View Full Version : Cleaning Out the Clinker (solo)
OOC: this thread is being written primarily to allow me to develop Otto's background, social ties (from his profile history), and to brush the dust off of my writing skills. My main concern is that the content I post can be considered canon for Otto; moderators should feel free to place this at bottom priority for grading and awarding EXP (if any).
Otto landed the hammer hard and with a sense of finality. He'd aimed it well enough, even against his better judgement. Under it's impact, the iron breastplate buckled with a sickening metallic shriek, underlain by a familiar crack. Otto watched it apathetically through a haze of fatigue as it dropped with a thud and clang. A thought drifted through the fog of his mind: Emric spent days on that thing. He's going to be pissed.
As an afterthought, he added, Especially since he's still wearing it.
Otto limped away from the wet coughing noise now coming from the ground at his feet. The Orc had made that same sound on several occasions before at the Citadel - no doubt Emric had a cracked rib or two from that last strike. The lad would be trying to clear his punctured lungs as they filled with blood, but each cough jostled the broken bones enough to make him try and scream out with agony. But he couldn't. One required air for that, and Emric was instinctively coughing as much of it up as he could. Otto was vaguely interested to know whether the boy would asphyxiate from the implacable coughing fit or drown in his own blood first.
Of course, he had his own problems. One of Emric's last wild stabs had come up under Otto's hauberk - the boy had used a short sword in the fight - and had probably nicked an artery in his right thigh. The damned thing wouldn't stop bleeding; Otto couldn't have landed the final strike soon enough considering how light-headed he was feeling already. He staggered away a few more steps before the bad leg gave way below him. The other one, unwilling to go on alone, followed suit a second later.
Damn. The door's just... there...
The weight of his armour seemed to have evaporated away by this point. With great solemnity, and now on his knees, Otto toppled forward against the rough timber of the portal. The rising fog quickly rose up to claim him, obscuring everything around him; the pressure of his armour, the splinters scratching at his cheek, the hard stones beneath his legs, the stabbing pain in his thigh. Finally all that was left was the desperate wheezing behind him. As that, too, faded away, Otto was sure the sound changed into a black-humoured, choking little laugh.
One last, bitter chuckle echoed with him into oblivion.
There was the briefest sensation of awakening from absolute nothingness. It was even less than the cold and emptiness of the void, born from the complete lack of an extant sentience to observe either.
Then there was a slap, so strong it birthed the universe and flung galaxies of ringing pain into the orbit of life awakened. Otto's eyes shot open. His left cheek stung.
"Rise and shine, princess." That sounded like Emric. Otto's eyes swiveled to the right. Emric had somehow glued his feet to the wall - no, wait, Otto was lying down - and was grinning wildly at him. Otto couldn't help noticing that the boy had removed the armour from his upper body and was just wearing a bloodied woolen shirt.
Judging from the feel of taught, uncushioned linen beneath him, Otto judged that he was on a pallet set up for those recovering from bouts at the Citadel. He swung his legs over the edge without thinking, thought a bit, retroactively winced in expectation of pain, and realised there hadn't been any. He should be used to that by now; the healing provided by the Ai'Brone monks was absolute. He rubbed his face and, absent-mindedly, started picking bits of wood out of his beard.
"I won?" Otto queried, then winced. It was proving difficult to differentiate splinters from the stiff bristles that normally adorned his face.
"Not a chance," Emric replied. He offered a hand. Otto grasped it, and, heaving himself up, almost knocked the other boy to the ground. Of course the monks had removed his armour; Otto was clad only in his linen garments but had over-corrected for the weight of his hauberk.
"Sorry," he muttered, looking around for his armour. "Wait. I made it to the door, though."
"Yes, but we agreed the winner actually has to make it through. So that makes it a tie."
"Ah. Where's my gear?"
"Oh, that." Emric sounded suspiciously amiable. He shuffled over a pile against one of the walls and picked up his own battered breastplate. "I threw it off of the stairs. I figure, with that nose of yours, you might even find it all before I finish hammering this out again." Otto stared at him, and Emric threw up his hands. "I jest. It's on the other side of the pallet".
Otto relaxed a bit. Sometimes he couldn't be sure.
They geared up in silence. Emric had to leave the straps of his chestpiece loose, otherwise the heavy dent in the metal would press in too hard to allow regular breathing. Otto let the hauberk drop onto his shoulders, his knees buckling slightly from the impact, then proceeded to ram on his boots. He stopped to poke an inquisitive finger through the long gash running down his right trouser leg.
I should get rid of the hauberk's skirt, make some proper mail leggings. I don't doubt he'll try that maneuver again.
Emric spoke first. "Got everything?"
Otto nodded. He stood and, scratching a slightly defoliated patch of beard upon his cheek, followed Emric down the stone steps of the Citadel.
One could feel the city change from up here. When the wind blew in from the sea it always picked up the smell of the docks - if you were lucky, a ship might be unloading spices onto the wharf, but usually it just reeked of fish. The fishermen were most active down there in the small hours of the morning and towards the end of the afternoon, depending on their desired catch. Spouses shouted at the fishermen, the fishermen shouted at the sailors, and the sailors, as far as could be told, shouted at everything under the sun. Gulls cried out into the boundless blue dome above it all. The breeze that came off the water was cool during the day and often balmy into the night. When blowing in from the east it was pleasantly laced with odours of citrus and pome from the valley's orchards - sometimes even the alpine tinge of the Jagged and Comb mountain ranges. Meanwhile the streets below became choked with traffic, stalls, and hawkers by day, with the frequent glint of an armoured patrol here, a flurry of fleeing urchins there, or perhaps the sombre march of a funeral procession away from the din. Then at night, the lights winked on: street lamps, lanterns, store fronts, hearth fires, torches - unlike the constellations above, these lights flickered orange and warm along the geometric patterns of the streets.
A westerly buffeted Otto's black mane. From the sounds of it, Radasanth's sprawling docks had quietened down a bit from the morning's activity. Otto paused at the top of the stairs for a moment and looked out over Corone to judge the time; between the sun's height, the noises in from the Niema, and bustle around the vendor's stalls, it looked to be fast approaching midday. Satisfied, he began to follow Emric down to the city. The boy hadn't glanced back.
Otto's eyes rested on the back of Emric's skull while he let his mind wander. He'd been wary of besting his (and the words still didn't sound right, no matter how he tried them) foster brother in that match. It usually led to trouble. Emric didn't get angry, just a little distant. But bags low-grade coal would end up in amongst the forge quality stuff, or an item that Otto was sure he'd been told was wrought-iron would turn out to be, after it cracked beneath his hammer, high carbon steel. Then Otto would get a yelling from Marten for costing them hours of work or the patronage of a client. Whenever he looked to Emric by this point, the boy would return the gaze with a blank look and keep working, and Otto would have no idea of what was going on in that head. It puzzled Otto no end.
