Solo Dressy Whirlygigs

[Artigan Crowley]

78th of spring, 517 a.v. mid morning The sun was high and the wind was warm when Artigan Crowley stepped off the ravosala and into the imposing paths of the Noble District. Despite the pleasant weather and the beauty of the district, Artigan found himself feeling strained. It had been many days since the appearance of the great egg in the center of Ravok, and the entire affair still weighed heavily on him – both in the vision he had received, and in the deep, constant tug to return to the center of the city, to just be as near to the egg as he could. But he couldn’t spend his days staring at something through a fence. Even as every instinct told him to do just that. His destination was fairly easy to find with its clean white exterior and the fine clothes in the windows; the difficult part would be getting everything inside. “Could you wait for just one moment?” Artigan asked of the ravosalaman, voice deep with something not completely human. When the ravosalaman nodded, Artigan ascended the steps of Azure Reflections. The door was open and welcoming, but he still felt the need to knock on the door before he stepped in. “Ah, hello,” said a feminine voice. Between two racks of cloth stood a woman, young and sharp and smiling pleasantly. “How may I help you?” “I’m looking for Alira Wickham? My name is Artigan Crowley, I’m from Thorin’s Forge.” “Oh, Mister Crowley!” The woman lit up, halting her work and coming to meet him. “Yes, I must have lost track of the time. Do you have the display?” “I have the components,” the gadgeteer assured her. “I can get to work immediately, if you’d like.” “Yes, yes, I was told the order would be too large to arrive in one piece. Bring the lot in and set it right over there, in that empty spot, and I’ll show you where it should be set up.” “Of course. Give me a moment.” Artigan left the building and trotted back down to the ravosala to retrieve the components. The largest item was a great four-foot-wide wooden disk. One side was sanded smooth, while the other was rough and had a circular brass setting in the center. The whole thing wasn’t stunningly heavy, it was just unwieldy; Artigan had to shuffle and tilt to get it up the steps and into the room. “There it is,” Alira purred at the sight of it. “Exactly how I imagined. It’s going to look lovely.” “One more trip.” Artigan returned to the ravosala one more time to fetch the rest of his things, which was mostly a small metal hoop and a large collection of bolts, supports and wheels. “All that for just one display?” Alira asked when he returned. “Ah, nevermind; I should have known with the price I was given. Setting trends isn’t usually cheap.” “I wouldn’t be able to comment,” Artigan said, setting his things down by the wooden circle. “I just put things together.” “Is that a note of bitterness I hear, or am I just imagining things?” “Miss Wickham, you are an astute woman and I cannot speak ill of my job.” “Mister Crowley, I understand. Let me show you where this display will be set up and we may talk about that instead.”

[Artigan Crowley]

Alira led him to one corner of the shop, where the sun blazed through the windows and lit up the blank space so brilliantly that Artigan could see the dust floating in the air. “Right here,” the seamstress said. “This is where the display will be. The light is perfect for most of the day, and a large portion of my customers come in expecting to see examples of my work a rotating collection of mannequins will certainly draw attention.” “That’s what this is about then? Attention?” “Attention is good for business. I spoke to a Nitrozian and heard about that table they’d acquired and just knew I needed one for myself; the Nitrozians aren’t likely to show off that little prize, so anyone who wants to see something like it will come here. The more people step into the shop, even to stare at a strange display, the more people will want to buy.” She flashed him a winning smile. “You know. Business.” “Business.” “And who knows? You might find yourself with more orders before the season is out.” “That wouldn’t hurt.” “Oh, there it is again - that little trace of bitterness. I’m sorry if good business disappoints you, Mister Crowley.” Artigan chuckled and shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I’m sorry if I seem poor company. I’ve found myself more distracted since the… egg.” “Yes,” she murmured, eyeing the black markings around his mouth. “I noticed the… effects the moment I heard your voice.” “Not unpleasant, I hope?” “Quite on the contrary, Mister Crowley, it is most… pleasant, indeed. But I’ll stop myself here before I say anything less proper.” Artigan laughed. “You must do as you wish, Miss Wickham. I won’t tell.” She rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. “On to your job, Mister Crowley. That’s what you are here for.” “Of course. I apologize for my indiscretion.” Artigan dipped his head and returned to his pile of knick knacks, gathering the basics of the support platform. Alira had returned to her work with the cloth, where she hummed softly and threw the occasional glance his way. The base was a simple wooden square large enough to hold the display’s weight without falling over. Each corner had a hub for a support, which Artigan found and assembled with minimal effort. Unlike the Nitrozian job, he actually had the sense to keep his components organized.

