2018-05-27: The Nature Of A Sword

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  • Log: The Nature Of A Sword
  • Cast: Prissa, Loren Voss
  • Where: Hyland Army Lines
  • Date: May 27th 2018
  • Summary: While investigating events and potential outcomes of the siege out among the Hyland army's camp followers, Loren crosses paths with Prissa once again and ends up discussing his broken sword. A blade lives anew.

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

LATE AFTERNOON
HYLAND ARMY LINES

Every military camp of long duration acquires a cavalcade of followers and service providers to do things like clean laundry, provide grocery equipment, the third-oldest profession, and give people the opportunity to waste time in a profitable way.

Fortunately for everyone, BLADE DREAMS is not giving the kind of pounding that many a soldier boy wants. No, this place is doing equipment repair and gear detailing. There is a price board up, but the business seems quiet, with the proprietor reclining on a stool against a piece of old stonework that's serving as shade for a forge.

She taps on the lid of her weird drum thing. She says something aloud, but it might just be an elaborate sigh since it doesn't make sense.

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    One of the things they've learned about the situation here on the moon is that they had, very nearly, landed right into the middle of an ongoing conflict on this continent.

    It sort of figures -- they jump from working with one conflict among lamps to yet another conflict among lambs. Perhaps this is also a situation they can turn to their advantage, but that depends highly on information... and their ability to insinuate themselves without drawing undue attention upon themselves and their predicament in the forest.
    Even insects can be dangerous in the right situation. The last thing they need is for Rolance and Hyland to drop their weapons and turn on a new 'threat'.

    This is one of the reasons Loren has been reassigned from his duties somewhat further afield ('find and report back on social, political, or discoveries found in the ruins that dot the moon') and set to investigate amidst the military camp here.

    It sort of helps that a 'practicing doctor's apprentice' can find work amongst the camp followers, though he's had to be careful. The military proper's on the watch for potential spies from the other side, and while he's the former certainly, he's not at all working for the latter.

    Still, he's managed to learn a thing or two from the other service providers... and all he's had to do is tell people to stop doing something if it hurts when they do it.
    Okay, and there's been at least one embarrassing medical consult that's left him questioning his life choices, but that's practically par for the course at this point.

    IN ANY CASE

    Bag slung over his shoulder, he's in the process of walking the grounds (counting individuals involved and what they have at their disposal) when the dull (and familiar) thud of a strange drum punctuates the otherwise typical dull roar of the camp.

    ...It's her again. That weird, strange, weaponsmith girl.
    Briefly, Loren considers making tracks in the other direction.
    And yet, he hasn't actually spoken to anyone involved in potential provisioning. He shifts the bag slung over his shoulder, and makes as if to steel himself--

    And feels the weight of the blade fragments wrapped up and tucked into the depths of his bag shift.
    He pauses, for a moment.

    What was the saying for this? 'Kill two birds with one stone'?

    "Hey, you."

    It is not perhaps the most polite of greetings as he makes his approach, eying both her and what she has on offer -- particularly given the situation they last parted under.

    "Selling wares to soldiers now?"

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

The drumming stops.

The head of the weaponsmith turns to look at Loren. She doesn't smile at him. Indeed, she does not perk or bounce at all. "Ah," she says, "it's you again."

She reaches up to nudge her tinted glasses up the bridge of her nose.

"Yes," she says. "I like to make sharp objects, which are the traditional thing to use in a war with Hyland. As you may be aware, you being a man of education and refinement as I can see from your smooth, ladylike hands, this tends to put some wear and tear upon the object in question. In an army of course they have men to help handle this, but never enough, and there are the officers besides -"

Her head tilts.

"You're jingling," Prissa states. Behind the glasses her eyes flick to the side, then focus on him. "Why do you jingle?"

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    To say that the look he gives her is withering would be an understatement. "Yes, of course. How insightful of you to notice."

    Surreptitiously (maybe) he touches thumb to forefinger on his left hand, briefly rubbing the two together. It's true that the surfacers -- and their ilk on the moon -- tend to do work that leaves their hands calloused, but...