There was no doubt that Emric was a finer smith than he; Marten had, understandably, given the majority of his time and attention to the son who was bound to take on the family business. Emric was also much more popular than Otto - hardly a difficult feat; there were things caked on to the bottom of his boots that people liked more than Otto - but people Emric had never met before were happy to talk with him for an hour on the street. He was attractive even by human standards, having inherited the tall, lean stature of his father along with his strong facial features and the inviting brown eyes and straight blonde hair of his mother. He was certainly not afraid to speak at length with the local girls, and nor they him. But whenever Otto saw him at it, Emric stared daggers in his direction and would act like he hardly knew who the Orc was. And although he was at least as good in the ring as Otto, Emric always had to come out on top. In everything he did, Emric always had to be one step ahead.
"You're unusually chatty today," Emric remarked, speaking over his shoulder. He appeared jovial enough at the moment, but that had never been a reliable indicator of anything. "What's on your mind?"
"The wharf stinks today. The fish must be racing each other to the bait," replied Otto.
"Sometimes I really don't envy that nose of yours."
The two figures ambled on through the streets, one proud and tall, the other hunched and trailing behind. At last they reached the familiar surroundings of old Smiters Row and, down it's dusty street, their home.
The yard fronts southward onto street outside, blocked off by a head-height fence of weathered planks and two wide, inwardly-swinging gates. The heavily compacted ground beyond is rutted from the frequent movement of carts, which currently line the western wall. A wooden lean-to spans the opposite side, stacked with sacks of coal, scrap metal, and other bits of useful salvage - troughs, old tools, stones, bricks, mortar, wood, and canvas sheets. In the corner beyond the lean-to is the forge. It is a squat, grey-stoned building with ochre tiles, high windows, and a couple of heavy oak doors which are never closed while the forge is lit - one faces the gate, the other west. The latter leads out to a tiny brick courtyard that bordered the yard on it's southern edge, flower beds against the western wall, and a couple of steps to the north that lead to the Smith house. Wedged between the forge and the north wall, it is a thin, colombage building sporting a full cruck, a bay window looking out from the upper level, and two brick chimneys.
When Otto and Emric entered the yard they found Marten organising some burlap sacks in the lean-to. Marten was just over six foot and not much shorter than his son, with a strong jawline, blue eyes, and peppered grey hair. He had on his leather apron and cotton trousers, boots, and thick gloves. Emric called out a greeting and the old man glanced up from his work.
"You've got good timing," said Marten, getting back to it. "Kat's just served up lunch. You two grab something to eat, then we have some orders for the garrison to work through. Otto, hold up a moment."
Otto turned back. A jet nugget arced through the air and he caught it in the palm of his hand. The routine was familiar to him: Otto tapped the coal lightly with his hammer and sniffed cautiously at the resulting black dust. Then he threw it back.
"Very little sulfur. Should be fine to work with," the Orc remarked.
Marten nodded. "Good. Get some food, and be at the forge in ten minutes."
Otto eased open the front door and stepped inside. By this point he'd left his gear in the forge and simply wore a short-sleeved linen shirt, working trousers, his belt, and boots. The house's entry was a small square room with the kitchen on the right and stairs on the left running up and around along the back wall. Emric's coat had fallen by the circular rug that straddled the floor, so Otto pegged it back up with the others by the front door. One of the pockets jingled softly; the fee for one of Emric's commissions must have come through. Otto turned to the muffled sound of voices and went through to the kitchen.
Emric had sat himself down at the central table with a hefty slice of salted pork, bread, and a carrot, while Katarina worked at a bench lit by the open shutters lining the house's rear wall. Katarina had aged well over the years, though she had turned a bit dumpy in the last few. The woman had a warm, round face, rich brown eyes and hair like gilded umber. She was normally a vibrant and cheerful person, but at the moment looked a little haggard. She gave a weary little nod to Otto without breaking flow.
"If you're heading that way tonight," she continued speaking to Emric, "could you drop off a couple of things for me?"
"Aye... are you busy tonight, then?"
Otto had rinsed his hands in a ceramic bowl, wiping off the rose-scented water with a small towel. Then he helped himself to a hefty slab of pork, some bread to balance it on, and a rather crisp turnip. He took the seat adjacent to Emric which faced Kat, and started wolfing down the meal. Emric shielded his own food against a few ballistic crumbs while Kat continued:
"No, but you'll be in the area anyway, and I want to go to bed early. I had a terrible night's sleep."
"Alright then," Emric ceded. "What do you need?"
"The Harding ledger. And Rose left two pens and an inkpot here last night. Are you going too, Otto?"
He looked at Emric; Kat's son hadn't mentioned anything about tonight. Not to him, at least. "No," he replied. "But I don't mind running some errands anyway."
Kat smiled. "You're a dear. I need you to deliver an invoice to the garrison. If you can, make sure that lieutenant Solwyn receives it - I don't want it 'lost through administrative error' like last time."
"Will do."
Kat finished plucking the chicken, moving on to evisceration. The boys finished their meal, Otto with the thick smell of warm intestines against his sinuses, and promptly left for the forge.
Otto felt good. The morning exertion had cleared his heads and warmed his muscles. Now having shed his armour, and coupled with a full stomach, he was possessed of a vague floating sensation - like his boots were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, and if he undid his laces then each step would bounce him three feet into the air. He was reasonably certain that his tireless limbs could hammer away until sterling came out of steel.
Otto and Emric sauntered in through the forge's wide open doors, which spilled warmth and the steady breathing of bellows out into the yard. Up against the long northern wall was the forge proper, and in front of that, a couple of anvils basking in the heat. Spaced around the rest of the room were benches, shelves, stands, and assorted paraphernalia of the craft. The forge was well fed; it coughed up fresh sparks with each press Marten made on the piston bellows. It was also the only internal source of light since the building was usually kept dark so as not to obscure the colour of metal heated at the forge. Nodding to the old master, Otto donned his leather apron and gloves, clamped on some fur earmuffs, and selected a pair of round-rimmed protective eyeglasses from their hook. The earmuffs took the edge off the ring of iron under the hammer, but Otto was still able to hear Marten when he spoke.
"We've got a heap of repairs to make," Marten yelled, pointing at a two-tiered table laden with assorted arms and armour, "and a list of new pieces to make. Otto, work your way through that pile, and Emric, you're with me on the list."
