Completed Production Like Clockwork [Minerva|Montaine]

[Montaine]

Monty flinched each time she jabbed him. He didn’t know how to approach this woman. She possessed an exuberant energy that he couldn’t quite grasp, and a physicality that he couldn’t appreciate. He took one of the pieces from the tabletop and examined it. It was good wood, old but strong. Whoever had purchased it, no, scratch that, whoever had crafted it knew their stuff. Of course, all things needed maintenance given enough stresses over time, enough mistreatment, enough cataclysmic Djed Storms. The surface felt rough under his fingers, and reminded him of his Da’s old bedroom door. The thing had never been given enough attention and creaked like the Bonesnapper. He’d have to go round and fix that one of these days. He selected a chisel from the set and began to reshape the frame. A large splinter had been blown clear off the inside and the rest had to be modified accordingly. The glassworker was almost tempted to simply put it to one side, he feared such a correction to be beyond his ability. Calbert had taught him the very basics, and mould carving wasn’t all that tricky when it came down to it. This wasn’t all that different, he supposed, just shape it. It wasn’t as though he was trying to carve an elegant figurine, or, what had she said? A face. An intriguing, bizarre character, this one. Montaine watched Phillip work and once again copied his movements, only with chisel and frame in hand. The wood refused to yield at first but eventually gave way to increased pressure. It was such a slight alteration in the way he moved his hand and the wood came away easily. This was the sort of work he enjoyed. Sure, those sailors down in the harbour, those knights from Syliras, they might think that strength was all important, but it was the muscular finesse required in crafting that was the true physical skill. He’d never match up to them in a fight, but give them a hunk of wood or a glass blowing pipe and tell them to make a window or a bowl or an ornament shaped like two drunks wrestling and they’d be stuffed. Montaine? No problem. Well, maybe that last example would have been a struggle. But one day, one day he’d be able to make functionally useless ornaments and sell them to people with no concept of the value of money and earn enough money to live well, and explore the world. His father had told him about the glassworking methods of the Akalak in Cyphrus, different colours fused together. Calbert once showed him what he claimed to be the same thing, where he injected one colour directly into another, but it hadn’t looked like Da had described. Someday he would travel out there and find the Akalak, and learn their secrets. Someday. Monty sighed. Perhaps this woman’s dreams weren’t so crazy. Or perhaps they were just both as crazy as each other. Her grandfather appeared to be a touchy topic, to make her suddenly so soft. Phillip looked at her. The glassworker raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me about him,’

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva had a round-edged file, useful for finishing up curved pieces like this, and was carefully working her way down the edge of the frame, smoothing out the fine touches of the form. She didn't like Phillip having to check every frame she finished, even though she understood he was more experienced than her in this. So she checked each frame she finished to one of the approved ones, holding them up against each other so the edges were lined up. She examined the edges with a critical eye, looking for whatever minor flaws might draw Phillip's attention, then working to smooth them out. She intended to make sure she got them right, so he could stop breathing down her neck. She kept her eyes on her work as Monty asked about her Granddad. "'E were a woodworker since 'fore I were born," she said. "'Fore my Da were born. 'E was dang good, 'e was. Made stuff fer rich folk, 'n all. 'Ad a 'ole shop 'e ran, wit' like, two dozen workers. Kept 'em on 'er toes, kept 'em doin' things right. 'E knew 'ow ta keep a fire under yer arse, 'at's fer sure." She grew quiet again, her hand slowly scraping the chisel across the edges of the wood. Her eyes were a bit misty, her gaze distant for a moment. Her hands paused their motion as she stared, then she shook her head and set to work again, gritting her teeth. "'E taught me," she said. "My Da never taught me jack all, but my Granddad, 'e taught me 'ow ta build stuff. Told me I could make anythin', if'n I learned it right. So's I gots ta. Gots ta learn everythin', aye? Got me a city ta build one day..." Those images were still in her mind, and they would never go away. A city of grand spires, and structures taller and stronger than those made before the Valterrian. Golems on every street corner, protecting and serving the people. It'd probably take her a lifetime, but she would do it. She wouldn't tell Monty that, though. He'd probably just tell her it was impossible. Well Tock didn't think anything was impossible.