[Artigan Crowley]

“If you won’t be telling others of my comments,” Alira says after he’d fastened the first support, “then I can assure you that I won’t tell them of yours. Or that little twitch of disappointment I saw when I mentioned good business.” “Is that so?” Artigan chuckled. “Do I sense a question?” “You are also astute, then. Yes, you are sensing a question that regards that little twitch. Is it the display?” “No. Not entirely.” “Not entirely.” “I enjoy making things. I always have. Wheels and gears are my pen and paper.” “And yet you sigh in disappointment at the prospect of making more things.” Artigan let out a half-sigh, half-chuckle and finished the first support, moving on to the second. “How about this. You are a seamstress, yes? You find joy in making clothes. The… needle and thread are your wheels and gears, your pen and paper.” “Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I see your point.” Artigan glanced over to her, eyes glinting mischievously. “Promise you won’t tell what I say next?” “I swear on my honor as a Wickham.” “Imagine you were commissioned to sew a jacket. A very fine jacket, with a style no one had seen before. I’m sure that’s an experience you are quite familiar with. Now, your customer is very pleased with that jacket, and so is everyone else. I’m sure that’s an experience you are quite familiar with.” “Your flattery is appreciated, but you’re stalling. Keep going.” Artigan finished the second support and moved on to the third. “As expected, more commissions begin rolling in. Everyone wants a jacket of their own, in the exact same way, with the exact same unique style. There’s money in it, of course, but you find your time filled up with this same exact jacket and nothing else. Eventually the prospect of more jackets loses its luster.” After a few moments, Alira sent him a sympathetic look. “Oh dear. I see your point.” “Indeed. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, though; Thorin was good to give me my mentor’s old position. And making unusual tables and displays makes money.” “Mending clothes would make me money,” Alira retorted. “Look around you. Do you think I sew clothes simply because it makes me money?” Artigan laughed. “I would not have told you that story if I thought it to be so.” She softened, smiling. “Just as well. At the risk of too many metaphors, you are sewing clothes when you want to be sewing art.” “I suppose… that would be one way to say it. When I’m not making tables, I’m fixing sawmills.” “Augh, even worse. Why stay with Thorin, then? It seems like Trigol’s place would be more suitable for you. If you can handle his attitude, that is.” Artigan finished fastening the final support and set it on the ground. When he was certain it was in the right place, he looked back at Alira. “Who is Trigol?” Alira blinked. “You don’t know who Trigol is?” “No.” “Oh. Oh, my friend. Listen to me. I am about to change your life.”

[Artigan Crowley]