Most of the items had minimal damage. Some of the new recruits would dredge up family heirlooms that their forebears had brought back with them in past wars; while ancient mail shirts could turn into useless heaps of rust after just a couple of decades if not cared for, most of these appeared to be pieces damaged during routine drills and had thus fallen below military spec. While Marten oversaw the forging of some new steel goods, Emric watched the bellows and worked as striker when required, or alongside his father when otherwise able. Most of Otto's work consisted of filing away rust, hammering out dents, bending iron back into shape, replacing gashed leather, sharpening blades on the grindstone, and finishing off each bit of iron against corrosion. Boring stuff, really, but soon dealt with. Once free of that he started to help out with the creation of a steel byrnie. This was not a great improvement as it mostly consisted of him puffing away at a treadwheel. This contraption repeatedly fed steel through a draw plate in order to achieve the desired ring diameter. After teasing out enough of the damned stuff he was able to assist in riveting rings for the remaining sections of the shirt. At some point Katarina came with a tray of tea - white and sweet for father and son, black for Otto.
So the day wore on. Outside, the shadows were growing long and the sun was a burnished copper disc dropping to the horizon. Whatever buoyancy had possessed Otto that morning was long gone, burned away through exertion and the sweltering heat of the forge. Still, he worked. He was out in the yard hefting another sack of coal from the lean-to when a young human lad ran in through the gate. The boy stopped immediately once he saw the Orc, eyes wide and fixed on - and Otto was wearily certain of it now - the two short tusks extending from his mouth. After a few second Otto had the impression that the boy needed some help.
"Yes?" prompted Otto.
"Oh... sorry! Is, uh, is master Smith in, please?"
"Yes. Wait here."
Otto knew better than to let just anyone into the forge, especially children. This was not so much out of fear of theft or damage as it was a matter of safety; just because a bit of metal wasn't glowing didn't mean it wasn't hot enough to sear the skin off your hand, and without the eyeglasses, well, an overzealous push on the bellows could well mean blindness. He carried the sack back to the forge and waved for Marten's attention. Marten looked up from the byrnie, lifting one end of his earmuffs and an eyebrow.
"There's someone to see you in the yard." Otto said. Marten nodded and headed outside. Otto took his place but it was less than a minute before the old man came back. He put a letter and upended a small pouch onto a clear spot on a bench. Coins cascaded out onto the wood with a percussive whisper. Marten quickly read the letter - likely a receipt - and, counting the money, put a few of the coins to one side. The rest he pocketed while speaking to Emric, who had taken a distinct interest in the pile.
"Lad, that's your part of the fee for Calwick's sabre."
"Thanks," Emric said. Then he looked up at the light outside. "Actually, it's getting on - I need to head off if I'm going to make it on time. Would that be alright?"
Marten looked to Otto since it meant the Orc would have to pick up the slack. Otto nodded. Though he didn't show it, he was looking forward to the opportunity to work on the higher priority items that usually went to Emric. Marten turned back to his son.
"Sure," he replied, and added: "Don't forget those things Kat wanted you to drop off."
"Thanks! I'll let myself back in tonight. I may be late."
Emric removed his gear and left, pocketing his share of the commission on the way out. Marten, too, started to remove his apron.
"I'm just going to put this away," he said to Otto, patting his pocket. "I'll ask Kat to bring you some more to drink, but I shan't be gone long. You alright with this?"
"Yes, sir," Otto assured him.
"Good."
Marten walked out. Alone in the forge, Otto felt a normally elusive peace settle over him now that he was free to set his own pace for the work. In the homely light of the forge, he turned his attention back to the mail.
Fourteen-gauge round riveted mild steel rings, quarter-inch diameter with standard four-in-one interlocking pattern custom made to fit over a gambeson. Whoever this armour was for, they could probably handle more sharp edges than a barber in a bramble patch and come through without a cut once it was finished. Otto, who was in the process of carefully punching miniscule holes into each and every circle of steel, reckoned that would be about the turn of the century. Kat had recently come in to drop off a large tankard of clean water - which Otto quaffed in one go - and she collected the empty tea cups on the way out. Otto took a lamp off the wall and set it down next to his workspace: the extra light was more than welcome given the fiddly nature of the process. Wind the wire, cut from the dowel, flatten the ends, punch the ends, link them up, rivet them closed - repeat. The sun sank even lower. Marten was taking a lot longer than he had said, but Otto kept working. Soon, though, he would have to head off to the garrison if Kat wanted that invoice securely delivered, otherwise he would have to leave it with a clerk again.
That was it. With another couple of day's work the byrnie should be finished, but it was getting late so for now Otto left the unfinished shirt on the bench. He untied his apron and, removing the gloves and glasses, rubbed his blackened face down with a grubby cloth. The coals in the forge were burning low; Otto blocked the tuyere and settled a heavy lid over it to suffocate the lingering embers. Taking a little water from the slack tub (mercifully, just lukewarm now) he did his best to rinse away the remaining coal from his face and left, closing up shop behind him. On his way to the house, Otto entertained the idea of going down to the Nieme and wading in to have a proper wash once he had visited the garrison.
"Kat?" he called out from the entry. "I can head out now. Where's the paperwork?"
He took his woolen coat off it's peg and was just putting his arms through the sleeves when a rapid thudding heralded Marten's descent down the stairs. Otto's master strode to the front door, blocking it behind his large frame.
"Otto. I need you to turn out your pockets."
"What?" Otto froze, at a loss for words. Kat appeared at the top of the staircase with the invoice in her hand. She looked similarly confused.
"What is it, Mar?" she asked.
"I did a count of the safe when I put Calwick's commission away," he replied. His eyes never left Otto's. "There's one score of gold coin missing. I'm sorry, Otto, I have to check. Turn out your pockets."
Otto's mind drew up a flash of memory - the solid clink of coins from Emric's pocket when Otto had picked it up off the floor, after they'd returned home from the Citadel. Would Emric really go that far? Otto had never even been completely sure that the 'incidents' were the result of Emric's supposed machinations. Everybody made mistakes - but then again Otto felt that he knew when he had, and when he hadn't. Also, there were patterns to these episodes: they usually occurred after Otto had bested Emric at the forge or on the field. Would he really do this to me, though? And I would have noticed the extra weight, surely, only... only, he was so used to heavy work now, and in his fatigued state, would he really know there was a little extra something in his pockets?
Marten was watching him. Kat was watching him. Slowly, as a man might tie his own noose, Otto put his hands into his pockets.
They were empty.
He turned them out, then his inside pockets, and then his trouser pockets. He took off his coat and shirt, upended his boots, and shook out his trouser legs. There was nothing; apparently, he was as poor as a church mouse. Never before had Otto been so glad of that. Marten nodded at him.
"That will do," he said, while Otto slipped his linen shirt back over his head. "Thank you. Have you - either of you - noticed anything today?"
Otto shook his head. Kat couldn't think of anything out of the ordinary. Marten just sighed and climbed back upstairs. When Otto had finished putting his clothes back on, Kat held the invoice out for him. She looked even more tired now and her full lips were drawn out in to a taught line.
