Private Affirm Repair And Graft

[Ingenieur Waltz]

A back and forth of call and response of diagnostic test and report from gruff voices seasoned by weave agitated particulates. Manarific ichor did squeeze itself and ebb through pressure points of the capillary systems, soothing and enwildening before the eyes that sent hairs on fingers to tremoring. They circulated red then blue then green to eyes studious. Glass faces with fealty to measurements were tapped to assure their pledges. Taut sinew of metals coiled struck with tuning forks to hear for entwining issues within the weave capacitance of their cores.

“No tarnish, no hyperextension, number twelve clear,” came the report from teeth that rotated a cigar, long since dead and yearning for spark. The tuning fork attachment to wrist mounted universal tool of his trade dulling as it did slide back into compartment with slick click.

“Affirm, number thirteen awaiting,” another voice came from a face the first could not see but relied upon in tandem, less seasoned by the off cuts of reality altering weave that did give this magitech of flying luft and drive.

Small exhale before the next calling, gusto in the next barking as momentum summoned.

“Affirm, moving to thirteen,” the first said, cigar wedging to the corner of the mouth as he spoke and clambered, thick fingers digging as a hound might a hole down the ladder. Runefolk had a deftness all their own amongst the rigging of a magitech beast just as well as mineshafts.

The second made a call not directed at him, head turned in the other direction to give supervision to the rest of the team to allow safety measures to be taken. Heat vented from dense copper thermal mesh, taken off and placed upon another pit of outlet. Possibility shunts, things of glass and rune and alabaster shards placed in the ventricles of the intakes. Each themselves worth a week's pay of each of the engineers here, the meshes worth a good bounty's head. And the rest, a myriad of fortunes in deployment.

Waltz got into position, made a call to that distant face that turned to hear his voice address.

“Last one and we'll see if we've done right by her, standing by,” Waltz called, voice different for the most cramped chamber. A ribcage of protruding struts and spokes, of organs of pumping and tusselling, a most dangerous place if one stretched too liberally.

Most folks who clambered the ladders took longer to get into position than the reallocation of safety equipment than he, and Waltz could hear a few remarks of admiration through the system. Sound moved strange and echoed where it shouldn't originate in such a weave resonate place by design. He tapped on the dial that gave dead read out, numbers ready to be assigned by dialhand saluting, and placed palm and gave soothing pat.

“Almost there,” Waltz offered in sincere bedside manner.

A lurch in the ship undergoing the scrutiny of rigging and magitech life to leap airborn and dive. No sound of tool dropping, no spanners clattering. No cursing. Waltz did grind idly on tobacco, biding his hope into time awaiting clearance, his other hand instinctive in seizing on his secures. The palm still soothing.

A sound of sealing of yawning metal lipped mouths, wax applied to double proof the bind. A suction of sound. And then Waltz set to work, unhurried, industrious, rigorous and wrist mounted diagnostics going through their cycles. A prong of copper placed just so and itched against the keystone, chalk powder to test for runic mismatch against it's crystal cousin, the tuning fork against to give rise to tone to know performance.

“Waltz standing by, starting final weaveflush by your mark, affirm!” Waltz called, waiting for the call back which came back promptly.

“Clearance, affirm!”

From outside, an elven sort, fraught and strapped with pilot's harness who coins that had clattered to gain the team's full attention for three full weeks was pacing, that tension that those who knew how to fly but not how to fix did regular endure on faces here. The groaning of wood was theirs to understand, the diagnostic ripples that did reveal in sound and in light and in shudderings were the engineer's to know. Wide broad and elegant, affixed with the latest of overtunings and jury rigged solutions, designed for the best of all worlds in it's prototyping and now returned to the cradle of shipyards. That which was broken, set correct.

From inside, Waltz did work all he had earned in his title with team maintaining theirs in kind. Hands and minds deft to the demands. Call, response, recalibration, mending, testing, on and on, flurry of proficiency, magitech surgery. The layman would mean failure.

Eventually, finally, a smell of ozone and candles snuffed reached the elven's nose, a sound of rippling affirms from within the belly of the flying vessel. Affirms of job done, calls of celebration and cheering, movements of releasing safety gear and themselves from their stations. Sterilization and final touches of harmonisation, clean up of clean work. Talking and exiting.

In short order on deck, twelve engineers did leave in orderly fashion, some shoulders much less tense for the work order complete. Payment, leave, relaxing, no worker injured, reputation intact, a job done well. Down walkway as the engineering group did provide report to the elven pilot who had sighed a deeper relief than his evasion of sky born perils ever had, some chatterings and banterings and jokes and backslapping. The only one who did not have the colours of the RegenGear repair team was the cigar mouthed fellow who was last in removing himself.