With the supports assembled, Artigan returned to his knick knacks and picked up the next piece of the puzzle: the suspension ring. Made of strong iron to support the weight of everything it would be holding up, it was crowned by four raised metal wheels – the wheels that would allow the entire thing to rotate. Artigan returned to the area of display, eyeing Alira warily. “Go on.” “Trigol. He’s not native – he’s Isur, from wherever Isur come from. And he’s a... “ She paused, unable to find the right word. Artigan set the suspension ring on the supports and waited patiently. “He’s an odd one,” she said finally. “He also uses gears and wheels. He makes things that move and do odd things.” “He’s a gadgeteer?” “Is that what it’s called? Perhaps. He does things like you do, with metal and wood in small pieces that fit together in impossible ways.” Artigan frowned and threaded the bolts through the supports and suspension. “I haven’t heard of him.” “He doesn’t sell his own reputation. Better that way, what with…” “With what?” “With his attitude. I’ve never met the man myself, but I hear he’s… less than friendly.” Artigan hmmed and pushed on the suspension ring, testing the stability. There was no looseness or rattling, so he got up and went to retrieve the final piece: the great wooden circle that would be the display itself. Alira, thankfully, was content to let him sort through his own thoughts. Another gadgeteer, a professional gadgeteer that was not attached to Thorin’s Forge? “Where is this Trigol?” The seamstress smiled knowingly. “He’s in the Merchant’s Ring. Trigol’s Tools and Trade, his shop’s called. Or just ask for the building with the burned storefront; that Isur somehow managed to set fire to solid brick, I’m told. I’ve seen his storefront and it isn’t pretty.” She grimaced in disgust. Artigan chuckled. “I’ll look for it.” Their conversation fell silent as he settled the display into place. He closed his eyes and felt the distance through his hands as the wooden platform settled down on the suspension, sensing the awkward thud when it was too far left or too far right. He could feel the base with his foot, and it wasn’t long before the platform’s brass setting fell neatly around all four wheels, caging them in so that the display wouldn’t roll straight off the suspension right. Artigan let out a sigh and let the platform go. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his fingers for a moment, then pushed the platform gently. It rotated. “Would you look at that,” Alira said, pleased. “Exactly what I wanted.” “Be careful how you set it up,” Artigan warned. “Too much weight on one side and it will tilt. If the top falls off, though, you should just be able to put it back on without too much trouble. Those wheels are oiled, but that oil won’t last forever; if it starts to squeak as it turns you can just take the top off and oil them again. You know where to find me at Thorin’s Forge; you can call on me if you don’t want to do it yourself.” “Indeed,” she replied. “But how long will you be at Thorin’s Forge, I wonder?” Artigan raised an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?” She sighed. “It means that you are in in a rut, Mister Crowley, and that Thorin’s Forge isn’t doing you any favors. You’re not thrilled about a future of fancy tables and sawmill repair. I understand; I wouldn’t be thrilled with mending and the same jacket again and again. Trigol might be able to give you a way out.” Artigan tilted his head. “Are you encouraging me, Miss Wickham?” “Perhaps.” She gave him a wry smile. “Let me put it this way: the Nitrozians have a fancy table. I have a fancy display. If no one else were to possess those things, my shop would have unique appeal. Essentially… it would be very good for business if you were to stop making these things.” “Ah,” he said knowingly. “Of course. Very good for business indeed.” “So,” she pressed. “I’d suggest at least meeting Trigol. I may not understand your work, but I understand your problem. I didn’t get this far by settling for less, and neither should you.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” Artigan chuckled, dusting off his hands on his pants. “Thank you for your kindness, Miss Wickham. And thank you very much for your good business.”

[Artigan Crowley]

Alira promised to keep their conversation between them, in exchange for a promise to consult her about his wardrobe at his earliest convenience. (Too much brown, apparently.) All the same, he left her shop with more questions than when he’d arrived, but most of those questions seemed like they could be answered at the same time. All it would take was a quick trip to the Merchant’s Ring. Artigan flagged down a ravosala, swallowing down the insistent tug toward to the egg. He did his best to pay attention to the handler’s idle conversation, but found himself unable to focus. His thoughts remained on the mysterious Trigol, and on his deep desire to not make another rotating table or display. At least his distraction made the trip go quickly. Artigan set foot in the Merchant’s Ring sometime around noon. The midday rush was just beginning to peter off, and the merchants were still too busy to try hawking their wares to passerby. Artigan was glad for it. One merchant was selling yarns and other rough textiles, and Artigan waited politely until she’d finished with her current customer before leaning in for directions. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Trigol’s Tools and Trade. With a burnt brick storefront?” “Looking for old Trigol, are you? He’s not far; just down this way and hang a left. His place should be obvious.” “Thank you.” “And when you find him, tell him that Brieah sent you and that he’s an ass.” “I, uh, will do that.” Artigan left her to her yarns and followed her directions. The crowd was easier to navigate now that marketgoers were beginning to trickle back home. He managed to find the side street before too many of the merchants began shouting to bystanders, and then he found himself faced with a line of shops. And one of those shops looked like it had been attacked by a reimancer. Brieah hadn’t been lying about the shop being obvious. Even before he saw the sign on the storefront, Artigan was sure he’d found the right place. It just felt right. The inside of the store was similar to the outside, in that the walls seemed to have also experienced their fair shares of fire, blunt force and… whatever that strange color was. The shop itself was open on one side, with tables covered in metal and wood and the unmistakeable tools of a gadgeteer. On the other side, centered around one corner, was a seemingly random collection of items. Solid ingots of metal. Spheres of stone. A bolt of yellow cloth. “What do you want?” someone shouted irritably from the back. Soon enough, a man emerged. He was short, sweaty and visibly irritable - and one arm was gleaming red. “Trigol?” Artigan asked hopefully. “No, I’m the other Isur that works in this one-person shop. What do you want?” The young man took a breath. “My name is Artigan Crowley. And I would like to talk to you.”