"I'll leave a plate out for when you get back," she said.
Otto mumbled some thanks and took the paper from her hand. Then, opening the door, he walked out under the first stars of the evening.
Radasanth's streets hadn't quite cooled down from the day yet, and the wind coming in from the sea had a cold and bitter edge. Much more used to the relentless heat of the forge, Otto buttoned up his woolen coat in an effort to thwart the breeze. At the moment he was trudging down a quiet street basking in the warm orange glow of the city lampposts. A short distance behind him was a watchman doing his rounds; Otto usually made a point of keeping in sight of the law at this time of night lest he come under the scrutiny of far less savoury characters.
Events at the garrison hadn't gone as well as he had hoped. Otto had managed to speak with a clerk of some sort and ask if lieutenant Solwyn was available. The clerk informed him that the lieutenant was conducting business from her office, and Otto could leave a note. Otto offered to deliver the paperwork personally to which the clerk stated - quite sternly - that the living quarters are strictly off limits to civilian traffic, and that Otto would be forcibly escorted from the premises if he attempted to access restricted areas. Recognising that the foul look that had appeared on the elf's face when he first set eyes of Otto was only growing worse, he thanked the bureaucrat and left him with Solwyn's invoice. If Otto hadn't mentioned it was from Marten Smith then he'd be worried that the clerk would have thrown the letter out as soon as his back was turned. Otto hadn't had enough time to be sure but the man seemed to have a vindictive streak, and also might not believe that an Orcish pauper had anything of importance to give an officer of the CAF.
Otto looked over his shoulder; the guard appeared to have turned off towards another street. He stepped into a shadowed doorstep out of the wind and watched the occasional figure amble by. Otto didn't have any business out and about but he didn't want to head home just yet either, and the moon was quite bright so he could probably still head down to the Nieme.
More than that, though, he wanted to find Emric.
Otto didn't know why, or what he'd do once (if) he did; it just felt like something that had to be done. In a strange sort of way he felt like he was in combat, where he moved fast and relied on his instincts for guidance. Right now they were telling him he should find Emric before he got home, before he could could come up with a story, and put him off balance. Otto would find Emric wherever he was and then, if Otto was lucky, he would know what to do.
But where do I start?
Kat was versed in literacy and numeracy; she did extra work by tallying accounts for business owners who weren't particularly good at it themselves or didn't have dedicated staff for such jobs. The Hardings were one of her clients, who also sent their daughter Rose to Kat for lessons. If Emric was already going to be in the area that would mean he'd be heading to the south-east, towards where the two branches of the Nieme conjoined. Most of the shops and vendors there would be closing up now, but those along Willow Lane would remain open for some time yet as they thrived on the business provided by latecomers, night owls, and those looking for a good night out. There were also any number of taverns in the district, but looking through all of those would take the best part of the evening. Otto would have a quick look through Willow Lane first, and if he didn't have any luck with that begin searching the taverns starting with the Stoat and Badger.
Another patrolman had entered the street. Stepping into his line of sight, Otto began heading for his quarry.
Willow lane was a narrow street that curved slightly on it's descent towards the river. Tall, jettied buildings hunched over the worn flagstones below, some displaying wares behind large glazed windows, others fronted by colourful stalls with their goods set out on wobbly tables. There were fruit vendors and fishmongers, second hand stores and shonky shops, seamstresses and tailors, ironmongers and jewellers, each showing off their wares with various degrees of enthusiasm. At this time of night each and every shopkeeper was trying to illuminate their displays more brightly than the competition, resulting in a noticeable rise in temperature and an intense auburn glare along the whole lane. And it was packed. This didn't present much of a problem for Otto in terms of mobility; as an Orc weighing in at over two hundred pounds of mostly muscle he tended just to go through solid objects such as people, rocks, or small trees (and on one previous occasion, a wall). A few people bothered to make way for him, some out of common courtesy but most, admittedly, because they were worried that the smell of Orc would brush off on them. Unfortunately for Otto neither of these really helped much since he could barely see over the top of the crowd. He worked his way down the lane, standing on tiptoes or weaving around to catch a fleeting glimpse between the shoppers.
"Otto! Looking for someone?"
The voice had pierced the din from Otto's right. He turned to face a middle aged human with toffee coloured skin and a long black beard sprouting below a toothy smile. The fellow was dressed in a loose white kaftan and even sported an odd little hat (also white), although the other times Otto had seen him Halit had been clothed in manner much more akin to the local-born men of Radasanth. The small, delicate goods on his table glinted opulently in the torchlight. Halit was a jeweller and a sometimes drinking partner of Marten's; both men worked similar enough crafts to merit professional respect and curiosity without engendering rivalry, so they had always gotten along well enough. He'd always clicked with Otto, too. Perhaps even in Radasanth the outlandish fellow had come to know first hand how first appearances were used as the sole means to judge some people.
"What's the matter, my boy?" Halit continued when Otto took too long to answer. "You lost your friends, yes?"
That made Otto perk up. "I'm sorry, master Halit?"
"I ask because you look as though you search for someone. Emric and his young lady come through not long ago, indeed!" Halit sounded like he still had Loud Hawker mode engaged and had forgotten to switch it off. His Tradespeak was also a bit rougher around the edges than Otto remembered - he seemed much more like a recent arrival heralding from distant shores. Halit leaned in close to Otto and spoke the following in a much more normal voice.
"Play along, lad. People can get knock-off Corone jewellery on every second street, but where else can they get authentic adornments from far off Fallien, eh?" Halit leaned back and, giving Otto a showy slap on the shoulder, added somewhat more loudly: "And for such good prices, too! Who could guess?"
Things were moving a bit fast for Otto. He forced some noises out of his mouth in the hope that his mind might like to join in at some point and make a coherent sentence. "Who? Oh, who, uh, indeed... sorry, look, which way did they go?"
"Down the lane, my boy. I would say they went for some quiet time along the Promenade, hmm? Maybe you should leave them to it, at that."
"Maybe. That's a great help, sir, thank you."
"I gave him a very good price!" Halit shouted to Otto's retreating back. "Come back with a nice young lady of your own and I can do the same for you, yes?"
This stopped Otto in his tracks. For one reason or another he had never given it much thought, but something in the way the jeweler had said it really struck home: perhaps because Halit was actually being serious (although the part about the discount may have been stretching it a bit). Halit, obviously seeing he'd had an effect, widened his smile and winked rambunctiously at Otto. The young Orc desperately wanted to stay and play along, but couldn't think of anything to say - which just made him angrier at himself for appearing so dour. With a last apologetic look, Otto wedged his way between a couple of idling shoppers and disappeared into the crowd.