Waltz was giving thanks to another who was remarking that he was glad to work together, a nod from Waltz as he walked off wooden gangway and onto the stone dock proper. The day bright to eyes used to the eerie dim and bronzen glow of magitech infrastructure. Goggles secured as Waltz offered words as he squeezed his little finger just so to command his wrist born device.

“Just glad to be doin' right by her with your pitcrew. I'll be around if you be needin' more hard graft while Foreman Clive is bedridden. My rate's my rate, our living is our living. See you at the place when I do,” Waltz said as he peeled away, cigar now tickled by the flame spouting from device. Deep pull as Waltz looked about, the runefolk engineer having earned his pay and his clouds of tobacco to raise.

The wind was steady pressuring that which was harnessed, bargains and luxury services chartered by all manner of accountants and acquirers of service. Replacement parts in barrows wheeling, heated discussion over manner of solutions rising with passions to profit and performance. The clang of rugged pieces against anvil as the bent and buckled was shod into uniform symmetries, hammers switched out by attendants as they reached their limits. Pace went on in consistent hammerfalls regardless of the wearing, cycle of orders, further barkings of repairing sounds. The craft of making luft possible once damage had been endured had an ever present sermon here, with rituals and homilies and songs of all origins and labourings.

Waltz smoked on, savouring what moment was his as he walked slow away from the vessel, a hand running across the belly of the flying vessel given new life. A final reassuring pat to the ship in goodbye, a rumble of bidding farewell in his smoke, “You did real well.” And then his hand left.

His boots plodded onto whatever next job might take his fancy. He had only worked for six hours, and he was sure a sandwich could be haggled from someone's pail, and perhaps an eyeful of a problem he could slot his solutions and cost into. His slow amble one of satisfaction, he did not look back.

Once he said goodbye in such a manner, it was final enough until he might hear or see of them again, in whatever state it roamed home or to it's ruin. One could not grow attached in this business, he thought.

He patted his arm born tool as if it could hear his thinking.

“Unless you work with 'em,” he said, grinned as if talking to fellow conspirator. More smoke did plume as he moved squarely on and in the dockyard of magitech resurrection miracles.

@Miyartha Torra

 

[Miyartha Torra]

Amongst the countless bits of advice Miyartha's brother used to dole out, one of the few that missed its target was his warnings about being too conspicuous. It wasn't because she found him illogical--on the contrary, what bothered her was nearly opposite that. Trying to blend in, trying to fade away: though it was the smart way to weather their troubles, it gave those troubles credence. Both as a child and as a lady, Miyartha found it prudent to stand out whenever they could, be it to take the edge off others' moods or reinvigorate her own passions. If nothing else, it allowed her to intentionally grab people's attention rather than letting her appearance get away with it; if always she would be leered at, she would rather it was on her terms.

More to the point, it was fun!

Along the same weathered docks that Waltz lied was an in-progress airship, its labyrinthine circuitry fully exposed due to half of it's body not being yet built. Active construction would've required a small army of magitechnicians; even low-cost maintenance demanded a fair share of steady hands. Yet the eyes of nearby onlookers did not deceive them, as not only was the vehicle attended by all but one, it was a reach to describe their activity as attending to the airship.

While her activities could be generously described as a diagnostic check, the specifics beggared belief. In lieu of an organized team pouring over each part of the ship, the woman opted instead to jump, dive and leap between the airship's internal machinery, shifting through the ship's machinery as if its gears were handlebars and stepping stones. To do so without scattering the airship's engines seemed unfathomable, yet an arcane eye could spot the trick--with every jump and every landing was a burst of magic. More specifically, she was utilizing some sort of air magic: reducing her weight just enough to not break the machinery she leapt upon while simultaneously increasing her dexterity. Despite all the precision involved, even the daftest engineer could recognize her methods as being slower than the more mundane alternatives, as well as being half a dozen times more dangerous. At the same time, her maneuvering was too well-practiced; more likely than her being too stupid to know better was her theatrics being intentional. And indeed, between her dashing grins, raucous laughter and occasional look back towards her 'audience' they knew exactly what they were doing. The line between genius and stone-cold imbecile was a blurry one.