[Artigan Crowley]

“Talk to me, eh?” the Isur grunted. “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘waste my time.’” “Are you a gadgeteer?” Artigan asked, sensing that the shopkeeper would prefer directness. “How the petch did you find me if you weren’t looking for a gadgeteer? What else did someone tell you I am?” “Brieah from down the street thinks you’re an ass, if that counts.” “Ah, well, at least she’s honest,” Trigol said, nodding. “Listen, boy, if you aren’t here to talk business then I’ve got no time for you. I’ve got work to do.” “Show me what you can do,” the young man blurted. “Come again?” “You’re a gadgeteer. You make things. I’m from Thorin’s Forge, and I want to see what you can do.” “Thorin’s Forge? What, you’re a metalworker? This isn’t the place for brute force, boy.” “Do you make your own gears?” “My own gears? No, I order them. From your forge. Now if you’ll petching excuse me, I––” “What’s the largest number of gears you’ve used in a power transmission?” That caught his attention. Trigol stopped halfway through his turn, eyeing Artigan with newfound interest. “Largest number is six,” he answered after a long pause. “But I was young then, and that transmission didn’t last very long. Nowadays I try to stay under four.” “Was the force of movement spread to thin over too many transfers?” Artigan asked. “Was that the problem?” “That was part of it, aye. What’s your name again, boy?” “Crowley,” the young man answered. “Artigan Crowley.” “You got a head for gears, Crowley?” “I did. I do. I hope to.” Trigol paused again, considering him, then turned back to face him. “Why’d you come to my shop, boy?” “I heard your name. I was making a display for Azure Reflections and you were mentioned.” “A display for that clothes shop? Something special about that display?” Artigan hesitated. “It spins.” Trigol let out a bark of laughter. “Well whoopty-petching-doo, sounds like a masterpiece.” “It’s the order I was asked to fill.” “By who? Right, you’re from Thorin’s Forge. Sounds like exciting work you do there.” “That’s why I’m here!” “Oh?” Trigol crossed his arms and cocked his head. “Alria––the owner of Azure––she said you were… and artist, in a way. ‘Metal and wood that fits together in impossible ways,’ I believe her words were.” “And?” “And I want to know if it’s true. I…” “You want to ‘see what I can do,’ you said.” “Yes.” “Then I’ll ask you a question. What’s the largest number of gears you’ve used in a power transmission?” “... Just two.” Trigol grunted, then shrugged. “Well. Better than none, I suppose.” He turned toward the back of the shop. “Well? Come on then.” Artigan frowned, but made to follow. “What are we doing?” “You asked a question, didn’t you? I’m showing you what I can do.”

[Artigan Crowley]

Trigol led him to the back of the store, through trinkets and oddities of all sorts. Artigan’s eye caught on the metal bits scattered over tables, recognizing items here and there, but they were moving too quickly to dwell. At the back of the store was an open window, with a rod and a set of grinding gears leading inside and culminating in a long, rotating metal pole. Underneath the pole was what looked like a hastily constructed mini-forge, and then… there was the whole chicken speared on the pole, which was rotating along with the entire contraption in the heat of the coals below.. Artigan gaped, darted forward and stuck his head out of the window. Bolted to the side of the building was a child-sized windmill, turning softly in the steady breeze. Artigan burst out laughing. “Are you… did you make a petching windmill so you could cook a chicken?” “You bet your ass I did,” Trigol said proudly. “Because I can’t cook for shyke, but I know what a good chicken looks like. All I’ve got to do now is check in here and there, see how it looks and then get on with what I’m doing. I’d hire a cook, but they’d get in the way. Let the machines do it for me.” The young man managed to swallow his laughter, but was still grinning. “That… is lazy, but spectacular.” “I’m a gadgeteer, boy; the whole point of my work is finding really smart ways to be lazy, and then selling them to rich folk for stupidly high prices.” “That is amazing.” “Don’t pretend you don’t have your own ideas. If you had all the tools in the world, what would you make?” Artigan sobered, then quietly answered, “... A boat.” “A boat. That’s it?” “I want to make a boat… that sails itself.” Trigol smiled wisely. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Crowley. A boat that sails itself? That sounds like a smart way to be lazy to me.” Artigan opened his mouth, then closed it. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” “Good, it’s meant to be one. You got any idea how to make this boat sail itself, or is it just a pretty daydream?” The young gadgeteer almost responded indignantly, but then realized that it wasn’t an insult - it was a challenge. “You have paper?” Artigan asked. “Right on that table,” Trigol replied. “Show me what’s in that head of yours.”

