89.1 - In Brightest Day, In Blackest Nightsteel
By now, Starfall has been traveling for a fair length of time. Enough for something of a shipboard culture to emerge. As well, shipboard turf.
The cargo holds have been divided and subdivided to make room for all the communal areas not forseen by the shipwrights. A hangar for Meteor. A rehearsal stage. And, in the starboard aft, a smithy. Ever since coming on in Caerwyn, the master smith Artemicion has built a tiny fiefdom of steel and smoke; the latter, thankfully, has been routed into the ductwork and vented outside. Yves was quite insistent that it would help to conceal the motive power of the ship, and Chmurka could cope with having a small area off limits to her meanderings.
The smith has kept busy, as well. Building up a shipboard armory that meets both Isa's exacting standards and the combat experience of an acting troupe has not been easy, but he's not an amateur. Simple, well-balanced blades with hand guards, and sharp bits on sticks to keep things at bay.
He has not given up on his commissions, though. Through channels unknown to most of the crew (seriously, how is this happening?) he will receive special orders, and when this happens his doors are closed and locked and only days later, after the noises have ceased, does he emerge. The commissions vanish as mysteriously as they came (honestly, someone has to know how he's getting them off the ship) and he seems, for the most part, content. Or at least, he hasn't complained in public. But into every idyllic workman's routine, a little rain must fall. Or a Cardian. Alright, she's not that little either. Whichever way, Isa has called upon Artemicion, turning an angular lump of ore over in her hands. She doesn't ask if he's busy; if he was he'd be working on something, and she'd look like an idiot for asking. Instead, "Got something you might want to look at." Artemicion does not straighten up from his position as Isa enters. "Turn the light on and show me," he says. He is poring over a microscope and jotting notes down in a yellowing notepad. Isa turns on the overhead light, and sets the lump of ore down on the workbench with a dull thunk. "Picked this out of yesterday's bounty. Recognize it?" He slides the notepad into a pocket in his apron and turns. "It's not darksteel," he says after a second and a half of analysis at a dozen paces. She shakes her head. "No, it's not. Thought it was for a minute, until I realized there's enough there to buy this ship twice over if it was." The blacksmith pulls on a pair of gloves and walks over to take a closer look, never taking his eyes off of the metal. "This is... nightsteel," he says after a moment. "Engineered as a replacement for darksteel. Caerwynian told me it was Cardian. Cardian told me it was Caerwynian. Both agreed it wasn't good enough." He hefts the ore, arching an eyebrow at some detail in the weight. "Not much is." Isa narrows her eyes a bit. "If it's from Cardia, it's not Cardian," she says with some distaste. "But it's not nothing, either. Darksteel is hard to work, and even harder to rework; how does this compare?" "Tolerable," Artemicion says, using the same tone Isa uses when one of the actors doesn't fail a training exercise as she expected. "It will hold its shape. I like it more as a reinforcement than I do a centerpiece. Tensile strength looks lower than you'd like." Isa reaches down to her hip. "My uncle told me that when you forge darksteel, you give it a name." She unclips her spear, holds it in her palms. "So it knows what it is, and remains so. Supposedly, even in a dragon's breath." "I've heard some fanciful things about it too," Artemicion says, not impolitely. "Darksteel holds its form after forging better than any other metal. Resists any enchantments once it's cooled." Isa nods. "Constant. Reliable. This spear was forged before the Great Crystal shattered, and it's as strong now as it was then." Her expression hovers between thoughtful and troubled for a moment, then determined. "But if you can't change, you can't grow." Artemicion looks up at Isa for the first time. He doesn't say anything, and just waits. "If you knew this spear's name, where would you reinforce it?" His eyes drop to the spear. He walks closer, inspecting it closely, his pompom dancing over his head as he nods thoughtfully. At one point he gestures for Isa to turn it over. After four minutes of silent analysis, he speaks. "Here," he says, pointing to the first appearance of wood in the design. "A ring, first, to strengthen the connection. That blade's never going to give. The wood might. I've seen you fight," one artisan to another, "and the landing puts the highest pressure here. Strengthen it here. Nightsteel's not as strong as darksteel, but applied correctly it will make the darksteel better than before." Isa nods. "How long?"
"A day," Artemicion says. "Plenty of time." Isa grips the haft of her spear tightly, turning it until the edge catches a glint of the forge fire's light. Then, she sets it down on the workbench. There's two full breaths before she pulls her hand away. She leans down, close to Artemicion. And quiet, too quiet to be heard by any but the two of them, even if someone were to brave the smoke in the ductwork, she whispers to him a name. Straightening, she nods. "I'll be back then," she says, and leaves before she can change her mind.