    The moment of insecurity, however, passes. Loren squares his shoulders, as if making some internal determination on this particular direction of answers presented to him, and shakes his head. "I know. But what are you doing here?"

    Because the last he recalls, she learned potentially a little too much.

    It's the contents of his bag that give the game up ahead of schedule. He glances down. The bag's contents rattle again. "This? It's--"
    It would be easy to tell a misdirection here. Claim it's supplies.
    But for one thing, medical supplies on the moon don't typically 'clank' like that. And, besides that, he had had a thought just now of something he could do to fix another of his past mistakes.

    he sighs. "Fine. It's a sword. Parts of it, anyway." He gives Prissa the once over; as acting goes, it's almost completely believable. "I don't suppose you're good enough to reforge a broken sword?"

    Broken, actually, is an understatement...

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

Prissa's hands do not seem particularly coarse, but when she raises an index finger to wag at Loren, he can see that there are points that she probably works with a pumice stone. Nonetheless her nails are neat, if short. "There is this wonderful invention called money. And besides, many a noble knight wants to get his sword sharpened, and much like my drinking friends, I know that working a knight's sword today, is a wonderful way to get into his house, tomorrow."

Then she comes in the face of a challenge.

"Tck," she says, tapping her teeth with her fingernail. "All the parts? You know which parts are important, don't you? If you have them, lay them out, and I will see what I can do. I will not blow smoke up your arsehole, it could be that the sword you know would only be reborn in -"

Prissa pauses, lips working for a moment. Loren may be vaguely reminded of early days in surface language class.

"In the worst case I would have to cast anew, but with the same steel," Prissa explains. "Or with something to add. Do you know the lore of metals at all?"

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    What can he do at that except sigh? "Yes, of course, it's all about money."

    He doesn't even blink at the rest of her commentary. He... probably didn't notice the innuendo at all to judge by the vague bafflement in his gaze as he tries and ultimately gives up on making sense of her words. Well, they say that scholars can be a little sheltered.

    "...Most of them," he says, hedging a bit here.
    The sword hadn't so much broken as shattered, its previous insults pushed past their limit by frost and a carefully-applied strike.

    "Lay them out and I will see what I can do."

    In this, apparently, he's intent on providing just a little bit of resistance (even in spite of the fact that he has everything to gain from her assistance here and little to lose). This is the reason why he stares at her for a long moment, then kneels and slowly undoes the clasps for his bag.

    The hilt comes out first.
    It takes a little while longer to lay the rest out before her. All of this is probably most of the sword in about four pieces; with the damage that was done to it, there are probably small pieces and shards that are lost.

    Even outside the obvious issue with it being in multiple pieces, the metal itself is warped in some places, blackened in others. This is a blade that had not had the best of care, to put it mildly, before whatever had broken it.
    Still, even through that full assortment of unfortunate blade damage, it's clear that this is a sword that had once had a keen edge, had been crafted by a master (as befit one of the elite of his society). It just never had the chance to see real battle.

    Something in his chest catches at the sight of all of it, strewn broken out before him.
    I should have left it.
    I couldn't.

    Which is the point where she asks after the lore of metals, and even a look at his face would return the answer he freely gives: "No, I don't."

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

The hilt comes out. Prissa takes off her glasses and scoots forwards towards the counter whereupon these things are arrayed. "Hm," she says, a little flatly.

Perhaps Loren will be surprised at what comes next.

"I must touch it," she says. "To know. Do you permit me to touch it?" Her eyes turn up towards Loren then. They're a weird shade of green, and she looks down immediately afterwards.

Her fingertip points to the hilt. "That in particular. I must open it, and to do so may wreck it. I see that it has suffered flame."

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    'Surprised' is a good way of summarizing it. He blinks, his expression asking the question that doesn't quite rise to his lips: 'isn't that assumed?'

    Blue meets her green.

    Then, she clarifies what she means.

    Take it apart, in other words. There won't be any turning back the moment it's completely disassembled, and it might not be salvagable. So the question is this: leave things as they are and broken, or hold out a frail hope--

    "Yeah. I think it did." Loren falls silent before finally stating: "...Do it."