A few minute's travel saw Otto step on to the rose-hued bricks of South Promenade. It was a fairly pleasant part of town, not home to much of the nobility but rather the wealthy and successful of the merchants and tradespeople. The road was straight and flat, bordered by well cared for two-storey houses which were fronted by small, fenced gardens. A raised green strip bisected the promenade down the middle, nestling flower beds, beeches, and the occasional fountain. South Promenade was a particularly popular spot for young couples under the privacy afforded by night's cover. Some of them were strolling leisurely down and up the road while others sat together on benches by the green. They weren't the only ones, either; as one of the busier places this time of night, the presence of the Watch was a little more noticeable here. An inherently cynical sort, Otto also wondered what the odds were of the guard so readily embracing their civic duty in so affluent an area of the city. In any case their scrutiny posed a problem: Otto was alone, in poor clothes (and of the Orcish persuasion, no less), so he would readily attract unwanted attention from them - not to mention the civilians walking together, arm in arm. The best he could do would be to keep his distance from anyone else, lower his head, keep downwind, and let his nose do most of the work. With a bit of luck the guard wouldn't think he was casing a house or picking targets to mug, and the couples would be too infatuated with each other to see him pass by in the shadows. He got moving, hunting for his mark.
That fellow's too short. There's another under that lamp... definitely doesn't look like Emric. He sampled the air. This one smells too much like blood and meat, probably a butcher. And him, too much of inks, not enough sweat. Is that watchman following me? No, he's turning around.
Otto was halfway down the street. If Emric had come here he'd have had a head start - which could well mean he'd be on his way along the other side of the green. If Otto continued along to the turn at the end he'd be upwind of Emric. Not wishing to lose the scent, and taking a gamble, Otto crossed through a break in the green to the other side of the promenade and continued in the same direction. He'd chosen correctly; less than a minute had gone by when a familiar scent tugged for his attention.
He didn't recognise it at first because it was largely masked by the powerful odour of lavender perfume. When he got closer, though, an acrid tinge burned through on the nostrils; the smell of sulfur from coal caked on in the heat of the forge. Otto had never known Emric to apply any scent at all before, let alone so liberally: he was probably in company. Otto saw that this was the case when he got a bit closer to the source. The two of them were on a bench under one of the trees, softly lit by a lamp post that reached to the lower branches. Otto recognised the girl: her name was Arwyn, an elven student (Otto couldn't remember what of, something bookish) at one of the more modest colleges. Her family had immigrated here over a decade ago without knowing much Tradespeak, but Kat had helped them with the language and later continued tuition for Arwyn. The lass had been quite intelligent and gained admission to a college, but still kept in touch with her old friends. Otto sniffed the air again... there was something else there, too. He slowed his walk, confident that the other two were far more interested in one another than a pedestrian on the other side of the road. As Otto wondered why Arwyn smelled so strongly horses underneath the perfume, he saw her hand reach up and begin toying with a delicately wrought heart-shaped silver locket suspended from a fine chain around her neck.
Rapid footsteps, distinctly of the armoured variety, had begun some way behind him. Otto realised he had stopped completely. It was too late for a confrontation now as that would definitely invoke the watchman's ire. He kicked himself into action again and chose to take the next exit, a small alleyway towards the river, and glanced over his shoulder. The guard had taken up position at the mouth of the alley behind Otto, watching the Orc until he was out of sight entirely. Now seemed as good a time as any to head down to the Nieme, since going back was no longer an option.
The moon waxed, bloated and near full; Radasanthia wore a stark shroud of silver under it's strong glare. Here, at the landward edge of the capital, it cast a long, shimmering reflection on the Nieme as it's waters moved ponderously out to the sea. You could bathe in the Nieme, but you might wish you hadn't. It really depended on a number of factors - mainly whether or not heavy rains had washed in runoff from the farmlands further upstream and if backflow had brought the waste which effused from the city's drains up the estuary. Otto reckoned that the recent dry spell would have kept the river clean as it traveled in from the Jagged Mountains, and a quick smell of the water suggested that the strength with which it flowed was keeping the complicated mix of effluence coming out of Radsanth from drifting upstream. Satisfied that he was alone, he dropped his sack on the shore and began to strip down. The moon managed to find a few bare patches of skin to illumine, hinting at a powerful physique. But the majority of it became entangled in the thick black fur along his back, chest, limbs, and head, from which there was no escape for the feeble light. Otto took a stub of worn down soap from the bag and waded gingerly into the frigid waters.
One foot in and it hit him like a hammer. Even this far from the mountains, the Nieme stubbornly kept it's chill like a dwarf clung to a grudge. But Otto had never been one to back down, so he plunged on. He stopped when the water had reached his stomach and began to scrub himself down. The wind was quite weak, whispering in from the sea. Even so it batted away most of the noise from the city, to be pierced only by the occasional shout or bell strike that skimmed over the water, muted and distant. His head was feeling clearer from the icy river, and the hushed solitude here in the black water was filling him with a deep peace. Otto consolidated his thoughts.
Did it really matter if Emric stole a bit of money? It was hardly a fortune, and nothing Marten couldn't afford.
It matters.
Marten would surely forgive his own - his only - son. Marten had married Kat through love, not convenience; he'd understand Emric wanting to impress a girl, especially if he was serious about her.
And if she's not serious about Emric? Katarina is a good woman, despite her ambivalence towards me. Did she have a roll in the hay with the stable boy while courting Marten?
So Emric had made a bad choice. There was nothing to say he couldn't make up for it.
He made two, just today. He's made more in the past. The apple has fallen far from the tree - and it's a bad one. I know he doesn't mean to hurt anyone, but he doesn't particularly care, either. The future would be bad enough if I just had to deal with his petty pride. But if he feels justified to steal from his father, what will he feel entitled to do when I'm working for him?
Otto was done soaping himself up, and threw the bar back to the shore. Taking a long breath, and a second to brace himself, he plunged straight down below the surface. For close to a minute he held the air in his lungs, vigorously scrubbing the suds off. Bits of grime, sweat, and dust billowed away to drift downstream; the accumulated filth of the day washed free. When he judged that the last of the soap had been dealt with, Otto surfaced calmly, with his eyes closed. Exhaling slowly, he kept his face sitting just above the water and pointing skyward, and took another deep breath. The wind seemed to have changed: now it came from the east, bringing the accumulated fragrance of the orchards and rolling farmlands. He couldn't smell the mountains this time - and immediately realised, with complete certainty, that he wanted to. This didn't feel like the usual obligations that pulled him through the day: this was something innate, something inside of him that wanted to take the reigns and drive forward non stop until those rugged peaks came in to view. This purpose was actually his own.
By the time Otto had dried himself off and dressed, he had made a decision.
A tall figure made it's way along Smiters Row. If the slow gait and low-hung head were any indication, it appeared to be deep in thought. A half-empty bottle of spirits was clutched in it's right hand, which didn't exactly say much for the character of said musings. It stopped outside a large, south-facing yard, where it slumped back against the wooden fence and took a swig.
