all the godsbedamned time and none of them are at all very safe. I told them all to fuck off."p/color] He hummed, making a mockery of being waved outside, wincing at stepping back out into the drizzle and left the heat of the forge behind. The tall blond shoved his hands into his coat pocket, thumb pressing into the ring around one finger, turning it in slow circles listlessly as he glanced around the street while Gale locked up, water already crawling through previously wet clothing.

"House, eh? Fair enough, considering I'm feeling responsible for making sure you have a good time, brunno. I don't think we'll arrive any dryer whether we take a cab or walk, though."

Rhys knew the Dives well enough and so he turned to lead the way toward the Soot District, vaguely aware of the Clockwork Stag's location, attempting to stick to less-traveled alleys and a few covered thoroughfares, always aware of the patrol schedule, moreso now than ever, and skillfully avoiding having to see any uniformed officers and any chroven while they made their way.
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