[Artigan Crowley]

Artigan scrounged around for a blank piece of paper and some charcoal. Trigol cleared a space for him to work. “Here,” Artigan said, “is the boat.” With quick, clumsy fingers, Artigan sketched out a very basic shape of a boat, as seen from above. “Wow,” Trigol whistled. “You are shyke at drawing.” “Don’t care, watch me. Here,” in the top corner of the paper, he drew a lopsided circle. “Imagine a waterwheel – like on a sawmill. A wheel powered by water. So my thinking is, if a wheel can be moved by water…” “Can water be moved by a wheel?” Trigol finished. “Go on.” “A rotation device of some sort.” The young gadgeteer drew a line which then bent up, then level again. “You know, like how a hand drill works?” “Yes, I see what you’re saying. If you could attach a rotary bar to the wheel, you could move it by hand.” “Yes, exactly.” Artigan drew two thin rectangular boxes on either side of the boat to represent the wheels in question. “But you’d still need to move it. I suppose you could attach it to something that winds up, but that’s still you.” Artigan smiled. “Not with magic.” That stopped Trigol short. He tilted his head, then grinned like a child being handed candy. “Magic.” “Magic. If I can make wheels move by hand, I can make wheels move by magic.” The Isur chuckled. “Does Thorin know you want to do this?” Artigan’s glee was suddenly snuffed. “No. I haven’t told him.” “How in Rhysol’s name do you expect to do something like this by yourself?” “I can’t.” “You need an extra pair of hands for this.” “I know. It, uh… this is actually… why I came here.” All the pieces fell together in Trigol’s head. He leaned back, nodding wisely and looking Artigan up and down. “I see.” “I just don’t want to fix any more sawmills!” Artigan exclaimed, tossing his hands up. “I don’t want to do sawmills or spinning tables, I want to do this.” He gestured at his drawing. “I’m just… I’m tired of making other people’s ideas. Does that make sense?” “More than it would to Thorin, I’d bet,” Trigol chuckled. “Listen, lad, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders – I can tell. You don’t look like you’ve got much experience, but good ideas and a thick skin can get you started. This isn’t going to be easy for you to build, that’s for sure, but I can give you space to work it out. That’s what this place is for.” Artigan leaned against the table, glancing at his feet. “Is that a yes, then?” “A yes to what? What was the question?” “... I don’t know.” “Can’t say yes to something I don’t know.” The Isur wasn’t agreeing, but his voice was still somewhat understanding. “Tell you what. Thorin’s probably wondering where you are. Go run on back to him and his sawmills. Make sure you know what you want and what you don’t want; I’ve got my own work to do, and I can’t help you figure that out.” “Is this a nice way of telling me to leave?” “Oh, don’t look like that; we both need time to think. Decide what you want. Spend time deciding. When the spring ends, if you still don’t want sawmills and tables, then you can come back here. If you know what you want, you and I can talk again then.” Artigan still felt… unfulfilled, but didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to risk alienating the only person since Derian that seemed to understand his passion. “Take this scribble with you,” Trigol said, handing Artigan his drawing. “Don’t want this sort of drawing messing my own work up.” “It’s not that bad,” Artigan defended. “Crowley. Lad. You are a horrible artist.” “Is this how you talk to everyone?” “You won’t get better by coddling, now get out of my shop.” “Yes, sir,” Artigan said immediately, grabbing his things and making for the door.