"That was a nice pendant you bought Arwyn."
Emric froze with the bottle halfway to his lips. A shadow on the other side of the street stepped forward into the moonlight, revealing Otto's mildly repugnant face.The flash of shock passed, and Emric regained some composure.
"What," he asked (forming the words with some care) "are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the locket you bought for her. From Halit."
"Should I be concerned about something?" Emric was a little louder, now. Anger was curling up at the edge of his voice. "Were you stalking me? Us?"
Otto walked forward until he was a few feet from Emric. The lad shifted forward a little awkwardly to stand up straight, staring down at the Orc.
"Did she pay you as much for it as you'd hoped?" Otto asked. He noticed Emric's fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle, but Otto would be damned if he let the boy intimidate him.
"You're sick, Otto. Just piss off, and I'll forget you even said any of thi-"
"She was always very good friends with William the stable hand. He'd be a stableman now, wouldn't he?" The words poured forth from Otto's mouth with a fluidity he'd never accomplished before, burning like molten iron. "Strange how you're reminded of things like that. Like how Arwyn smelled so much of horses and polish underneath all that perfume she'd caked on..."
It was good for Otto that Emric was so tipsy. Emric made a quick but uncoordinated swing at Otto's face with the bottle, but the Orc had been well prepared for this and caught the boy's forearm with his own as it came around. The bottle slipped from his grasp and brushed the back of Otto's head on it's way down to the cobbles, soon followed by a loud crash and the sudden, razor-sharp smell of whiskey filling the air. Otto hadn't planned for this, and while he was wracked by a powerful urge to sneeze, Emric's other fist came around and under the Orc's rib cage. He landed another poor blow against Otto's jaw before the latter managed to push him hard back against the fence. Emric smacked the back of his head against the boards - stunned, he recovered just in time to see Otto's fist ram into his solar plexus. Otto took a couple of steps back as Emric fell to his knees, vomiting loudly.
"I know you stole from your father to pay for that locket," Otto said above the retching. "Don't bother denying it - twenty gold pieces in your right coat pocket."
"I-" Emric stopped to gag a bit. "I was going to... urgh... pay it back. I'll still do it, before father finds out."
"He already did. I didn't say anything - he did a count when he put the commission away earlier today."
Emric stared at the ground in silence for a bit. The words he spoke next were formed quietly and carefully.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing," replied Otto, and extended a hairy arm downwards. Emric gazed unsteadily at it for a second, then grasped it. While Otto pulled Emric to his feet, he continued: "What can I say that will help matters? But you should tell Marten. He'll understand, you know that. No doubt he'll have some advice for you as well."
There was a moment where Otto wasn't sure which way things would go. The air crystallised, practically vibrating with the tension... then Emric relaxed, and nodded. The boy looked morosely at the remains of the bottle glinting brightly from amongst the cobbles. Otto glanced at it as well.
"Get to bed, then," said the Orc. "I think we have a broom in the yard; I'll clean this mess up."
"Thanks, Otto," Emric mumbled. He walked a little way, then stopped, turned around, and said, "Otto... I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too," Otto replied. He watched Emric shuffle to the door, fumble with the lock, and eventually let himself in.
But I'm not going to hang around here until the next bit of trouble. Your apologies aren't worth that much to me, Emric.
There was indeed a rough old broom under the lean-to in the yard. Otto grabbed that, a bit of spare sacking, and a rusty pail which was sitting behind a veil of cobwebs. There was a pump in the yard that Marten had made while Otto was still in swaddling which he now used to fill the bucket. He took these items back out to the street, swept the broken glass into the canvas sack and rinsed the pungent sick off into the gutter. Otto had to clench his nostrils against the stench lest the contents of his own stomach come over all sympathetic and make a show of solidarity by joining the puddle on the ground.
Otto was amazed things had gone so smoothly. Well, maybe 'smooth' wasn't quite the right word; there was a dull ache in the joint of his jaw, and the street still reeked of alcohol and vomit. Emric could normally have been expected to put up a little resistance to the accusations - and it would have been very awkward if he had seized upon Otto's implied search of his coat pocket, without an prior suspicion of larceny on Emric's part. But it all seemed to fit together. Emric had risked taking the key and money from the safe in his parent's room late at night when Kat and Marten were asleep, since the demands of the forge kept him busy and in sight for most of the day. That also explained why Kat had such a poor night's rest; he probably hadn't been as quiet as he had hoped. And all this, for such a paltry sum. With his anger fading in the aftermath, Otto suspected that he had overreacted. Nonetheless, he'd made up his mind: tomorrow he would ask Marten for a letter of referral. It didn't matter if the old man agreed or not, Otto was leaving anyway, but it would certainly make it easier to get work. Then, taking with him the most valuable and useful of his scant few belongings, he would head over to the east gate where the travelers and their carts moved slowly through under the scrutiny of the city guard. In these times a merchant's train may be more than happy to take along an extra sword for the road, and Otto wouldn't require any higher wages than regular meals. Throw in the fact that he could probably re-shoe a horse or patch up a wagon long enough to see it to the end of it's journey, and Otto could probably pick a ride to anywhere in Corone.
The day had gone on for long enough. Up in that house a bed was ready and waiting to usher him to the morrow. The morning ahead would be daunting - but Otto had his plan which he was eager to put in to action, and was satisfied that the business of the day had been concluded satisfactorily. And as such, he was completely unprepared for the events that followed.
He remembers it with perfect clarity, yet also the distant feeling of a dream. Otto expected to meet a darkened house, but upon slipping inside saw instead faint light throwing a dull orange rectangle from the doorway of the kitchen along the entry's floor and up the stairs opposite. He closed the door softly behind him; it clicked shut with a noise that rung through the empty house, and a voice called gently from the kitchen.
"Otto."
He peered in to the kitchen. Marten was sitting at the central table with a single oil lamp and a slip of paper before him on the surface. The man looked at him, stoney faced, and gestured at the seat opposite. As Otto took it he refrained from asking Marten if he had seen Emric come in: Otto had washed his hands of it all.
"This was delivered while you were out," Marten said. Otto looked at the letter and realised that it was facing his way. First impressions suggested something highly official, and the Orc's lips moved slightly as he worked his way slowly down the page. Occasionally he looked back at the city crest stamped on at the top of the page.
"A conscription letter," he said at last.
"There's no one else. Kat and I are too old. And Emric... he's our only child, Otto. They won't accept him for that."
Silence descended over the table.
"They must have had their eye on you specifically," Marten added. He was looking increasingly uncomfortable. "I think they keep a close watch on anyone who goes to the Citadel."
The silence returned. Just when Marten seemed about to speak again, he was gently cut off.