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

Prissa picks up the hilt.

She examines the bolting. "Where did you find this?" she asks, before she turns it and holds it in her hand and half-pivots and POP out come several parts that may surprise Loren. She sets them aside, sorting out the shards in a sort of skeletal outline of a probable blade, fingers moving like a jigsaw speedrunner as she says, "Well, I will not educate you at length, as you no doubt know much already, and it would be a shame to displace such knowledge."

"Metals such as this are not made from ore in the ground direct. The ore is first purified of what is there but unwanted, and then, oh, here is the funny part - then you mix in new things. A certain grade, a certain way of preparation... the structure of the metal is different. Its very character. If you could see it with the eyes of heaven you would know what I mean! But I won't demean you by trying to give you my samples to play with."

"This is an issue for a blade that has been burnt such as this," Prissa says, holding up a large fragment, "because it is not just the case that the metal has been broken. Heat sufficient to give this sort of an appearance will also alter the character of the metal, even if nothing else is done. If you have ever deigned to watch one of us work, you will know now why we quench the metal in water or oil or - well; I won't bore you."

Prissa then raises the base of the blade, the part of the sword that was wrapped in hilt grip pieces. "That is why I asked for this so nicely," she says. "Because this gives me an idea of the character."

The metal is flexed. Felt. Finally, and perhaps shockingly, tasted. "Huh," Prissa says. "Huh! This is very good stuff. So I have for you now good news and the bad news."

"Which do you want first?"

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    It's perhaps not completely easy to see -- since it's in several pieces -- but the whole sword had at one point likely been about four feet in length. If the condition of his hands weren't already enough to tip one off, his height alone would have been a suggestion of the other issue at stake: he's not tall enough for it to have been 'made' for him.
    He's clearly found it somewhere.

    Which is a point of fact that he seems keen on not answering, his silence perhaps as much as an indictment as any regarding the circumstances in which it'd come into his possession.

    Perhaps surprisingly, he's listening as she explains a few things about metals. Sullenly, yes, but he is listening.
    Earth, Loren knows, encompasses a wide range of minerals. They vary upon location, the stresses they've endured, what events have taken place in the preceeding eons, and so on.
    Geology he knows more as a means to an end rather than a field or interest or study -- to use earth you have to understand at least on the basic level the processes of earth.
    In a way, this is mimicking the effects of the heat and pressure deep within the earth, except...

    "So it's a process of refinement. Adding in what's needed, removing what isn't," he restates. The pressure and heat, except controlled and directed, even down to the point of the initial players insofar as the minerals involved are concerned.

    Once heated and warped, rock is never again the same.
    "...Oh," comes his reply, folding his arms over his chest.
    Then it was never possible. I should have known. If it were still intact, maybe I could have taken it home--
    A useless thought, he realizes.
    "So there's no going back. Is that it?"

    His gaze settles on the apparent heart of the blade, freed from where it had been buried. So that's how it's done? They forge the blade and set it into the hilt... he hadn't thought about the practicality of a sword before.

    There is a moment of revulsion that crosses his face when she licks the metal. "What are you--"
    There won't, in the end, be much space to protest too much.

    He visibly hesitates.

    Might as well get it over with.

    "What's the bad news?"

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

"Exactly so! Refinement and purification. You are an educated man!" Prissa says.

"The bad news is that this blade is dead," Prissa states. "You have brought me a corpse and I am sorry, because I know that to show your face to me, the star swordsmith of this age, after your past behavior; this is an act of great compassion."

Prissa breathes in, one hand half-raised.

"The good news," she says, "is that metal only lives to be born again, and it would not take so much to make one that is perhaps seven or eight - excuse me, four or five inches shorter, so that it will fit you. This weapon was made for a person who was taller than you are."

Prissa taps her nose. "But length isn't everything."

She leans forwards, arms folding on the counter as she reaches for and puts on her glasses. "I can do this for you. I can even add feum funaci, it will be stronger. It depends on how much you have in your pocket. But there is a more important question:"

"What will you use this sword for?"

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    Prissa informs him that he is an educated man, and Loren makes a face that suggests he's rather doubting the sincerity of her remark.