[Montaine]

Montaine opened his mouth to speak. He shut it again. He’d spent many years locked away, incarcerated by his father’s fears, he’d spent many years with little else but his dreams to keep him company. If she wanted to dream about carving cities he wasn’t going to shatter that vision. People had to have dreams to spur them on into life, give them purpose. He doubted he would have made it through his childhood sane without the imagined adventures he was going to have as an adult. Though he no longer wished to explore the world alongside the sailor as a fearsome, fearless pirate, slaying a swathe of enemies with a single sword swipe, he still dreamed far above his standing, far above his abilities. He looked at his work and was pleased. Over the years he had become used to judging things by eye as it is incredibly hard to measure glass precisely when you’re at the other end of a pipe over half as long as you, and the material sags if you stop spinning even for a second. The eye was useful here. Monty blew on the area of the frame he had been working on, and a small cloud of dust blew up into his face. He coughed and dropped his work. It landed with a bang on the table as Monty continued to struggle to regain composure. The cough was hacking, but it wasn’t accompanied by the usual sweats and weakness of one of his episodes, so he’d probably be alright. It stopped, and he breathed heavily, trying to get the air back into his lungs, waving heart to signal that he wasn’t dying. ‘S-sorry about that, dust up the wrong way,’ he picked up a file with slowly steadying hand, ‘Lungs like a petching sieve, catch all the bad bits ‘n’ none of the air. Listen, we’ve plenty left here, but you and yours want to fetch a drink or two with me and mine later? The glass crew could use a little cheering,’ He began to smooth down the wood of the frame and scraped some of the wood dust off of his tongue with his teeth, spitting it out onto the grass. He was sure Gadger could use the extra income and all, down at the Councillor’s Head, and it wasn’t Gertrude’s music night, so they’d have none of the bother they had last time when she’d brought those shyking bagpipes. He daughter, the fiddler, would be in instead, who possessed all the musical talent of the family. Monty turned to Tock and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva arched an eyebrow at the excessive amount of coughing, briefly wondering at the man's health. That was quite a fit over a little sawdust. None of her business, though. She aimed her own frame downwind, so the breeze would carry the dust away from her when she blew it off, and gave the man an amused look. He seemed a little too well-to-do to be a craftsman. He had the tone, look, and feel of a rich man. Yet obviously he couldn't be rich in this line of work. But he seemed like he should be a rich man. Like he deserved it, and just hadn't gotten there yet. 'E's got class, she thought to herself. "Oy, a drink sounds right good, mate, aye," she said. "The boys 'n me usually hit a tavern after 'ours. 'Less I got classes, but I don't today." She hadn't been much of a drinker before she started this job, and she was still trying to get used to this kelp beer ('Ow is 'at the ONLY drink in the 'ole damn city?). But her crew insisted on her coming out with them most nights, and considering she was the only girl on the crew, she never paid for her own drinks. Once the last frame piece was shaped, it was time to start back at the beginning of the pile and add in the decorative touches. Each piece needed two carvings, two inches wide by six inches long. Each one was an identical fish, facing inward towards the center-most arc of the frame's curve. The designs were simple as far as artistic carvings went, but still required a careful and steady hand. First Phillip guided them through etching the designs on each frame. This required some careful measurements, to make sure the positioning was right on each one. A half-inch difference could make the whole thing look imbalanced. The tail fin was etched on in a simple triangular shape, and then a measurement was taken from the point of the triangle to where the tip of the fish's mouth would go. Then they had to measure and plot several points along the gentle curve of the fish's body, using the points as guide marks to trace out the rest of the form. Phillip carved out a stencil frame to use in order to make sure the shapes on each matched up. Once the guide marks were in place, the frame was placed over them and carefully lined up, then a gouge was used to etch in the design. Once the etching was done, the outline of the fish was carved out with a finely tipped V-shaped gouge. This was careful work, digging out the outline just deep enough to give the appearance of depth and texture. Once the outline was complete, a flatter gouge was used to add the last decorative marks, a series of quick digs across the body of the fish in several rows, which gave the appearance of scales. As Minerva finished etching, gouging, and adding the scale marks on each of her fish, she passed them to Phillip, who made some minor adjustments here and there where it was necessary. Though the design was simplistic enough to be within the capabilities of a novice, lacking any fine details such as would have been present in a carefully designed face.