The cargo holds have been divided and subdivided to make room for all the communal areas not forseen by the shipwrights. A hangar for Meteor. A rehearsal stage. And, in the starboard aft, a smithy. Ever since coming on in Caerwyn, the master smith Artemicion has built a tiny fiefdom of steel and smoke; the latter, thankfully, has been routed into the ductwork and vented outside. Yves was quite insistent that it would help to conceal the motive power of the ship, and Chmurka could cope with having a small area off limits to her meanderings.
The smith has kept busy, as well. Building up a shipboard armory that meets both Isa's exacting standards and the combat experience of an acting troupe has not been easy, but he's not an amateur. Simple, well-balanced blades with hand guards, and sharp bits on sticks to keep things at bay.
He has not given up on his commissions, though. Through channels unknown to most of the crew (seriously, how is this happening?) he will receive special orders, and when this happens his doors are closed and locked and only days later, after the noises have ceased, does he emerge. The commissions vanish as mysteriously as they came (honestly, someone has to know how he's getting them off the ship) and he seems, for the most part, content. Or at least, he hasn't complained in public. But into every idyllic workman's routine, a little rain must fall. Or a Cardian. Alright, she's not that little either. Whichever way, Isa has called upon Artemicion, turning an angular lump of ore over in her hands. She doesn't ask if he's busy; if he was he'd be working on something, and she'd look like an idiot for asking. Instead, "Got something you might want to look at." Artemicion does not straighten up from his position as Isa enters. "Turn the light on and show me," he says. He is poring over a microscope and jotting notes down in a yellowing notepad. Isa turns on the overhead light, and sets the lump of ore down on the workbench with a dull thunk. "Picked this out of yesterday's bounty. Recognize it?" He slides the notepad into a pocket in his apron and turns. "It's not darksteel," he says after a second and a half of analysis at a dozen paces. She shakes her head. "No, it's not. Thought it was for a minute, until I realized there's enough there to buy this ship twice over if it was." The blacksmith pulls on a pair of gloves and walks over to take a closer look, never taking his eyes off of the metal. "This is... nightsteel," he says after a moment. "Engineered as a replacement for darksteel. Caerwynian told me it was Cardian. Cardian told me it was Caerwynian. Both agreed it wasn't good enough." He hefts the ore, arching an eyebrow at some detail in the weight. "Not much is." Isa narrows her eyes a bit. "If it's from Cardia, it's not Cardian," she says with some distaste. "But it's not nothing, either. Darksteel is hard to work, and even harder to rework; how does this compare?" "Tolerable," Artemicion says, using the same tone Isa uses when one of the actors doesn't fail a training exercise as she expected. "It will hold its shape. I like it more as a reinforcement than I do a centerpiece. Tensile strength looks lower than you'd like." Isa reaches down to her hip. "My uncle told me that when you forge darksteel, you give it a name." She unclips her spear, holds it in her palms. "So it knows what it is, and remains so. Supposedly, even in a dragon's breath." "I've heard some fanciful things about it too," Artemicion says, not impolitely. "Darksteel holds its form after forging better than any other metal. Resists any enchantments once it's cooled." Isa nods. "Constant. Reliable. This spear was forged before the Great Crystal shattered, and it's as strong now as it was then." Her expression hovers between thoughtful and troubled for a moment, then determined. "But if you can't change, you can't grow." Artemicion looks up at Isa for the first time. He doesn't say anything, and just waits. "If you knew this spear's name, where would you reinforce it?" His eyes drop to the spear. He walks closer, inspecting it closely, his pompom dancing over his head as he nods thoughtfully. At one point he gestures for Isa to turn it over. After four minutes of silent analysis, he speaks. "Here," he says, pointing to the first appearance of wood in the design. "A ring, first, to strengthen the connection. That blade's never going to give. The wood might. I've seen you fight," one artisan to another, "and the landing puts the highest pressure here. Strengthen it here. Nightsteel's not as strong as darksteel, but applied correctly it will make the darksteel better than before." Isa nods. "How long?"
"A day," Artemicion says. "Plenty of time." Isa grips the haft of her spear tightly, turning it until the edge catches a glint of the forge fire's light. Then, she sets it down on the workbench. There's two full breaths before she pulls her hand away. She leans down, close to Artemicion. And quiet, too quiet to be heard by any but the two of them, even if someone were to brave the smoke in the ductwork, she whispers to him a name. Straightening, she nods. "I'll be back then," she says, and leaves before she can change her mind.
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