After five minutes or so, her 'performance' came to an end, falling from the airship's peak to even ground before bowing to anyone who had bothered to watch. It was here when her body became obvious, what with her left arm being covered in bandages and her right arm being a prosthetic (a Magitech one, if the Shroudstones embedded within it were any clue). To her credit, some of the crowd were dazzled enough to clap a little, and she seemingly didn't mind the supermajority that were too confused to be impressed. "Thank you, thank you," she said, young-ish, cheery and spirited. "I'm not a performer, tough as that might be to believe. Just the wielder and maker of the Tempest Engine."

She rested her Magitech appendage against one of the dock's railings, clearly proud of its workmanship. "If anyone wants more demonstrations, just ask. And if you're looking for a talented engineer, well..."

 

[Ingenieur Waltz]

Bundles of observers did remark and banter between themselves, some in half caught in gait at the performance. Half formed commentary astounded out as fresh merit danced about the work, doom dashed and defied, admiration bolstered by administrating skill. Encouraged by edification of danger poise confidence.

Pointed remarks concerning safety quick balking were blunted by the lack of smoke erupting. Quibbles which did not amount to the tragedy they predicted choked themselves out as elegance smothered doubt. Still the nerves became fraughted in some less accustomed to the wild boldness of the pioneer. Waltz was not one of them.

Cigar in mouth, chuffing away as cherry roiled it's reds, his eyes followed the figure industrious. His mind at work with his own commentary, kept solitary and balanced. Step by step closer he did draw, tentative, as to not to disturb by rushing moment, as if he were one to stop this. Wide shod boots, thick gripped and steady. Ears listening to the sound of boots land as graceful as cog alignment upon the gear by engineer so acrobatic. An unfamiliar sound to diagnostic. A new technique, for all it's dramatics, he had never seen displayed by anyone. Jury rigging in the air required balance, certainly, but to do such here at dock? This one, Waltz did think, was better described how a ship might manoeuvre. An engineer grounded working throughout in airship terms, of diving, pitching, shifting, keeling and near gliding, landing, well, well, well. If not a pilot, damn near one in working and at practice.

The cigar gave what soothing smoke to his lungs as his mind did turn as so many engines did as locomotion started.

Those spotting moments of admiration freely were the first to applaud. Waltz himself was one of them. Slow plod of clap made from fingerless glove, thick fingers that cupped and insulating material. Thud of appreciation shunted out of his grip. His arm born diagnostic tool robust to vibration, yet held across his midriff, other hand drawn down to commit the sound. He would not break safety commitments to his own tool of trade in praise of another's ways of defying mundane practices.

His own applause halted as he took cigar fierce hot from his lips, waving smoke and lit end to highlight his approval at what he gestured. His brow seemed as if lathed into jutting surface, his eyes seemed rimmed and dimmed by soot like residue of engine spaces. White of eyes clear relief, sparkle of fierce astuteness within those signs of days working without natural light, in the sparks and glows of living metal and arcane hydraulics.

"You know, always wondered how a one engineer project might be managed timely-like despite it's workspace range-in'. Now I done seen it, mighty fine job how you're about it," he said, stopping his approach as cigar placed in lips again. Teeth engaged and eyes peering with politeness at the nature of the device. A sound akin to interest, of respect and nodding as if agreeing with himself at a thought. A puff of smoke, further words of broaching subjects.

"Why, if all pitcrews could move as you be shiftin', moving as more than one in themselves at position, there'd be a great less synchronising issues. Though most foremen," he said and smiled, inhaling, Glow illuminating the sockets of his eyes as it drew closer to him in spending, "would be spitting brassic," Waltz said exhaling. Plum pleased approving. The expression was well natured and pleasantly said, his meaning being words that might be made cheaply against in spite of clear results. Akin to saying that it couldn't be done despite the proof in the pudding on plate in front.

"You keen to demonstratin' more, perhaps a turn of engine to hear it's rumbles? It's signature? And talent, aye that, talent in the blueprint forged, I see that, clear as biting sprocket." Another gesture up and down at the machine, defering to the project as if it were qualification. Indeed, it did more than paperwork from many colleges to earn a place to prove oneself further. Such was Waltz's experience. A shrewd sniff from Waltz, as if punctuating his assessment as correctly said.

"Glad to be hearin' from yourself too drekly, as to this, Tempest Engine, you've been working on. Might know something aside it to earn from, sound out where your field fits proper in my memory of problem childs, needful projects needing outside skillsets, aye? Coin in it, more aside," Waltz said, his own reminder to seek food abandoned in his appetite, the sustenance of the mind feeding much within him as he gauged the parameters of the Tempest Engine.

@Miyartha Torra