[Montaine]

Fish. It spoke Zeltiva in its simple piscinity. Sure there was the University, and the Guild, and the old temple to Laviku, but while they were all of Zeltiva none of them represented the city so well to Monty’s mind as the uncomplicated, straightforward carving of a fish. The glassworker grew up not a short walk from the markets but never saw all that much of the place, his home, until he was in his teenage years. He spent his infancy instead communicating with the city through smells, and as more than enough sailors from abroad had complained to him, the smell of the city was fish. Montaine began to etch. It felt strange, doing this to wood rather than glass. He’d only ever constructed the simplest of moulds, and all the etching experience he had had been concentrated on a few easy designs on some cheap bowls. Someday he’d have to learn to do better, but until then these fish would do for good practice. He lightly ran the tool through its lines and curves, letting his glassmaker’s eye, the practiced intuition, guide him as much as the measurements. ‘I hate this,’ he spoke up suddenly, and seemed a little surprised at his voice himself. He continued to carve his fish for a little while before speaking again, ‘Not the work, just the-the fact that we have to do it,’ he turned to his co-workers, ‘That petching storm, it wasn’t natural, I know that. I’ve been in this city long enough, and lived through enough of the bastards to know a natural storm. What did this, eh? What vagik did the gods so wrong they’d up’n let something like this happen to Zeltiva?’ He scowled. His fish was a little wonky, but thankfully it was just a little short on the left side, so it was easily fixed. He retraced the curve of its body and shook his head. No one knew why it had happened, no one knew any reason for it. Just suddenly, out of the blue the clouds had rolled in, touched by magic and casting a shadow over the harbour. The sun just blotted, vanished from the sky and the rain had thundered down like nothing, no ocean squall he or anyone else in the city had ever witnessed in their lives. He wondered if this was what it had been like centuries ago, when the skies blackened and civilisation crumbled. Was a warning of something more? Had it ended then, on that single day of terror, or was it just a precursor to greater destruction, further deaths? He told himself that there was no sense worrying about it, that there was nothing he could do, but surely someone, something out there had caused the blasted thing. Surely someone out there was responsible. He showed his work to Phillip, received a nod in return, and began to gouge.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva looked up at Monty with a confused frown at his sudden comment. She listened to his explanation of the storm, then shrugged. She hadn't been in the city when it happened, and had no idea what the city had been like before all the damage. She also didn't have any sentimental attachment to anything in Zeltiva, since she'd only been here a few weeks. "I wish stuff like 'at 'appened more often," she said, still focusing on cutting out little fish scales on her carvings. "I mean, not so's people die an' stuff, 'course. But stuff should break like this more often..." Phillip gave her a strange look and asked, "How can THAT possibly be a good thing?" She shrugged again and replied, "Oy, y'see, people don't really fix stuff 'til it's really good an' broken, aye? Like them 'ouses we fixed up the other day. Weren't all o' that damage caused just by the storm. Some o' those 'ouses were old an' real beat up. Run down like nobody's business, aye? But did anyone fix 'em? Nope." She set aside one completed carving, and started on another. "People get all used ta things being 'ow 'ey are, aye?" she continued. "Ya get used ta somethin' bein' broke all the time, ya figure, oy, 'at's okay, she's always been like 'at. Ain't nothin' ever gonna get done 'at way, I tells ya." She frowned at the carving and leaned in close, carefully adjusting one of the wee scales. "But somethin' comes 'long an' knocks everythin' down, stirs things up? Oy, 'at's the start o' progress, 'at is. Whatcha got now, is new leaders steppin' up an' saying it's time ta do some good, crafters all over the city workin' overtime ta make things better 'an 'ey was before, an' some real good serious changes bein' made. I mean, 'ell, look," she grabbed one of the old window frames off the pile of those they'd pried off the house, and showed it to the men. It was weathered, the wood was cracked, and it showed serious signs of age. "Think 'is chap'd be replacin' 'at, if'n 'e didn't 'ave ta? Naw. But 'ere we are, aye? Aye." She tossed the wood back in the scrap pile and returned to her carving. "'Is 'ere place is gonna be way better when we're done 'ere 'an she was before. An' so's the 'ole city. Sure, the 'ow it 'appened part sucks a Jamoura's arsehole, what fer all the people what got 'urt n'stuff. But the rest? Blessin' in disguise I say." She held up the completed carving, and appraised the look of the fish and the alignment of the scales. She thought it looked good, and quite a lot better than the old ones. So would the whole city, once they were done with it.