"I understand," said Otto, at last. Marten rubbed his tired face and leaned back in the chair. "I'll deal with this in the morning," Otto concluded. "Good night, Marten."
"I'm not so sure it is, lad. Rest ye well nonetheless."
The chair scraped along the tiles as Otto stood to leave, and he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. There wasn't much there: just a single cot with a chest at it's foot, a small dresser, a window fronted by wooden slats, a couple of bowls, and a lantern hanging from the wall. This he lit and took with him to the window sill, along with a water-filled bowl and a very small bristle brush. He took a couple of gulps from the container and used the brush used to scrub down his teeth. Otto realised that he hadn't had any dinner, but didn't much care about that any more. Rinsing the brush off in the remainder of the water before spitting into it, he tipped the contents out through the open window and down to the little bay behind the house where the gong men collected night soil (Otto's room, of course, was the one sitting right above it). Everything in the room had appeared neat at first, but a few items Otto had noticed weren't in their usual position; Marten must have been conducting a search of the room earlier when he was looking for the stolen money. Otto thought about this, and found he didn't really care about that either. He climbed in to bed, pulled the covers up, and tried to settle in for the remainder of the night.
There was no moon, no stars, no clouds... the sky was a solid black backdrop to the monochromatic orange streets of Radasanth. Solitary lampposts bathed the empty roads and unlit houses with a warm light, contrasting and emphasising the deep shadows as much as it lent sight to the city. The streets were empty, but Otto was being watched from every blackened window, doorway, and alley as he strode forward under the light. Radasanth didn't just look abandoned, it smelled it; gone were the chaotic, conflicting aromas of life. The place just smelled of barren sand. Otto walked on below the strange sky, and the unseen observers crowded together in the darkness behind him. He had no business going back in any case, because his target lay somewhere ahead through increasingly narrow and poorly lit streets. As he traveled, the blackness followed behind him, gorging on the streets of Radasanth; where it rolled on the city disappeared from sight entirely. He kept moving. Otto had to find his target, before he was too late. He turned a corner and saw a sprawling beech in the middle of the road, it's great boughs occluding all light beneath then. With blackness in front, and blackness approaching behind, Otto stepped forward under the tree and found himself scraping through the foliage.
The last branch gave way and Otto, stepping out of the green on to the promenade, saw her immediately, sitting calmly on a bench against a brick wall. He walked up, extended his arm, and felt her impossibly soft fingers gently close over his own calloused digits. The raven-haired beauty rose to her feet and they joined arms, walking slowly down the wide street. Manicured gardens proffered fragrant beds of lavender, burning brilliantly under the midday sun and shimmering in the breeze. They reached the end of the street, a short ledge atop a mountain, and the city sprawled flat and far all the way to the horizon distantly below. Otto turned and kissed her on the cheek, then on her unresisting mouth. She smiled, folded her arms around his waist and held him tight. With a finger he traced the slender chain around her neck down to where the silver locket nestled warmly between her breasts.
Otto left her in the bed and went down stairs: the forge was calling him to work. A lump of silver sat upon the anvil waiting for him, and it was but the work of the moment to craft the pendant. He had never made such a beautiful item so quickly; the perfectly smooth sterling surface mirrored the room around it, with hairline engraving twining gracefully in floral patterns upon the front, around the clasp, and on the reverse. Otto held it up proudly up to his client, but was suddenly disconcerted. The man said that is not what he had ordered, that he had paid Otto for a mail shirt. Otto looked around and saw nothing of the like. The man watched impatiently. Otto picked up some scrap and began hastily making links out of flaking iron, attempting to perform a week's worth of work in a handful of minutes. The man watched impatiently. The metal crumbled apart in Otto's shaking fingers, erasing the sum of his labour in an instant. The man watched impatiently. Otto decided to check the lean-to for better iron.
There was no iron. Nothing usable, anyway. There were stalls selling rusted junk, crude wooden swords and pathetic coats lashed together from bark. All the other recruits already had their standard issue arms and armour and were on their way, but Otto was running out of time and still couldn't find what he needed. He grabbed one soldier's sleeve and asked for directions but the man just pointed back to the worthless vendors. If Otto did not report in, he would be found guilty of treason, and he would hang. Marten and Kat waved to him from the gallows across the square, though Emric was nowhere in sight. As each fresh recruit marched past, counting down the limited time he had left, Otto's panic deepened. But the same tension was pressing against something inside of him as it grew, until a piece of the ticking clock snapped and a numbness flooded through his chest. He had done all he could. They had failed him, so he no longer cared. How he stood in front of Halit's stall, the only one he had found that had true metal on display. He looked up and saw Halit there in his funny white dress and a large waxen smile aimed in his direction. Then the old man reached up and removed his face, and underneath it was Halit without the oil in his beard, the fixed salesman's smile, the heavily accented Tradespeak. He was wearing simple everyday Radasanth clothes instead of the spotless Kaftan. Then he reached slowly out to Otto's own unmoving face, grasped, and pulled. And underneath was...
Darkness. Otto thought Halit had plucked out his eyes for a second, then realised he had just woken up. It was dark because it was still night, somehow. Otto couldn't have had more than a few hour's rest but he didn't feel particularly tired, and as much as he fought it, the fact that he would not return to sleep seemed unavoidable. So he got up and went to the window for a while to admire Radasanth in it's quietest hours. The watchmen seemed to have given up their regular cries of 'all's well' and a few optimistic gulls shrilled out from towards the sea, hoping for the blackened sky to start softening to grey any minute now. A night cart rattled down along the back alley, trundling off after a few minutes of hushed work. Silence returned briefly, punctuated only by the door of the forge swinging shut.
Otto had lit a couple of the forge's lanterns and stood them on the hearth while he fished around inside the firepot with a pair of tongs. The breaker they had installed usually did the job, but it was always best to clean out the clinker that formed within the firepot before lighting it up again. Then he'd collect the ash and stack up the coal to get the forge ready, and continue working on the byrnie while he waited for the others to get up. A shock of recollection slipped through his mind, leaving a sense of apprehension and guilt. Otto shook off the remnants of the dream and returned to work while slipping in and out of revery. These largely concerned endless breakfasts of kippers, sausages, black pudding, buttered bread, eggs cooked in at least five different styles, bacon, mushrooms, and warm honeyed porridge.