[Artigan Crowley]

Artigan learned quickly that Trigol was not a man of sentiment. As soon as he was out on the street, the door was closed behind him without so much as a farewell. The young man might have thought it deliberately rude, if it hadn’t been for the ideas they’d just shared. He concluded that perhaps Trigol just didn’t waste time with pleasantries. That was alright. The trip back to Thorin’s Forge passed quickly, as did the rest of the day; aside from taking a minor scolding at spending so much time away, there wasn’t much left for Artigan to do other than lend a hand on the foundry. There wasn’t enough time to go back to shore and work on the second to last sawmill damaged by the spring storms. That would wait for another day. Time passed quickly, filled as it was by whirling thoughts. The end of the day crept up silently, and then Artigan was being tossed his things and pointed to the door. And then, in no time at all, he had reached home. Druva was at the door waiting, having heard him coming down the hall. The world slowed down for a moment and grew a bit brighter; Artigan smiled and let out a massive sigh, kneeling down to wrap his arms around her neck. The dog barked, wagged her tail excitedly and twisted to lick at his face, so he growled playfully and wrestled her to the ground, pinned her for a few moments, then let her up. She began bouncing between him and the rest of the house, although less energetically. Artigan stepped into his home and tossed his tools on the bed, herding dirty clothes into a pile on one side. He would have to do laundry soon, and there were dirty dishes from breakfast still on the table. With another sigh, Artigan cleared the table. “We need another body in here,” the gadgeteer said to his dog. “What do you think, Druva? One more set of hands to keep me from making this place a pigsty? This is why my mother was worried about me.” Druva pushed her forehead against Artigan’s knees, tail still wagging. “Yes, I think so too.” Artigan scratched her for a few moments, then found some food for her. She was on alert immediately. “Sit,” he said. It took a few moments, but Druva took her eyes off her dinner and did as she was told. “Lay down.” More focused this time, the dog obeyed more quickly. “Good girl,” Artigan praised, setting down her dinner. As she ate, the young man retrieved his journal and pen and sat at the table. 78th of spring, 517 a.v. Another spinning table. The proprietor of Reflections was pleased with her new display. Soon enough I expect to be shipped back to shore to look after the last of the Calico sawmills. Trigol’s Tools and Trade. I doubt I’ll forget the name, but I should write it nonetheless. I went there today, and spoke to Trigol. He’s an Isur, with a red arm, smart mouth and many curious thoughts about… things. Trigol is a gadgeteer. Am I excited to know this? Yes. But also, perhaps, somewhat stung. I feel like a household songbird that has glimpsed another bird flying free, and come to realize that I am caged. I want to make my boat. I can do it, I know I can; it isn’t the principle that stops me, it’s the resources. I doubt Thorin would be interested in something as frivolous as a boat that moves itself. Trigol would like to see it made. His method for cooking chicken should prove that he appreciates frivolous things if they allow him to do less work. Or are simply interesting. I wonder how fast I can make my boat go. The end of spring, he said. That is how long I must wait to speak with him again – to know if I would prefer him to Thorin. As if there is any question of it. But I shall do as he asks; there are things that cannot be rushed. Like magic. How long has it been since I made my magic? Not since Derian died, I think. Too long. I haven’t had the money. I haven’t had the time. I’ll need magic to make this boat. And no good magic can ever come from rushing. The end of spring, then. We shall see what Trigol thinks of me then. - End -

[Karyk]

 

Artigan Crowley

Skills
Socialization: 5
Business: 2
Organization: 1
Philosophy: 1
Gadgeteering: 2
Intelligence: 2
Observation: 3
Drawing: 1
Rhetoric: 2
Writing: 1
Animal Husbandry: 1
Leadership: 1

Lores
Location: Azure Reflections
Contact: Alira Wickham
Business: Attention and advertisement are good for business
Alira Wickham: Not in the business just to make money
Gadgeteering: Wheeled suspension ring for sturdy, mobile, twisting displays
Contact: Trigol
Trigol: A surly Isur gadgeteer
Location: Trigol's Tools and Trade
Gadgeteering: Finding smart ways to be lazy and profitable
Gadgeteering: Water and wheels can propel one another
Gadgeteering Design: Windmill powered cooking spit
Miscellaneous
N/A

 

Notes and Comments

CS Checkmarked: ✓
CS Reviewed by Me: ✓
Season Request was Submitted for Grade: Summer 517
Season Thread was Started (IC & OOC): Spring 517 & Spring 517
Is that Season's expenses paid?: ✓
Eligible for grade? Yes

A most interesting read, I look forward to seeing more of this ship idea of his. Please mark your post in the queue as Graded. Thanks!