[Montaine]

Monty had to stop himself from yelling out. Did she think all this was worth it? The destruction, the deaths, for a little increased business? The crew had lost a man, Joseph, during the storm. He’d been in Zeltiva nearly forty years when he finally met his end. Well, everyone assumed he had met his end, they never found a body. He was probably just another one of the ones blown out to sea, to be beaten senseless, lifeless, by the tempestuous winds and the merciless waves. He felt his skin heating up as the rage built beneath the surface, his lips thinned and his knuckles whitened. He exhaled deeply and calmed down. She didn’t understand. He was more than aware of the disrepair that many of the citizens let their properties, their belongings, even themselves, fall into, and recognised her point. It actually improved his mood a little to think that in the long run, the city might be better off for the disaster. Not just for the city as a single entity either, the crew had definitely grown closer after Joseph’s death. Monty shaved a little more wood off the fish’s tail. But all the improvements, to the city and to relationships and to politics and anything else, wouldn’t have been worth it had his Da died, not to him. Other people’s Das had undoubtedly perished, was that still a worthy sacrifice? Was it hypocrisy to value his father’s life over that of other people? Perhaps, but an acceptable hypocrisy in Monty’s mind. He still had no word on the sailor’s survival. ‘So, it’s worth it, eh? A few dead strangers is worth the chance to make the city better?’ the glassworker looked her in the eye, ‘An’ what if it’d been someone close to you, what if’n it had been your boss, or your da or your granddad who’d died? Still worth it?’ Montaine frowned. He shouldn’t have mentioned the grandfather. It was a cheap shot and he immediately regretted it. He almost apologised too, but kept his mouth shut. For all the guilt he might have felt for what he had said, he was still all the more interested to hear her response.

OOCShort one, sorry.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

OOCLol, your "short one" is still longer than some people write. No worries! Minerva snapped and leapt from her seat, leaning close into Monty's face and waving a sharp gouge right near his eye. "My Granddad DID die, ya lousy bludger!" she screamed, red in the face. "But ya know what? People bleedin' die! Whatcha gonna do, save 'em all? Huh?" She was shaking with rage, and didn't notice that Phillip had gotten up to stand behind her, ready to grab her if it looked like she might get violent. Minerva's temper was becoming well known among the crew. She spat on the ground and sat back down, digging her gouge into the wood so hard that Phillip had to take the frame piece away from her to stop her from ruining it. "Let's just settle down now," he said. Minerva scowled at him, then turned a red eyed glare on Monty. "I ain't done never said I wanted people ta die, mate," she said with a tight voice. "But 'ey's gonna, one way o' 'nother. Up ta the Gods, 'at is. Ain't nothin' doin'. So ya can either get pissed 'bout it, an' waste time on 'Oh, woe is me I wish it weren't,' an' all 'at claptrap, o' ya can move on. Find some good in 'er. 'Ow 'bout thankin' the Gods it were just a few people what died, 'stead o' the 'ole city, aye? 'Ow 'bout thankin' 'em weren't YOU what died, eh?" she pointed her gouge at him again to drive the point home, until Phillip reached out and touched her arm, urging her to lower the tool. She leaned back in her chair and grabbed another frame piece. "Shit 'appens, Guv," she said. "Ya can either piss an' moan 'bout 'er, o' ya can find somethin' ta do. So yeah, I'm glad 'is 'ere storm 'appened. Right grateful I am. Grateful what fer the Gods spared me. Been 'ere in the city a month sooner, an' I'd be dead. Grateful fer all 'is what DIDN'T break," she gestured up and down the street to the neighboring houses that were still standing. "An' grateful I gots a chance fer ta make 'er all better..." She kept her eyes on her work now, fighting back tears. Some things you couldn't make better. Some tragedies had nothing but a dark side. Her Granddad had died in an illness that swept through her home, and took lives without pity. That had been a useless death. No good came of it. At least with a tragedy like this one, there was good to be found in the aftermath.