The door behind him opened again; Otto looked over his shoulder, tongs still stirring through the ash, to see Marten ease inside. The old master nodded to his apprentice as he settled down onto a stool by one of the less cluttered benches, and Otto returned the gesture. Marten had a tall glass bottle and a couple of glasses - the good ones Kat was always telling him not to drink from - with him: they were set down on the table with a chiming clink and three heavy thuds. There followed a 'pop' of a cork, and the room was flooded with the bouquet of whiskey. Otto's olfaction went in to overdrive; the liquid in that bottle was a different beast entirely to the swill Emric had been chugging earlier. That was rotten stuff, fresh out of the still and a mongrel blend supplemented, so rumour went, by anything that would ferment in order to give it the kick that kept the loyal alcoholics coming back for more. This whiskey had probably sat out most the last couple of decades inside of an oak cask, and unlike the other stuff, didn't claw it's way up Otto's nose in an attempt to dissolve his sinuses. Marten poured a finger into each tumbler and slid one over to the opposite side of the table.
"Drink up, lad," he said. Otto laid down the tongs and grabbed another stool for the bench. His glass came up cautiously, hovering underneath the wide nostrils. Otto took the slightest of breaths, holding the vapour amidst his sinuses for as long as he dared. He didn't know anything about the provenance of the charred white oak that this drink was usually aged on, but he did read the distinctive notes of peat smoke and even a type of barley endemic to one region of Corone before his eyes began to water.
"Yarborough single malt," Otto murmured, impressed and concerned at the same time. "When did you get this?"
"Long before the war, don't you worry," Marten replied. "You've got a bloody useful thing on your face there, my boy."
"A bit too useful at times, I've thought." Otto had dropped his guard around the potent liquor, which turned out to be a bad move. He could feel his nose starting to run.
"Well, Otto. We'll drink to Trisgen first, aye?"
"Aye."
They both raised their drinks and took a gulp. Marten poured out another measure for them both which they nursed in the gloom. The old man preferred to sip his, but for Otto the aroma was more than enough to savour.
"I know Emric took it," Marten said out of the blue. Otto looked up sharply, and his master continued. "The money, I mean. I know my son, and I know you, Otto."
"But you still searched me. And my room."
"Would it have been fair if I didn't?"
Otto shook his head. "No," he said.
"My son is a fine smith, and if you blindfold him he'll still know almost any blade that you hand him inside and out with just one swing and a thrust. But, and don't take this the wrong way, I'm glad it's you who'll be marching with the army, Otto." Marten waited a second to gauge the Orc's response, but Otto just was staring straight down at his drink. Marten went on: "In the military you need to work as a single cohesive unit, but Emric would turn teamwork into competition. I doubt he'd even respect his commanding officer if they rubbed him the wrong way, and that's easy to do. If Emric joined I'd be just as terrified of him being strung up by his own side as dying out in the middle of some god-forsaken wilderness, and that's the truth of it, Otto. But you can handle it. Whatever happens, I've always been able to trust you to put your grudges aside and get on with the important stuff, and you're going to need that cool head of yours in the near future, lad."
Something about the lack of sleep or drinking on an empty stomach was affecting Otto; his face felt flushed and there was an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. Amber eyes maintained their focus on the matching liquid sloshing around in his large hands. Marten appeared to be collecting himself after this outburst; this was the most he had said to Otto for some time now.
"I always meant to teach you more," muttered Marten. "I just never quite had time. And now it looks like we have even less." Then Marten straightened up. The movement caught Otto's attention and his gaze traveled up to meet the old man's intense stare. "Emric may be my son and I would go through hell to see him safe, but you've never been any less than he in my eyes, Otto. You're family, so don't forget that, and we'd better see you come on your own two feet when this war is done. So, here's to you."
There was nothing Otto could think of in reply. It didn't matter though; somehow the silence managed to say what words could not. They raised their glasses once again and drained them in one go. For a time they just enjoyed the peace of Radansanth in it's deep slumber, until Marten stood with a sigh and wandered over to another bench. Then, picking out a workpiece of fine steel, he turned back to Otto.
"Now, lad," he said. "I believe you have some catching up to do. Let's begin..."
So ends the solo, giving Otto some depth and background while setting him up for a new life in the CAF.
Plot ~ 19/30
Story ~ 6/10 – I think the premise of weaving together a short bit of history to further develop a character is a good idea. Unfortunately, it rarely turns into a story worth reading, as the events tend to either be muddled or weighed down by the details. You fell victim to the latter.
Setting ~ 5/10 –The setting was there. You described it, you used it. You just did nothing really to make it stand out. This story, in my opinion, could’ve happened at any forge, at any garrison, at any house, etc. I still can’t figure out what set this locale apart from any other, and that’s not a good thing when you are trying to develop character backstory.
Pacing ~ 8/10 - I was all prepared to rip you a new one on pacing, and then I stopped myself to re-evaluate. Your pacing is slow, but I began to realize this was more deliberate than just a norm. It allows you time to develop a full story, complete and tied off nicely. Your writing, and pacing particularly, remind me of Markus Heitz, author of The Dwarves. And I actually find myself, after the first few chapters, mesmerized by his pacing and writing style, and thus yours in all truth.
Character ~ 13/30
Communication ~ 8/10 – I get the sense you are comfortable writing with Otto from this story, and your ability to effectively convey what would be his emotions was spot on almost one hundred percent of the time. There were no spots where I went, “wait, what?” That is always a positive.
Action ~ 5/10 – As I read over this story the first time, I was honestly pretty bored. Your action is muddled in a lot of non-consequential details, which results in the action feeling like it just simply drags on. The second time, I noticed the nuances more and how you are adept at intertwining the action and details in very subtle ways. I think, though, you might fare better to make the action slightly more robust and less weighed down in the details.
Persona ~ 4/10 - Well, I am certain Otto has personality, or perhaps it is the lack-thereof I was supposed to grasp from this thread. While I love the fact he has no over the top reactions, and honestly feels more real to me than most characters I read from Althanas, I also find myself a bit saddened as I feel he could have more to his emotions, his responses. As with my comments earlier regarding Setting, not only could this have happened anywhere else, it could have happened to or with anyone else.
Prose ~ 21/30
Mechanics ~ 10/10 – I was once told by a high-ranking judge, “a perfect ten should be impossible in any setting or at any time. There needs to always be something more to strive for.” I laugh in his face, and offer this thread an example of how a perfect score can be obtained when it comes to Mechanics. Excellent job here.
Clarity~ 6/10 – Everything was pretty well clear. As I stated before, I never found myself going, “wait, what?” Still, I did, at times, have to stop to re-read something to figure out exactly what the point was or why it was necessary to the story..
Technique ~ 7/10 - Like I said in Pacing, your technique harkens me to reading works by Markus Heitz, and I do favor him a wonderfully talented author. I feel you utilized various forms of the English language and the nuances therein to formulate a well-written story.
Wildcard: 6/10 - I awarded you points for your exquisite descriptions of the blacksmithing Otto performed, and of the work he did. I also gave you a point for the sequence with Otto checking his pockets, because it was one of the few places I saw your true ability as a writer and really found myself most connecting with the character.
Total ~ 65/100
Otto gains 1465 Exp and 205 gold
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