    But then there comes the bad news.

    It's dead.

    There's little other way to describe the look on his face: he's at a loss. "How can there possibly be good news after that?" he utters, his expression only settling into mute irritation when she brings up his past behavior.

    There can be good news because metal -- like the earth it was born from -- can be broken down and born anew.

    "...Right. I--" Well, he should have known that. Apparently, though, the lessons didn't quite stick...
    Made for a taller person. That woman had also said as much. "Did you really have to bring that up?" He's about normal height, even, just-- even there he'd been outmatched.

    Unfortunately for him, this one doesn't go sailing overhead. He stares at her for a moment in silence, his expression a mix of disgust and embarrassment. He shifts as if he's about to say something else, at that, but the words don't quite come.
    Embarrassment probably won this round, so to speak.

    How much does he have? A bit, though it means depleting traveling funds. This time it's not quite like it was on Filgaia -- they can afford a variety of expenses here, but he doesn't want to draw anyone's attention to this, or the fact that he messed up. Maybe there's something he can do on the side if comes down to it. His forehead creases. "...Feum funaci?" It's not familiar to him.

    But financial concerns are soon sent scattering.

    "What will you use this sword for?"

    He starts, as if considering this question for the very first time.

    He'd thought it might be enough to repair it if possible. See if it could be sent home. Something, as nebulous and unattainable as the thought he'd had in the first place that it might be repaired.

    "I..."

    But, as stupid as it seems, as much as he prods at the idea of it. As much as he knows he can't do it--
    There's a part of him that's still about twelve years old and wants to be a soldier. A real soldier, not just someone providing support. Forget his talents and training, forget all of his inclinations, he just wants to--

    This is stupid, speaks the logical part of his mind.

    What Loren actually says is: "I want to fight."

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

"Is this sensitive? If you eat a lot of sugar you'll grow outward, at least," Prissa says, before she listens.

("Feum funaci is an unusual metal," Prissa explains. "If you find it in your travels I ask you to bring me some. You won't know it by name. I'll show you a sample.")

"A scholar who wants to fight," Prissa says, slowly. "This is your dream?"

She seems obscurely excited. There is a tension here but it isn't Ether.

<Pose Tracker> Loren Voss has posed.

    "Is this sensitive?"

    "What do you think," he grouses. It's not that he thinks about this a lot, but some people just have a habit of rubbing it in...

    (As for the strange metal, that's apparently something he's... willing to listen on about, if that nod of his -- he's probably a little bit befuddled, if not a little bit curious, himself -- suggests anything.)

    ...His dream?

    There's only one thing he wants to attain in life.

    "Close enough to it," he answers her, perhaps a little cryptically. "Yes."

    Even if her apparent excitement is already making him a little wary.

<Pose Tracker> Prissa has posed.

Prissa grins crookedly. "Then, let us do it."

                         The metal dream has begun.

                                  SOLOMONOV
                           The Razor of a Scholar

A blade that reveals the truth of a student.

Stage One.............. COMPLETE! A perfectly balanced cavalry saber with a leather grip and a lapis-lazuli hilt ornament. Has a peculiar maker's mark. Resistant to corrosion! Further Stages will produce greater powers.

Stage Two Unlock: 8x "Feum Funaci", 1x Ink of the Sea, 1x Ink of the Earth, 1x Ink of the Air, 13x Vellum, 1x Emerald, 1x Sapphire

Stage Three Unlock: ????
Stage ULTIMATE: ????

When Loren gets back from his mandatory expedition, the weapon is there. The shape is the same, though the grip, it seems, could not be reproduced. "I used the bits, to make sure the alloy was close," Prissa says, who is reclining against the counter with one of those tradeswomen's pipes and looking proud of herself. She uses it to indicate. "Don't use it to parry a huge blast. It'll snap like a twig and you will feel so silly. Tell me how it goes."

"There's room, of course, to grow."

(Prissa also shows Loren this enigmatic "Feum funaci." She has several small ingots of this peculiarly weighty metal, and samples of ore that contain it. Mostly iron ore. To Loren this is not a mystery at all: It's tungsten.)