[Montaine]

Monty flinched away from the woman’s onslaught as the breath caught in his throat. The sawdust had done him wrong before and Tock’s tirade set his lungs wheezing. He remained silent during the barrage, but couldn’t make eye contact. He shouldn’t have spoken about her relatives, he should have stayed quiet. She trailed off and there was silence for a spell, punctuated only by the sounds of work off in the distance, and Monty’s strained respiratory system. Something she had said had resonated with him. His hands were motionless, not moving to continue work. Something she had said reminded him of all those days confined to a bed. ‘Thank the Gods,’ he muttered, so quiet as to almost be whispered, ‘Petching Gods…’ The glassworker stared resolutely at the half-finished fish carving, and spoke a little louder, ‘It weren’t me that died, sure, but-’ he sighed and winced at the tightness in his chest, ‘Come close enough over the years, too many times,’ he frowned and looked at her, ‘I shouldn’t’ve said what I said, it’s just-it’s just I’ve spent my whole life on the edge of a knife, terrified of what me Da and everyone would have to do if’n I-’ he trailed off again. His wheezing slowed a little but breathing was still tough going. ‘Death’s a tricky thing. Every day I feel one step from it, but then something like the storm comes along and sweeps up whole loads of people what had nothing wrong with them at all and snuffs them outta the world and here I am still doin’ the same stupid things day in day out,’ Monty rubbed his eyes and sighed, ‘Still doin’ the same stupid things and I can’t stop thinking…Would you believe I know someone who died already? Dead before and still around and all I keep thinking is is he still alive? Sure, people die, Miss Tock, people we don’t know and people we’re close to, like your Grandda, like me Mam, and there’s nothing we can do but try and move on, but what if you don’t know if they’re alive or dead?’ Monty frowned. He picked his tools back up and resumed carving in silence.

OOCAnother short one, but I think the exchange necessitates it.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Minerva felt a surge of guilt when she heard Monty wheezing. He seemed very fragile, like just a little excitement could set him off. Like he was sick or something. It brought tears to her eyes, remembering the sound of her Granddad's strained breathing in his deathbed. She frowned as he started talking about death, and realized her suspicions were right. He spoke of death like an old hound that haunted him around every corner. "Don't worry 'bout it, mate," she said, giving him a friendly slap on the arm. "Way I see 'er, ain't nothin' doin' worryin' 'bout tomorrow, aye? Sure, ya could die any time. Ya could die right now..." she paused and cleared her throat, realizing with all his wheezing that statement might be more true than she realized. "But if'n ya do, ya won't be 'round what fer ta worry 'bout 'er, aye? So's as I figure 'er, the best ya can do is try ta get as much work done as possible 'fore the end o' the day. 'At way, there's less ta worry 'bout leavin' fer whoever's left behind, aye? Aye. The world never runs outta work, an' if'n the work is 'portant 'nough, there'll always be someone what fer ta pick 'er up fer ya when yer done." It certainly wasn't the usual conversation around the work site. The whole topic felt a bit over Tock's head. The few workers nearby didn't seem to want to get involved in the conversation at all. Construction workers weren't often known for being intellectuals or philosophers, after all. Though they also usually weren't wizards studying how to build golems and magic swords, either. She had to think hard on his last question. Not knowing if someone was alive or dead... the only guess she had was that he meant someone who'd been missing since the storm. She didn't have any answers for that. "Maybe 'ere's a magic what can tell ta if'n ey's alive or not?" she suggested. She certainly didn't know all the types of magic, but it seemed reasonable. "I'll ask up at the Uni. Maybe 'ey's got someone what knows a people finder magic. Like some spell what'll sniff 'em out like a hound, or... I dunno, somethin'." She shrugged. It certainly wasn't her area of expertise, but there had to be someone out there who knew about that sort of thing.