Luck favored the mechanic, as the lantern did not shattered upon being dropped. Both of her hands clasped over her mouth, though not quickly enough to smother the startled cry. Her heart galloped in her chest, and thudded in her ears, until surprised finally cooled into embarrassment.

"Gods," Rayleigh breathed, stooping to retrieve the still-flickering lantern. With a hand that still trembled, she shone the light on what the darkness had transformed into the bleached bones of a long-dead body. It revealed the truth of the matter - the skeleton belonged to a prototype steam engine. Metal pipes twisted to form mangled ribs, and extended downward to disappear beneath a larger pile of scraps. No, Rayleigh realized as she wiped the back of her hand across her damp brow, these were not the remains of a human who met their end among the wreckage. It was the wreckage itself, the remains of a machine without enough worth to cut it in Ettermire. It had been replaced by the flashier, the more effective, and while the woman could appreciate the winds of change, she felt some sadness for the mere husks that were left behind. As long as they lay there, growing weaker beneath Alerar's elements, they would never again be brought to life.

In her own small way, Ray felt she saved these pieces by smuggling them out and breathing new purpose, new life, into them. It was not entirely legal, her fascination with stealing from the junk yard, but "rescuing" seemed easier to swallow than "robbing." And if she did her job well enough, the woman thought to herself, she would never be caught, and forced to describe the difference to anyone.

It was a cruel twist of fate that brought her the sound of approaching footsteps only moments after she had reflected on avoiding capture. Instinctively, Rayleigh's right hand lunged for her gun, drawing it from the leather holster. She meant to blow out the lantern, and disappear among the shadows cast by the great mountain, but the figured moved toward her quickly. As the woman turned to face the one who had surely come to apprehend her, first surprise, and then confusion, danced across her face.

The figure who stood before her was female, determined easily enough by her tidy braid of black hair, and the curves that were not well hidden beneath her mercenary leathers. A large sword was strapped to her hip, and it gleamed dangerously as the lantern light skimmed its golden sheath. All in all, she cut a striking, if not imposing figure. True fear might have gripped Rayleigh, had it not been for the expression the stranger wore. It mirrored her own.

"I heard a scream," the woman stated, wasting no time. "Was it you?" Her voice was deep, and held the sharp edge of command within it. Sheepishly, Rayleigh nodded. The other woman's lips curved downward. "Well, are you hurt?"

Something in the question led Ray to believe arrest was perhaps not her main concern; why would her captor bother asking her about her well-being if she simply planned to confine her anyway? But there was no real way of knowing, unless she were to ask. The hand that gripped the gun slowly inched behind her back in a half-hearted attempt to hide it. "No," she answered finally. "I am not hurt."