Chevya should have brought a hand cart. Unbeknownst to her when she set out that morning, the pawn shop happened to have an unusually wide selection of particularly interesting scraps. Broken pumps, cracked gears, shattered pipe fittings, and mismatched flanges, Chevya was certain she could find use for far too many of them.

Having found herself unable to leave such treasures behind, she was attempting to carry thirty pounds of random miscellany down the middle of the market - with limited success. Wiry though she was, the sheer bulk of her purchases made it impossible to maintain a grip on everything at once with any degree of stability. Thus, every 30 feet or so, she would drop something, curse wildly, and have to put everything else down and start over again.

Finally, she gave up, dropping everything in a neat pile in the street. "Sack it all for a hingle!" She screamed, to nobody in particular. She leaned against her pile for a moment, trying to catch her breath.

A tiny voice piped up behind Chevya, emerging from out of nowhere like magic.

"Oh gosh, ma'am! Y'shouldn't go swearin' in the street, it's not nice." Said Urchin, full of a kind of youthful wowserism that was as out of place in Old Rose as it was anywhere. "I don't know if the hingles would like that!"

Urchin ducked his head out from behind a stack of barrels, displaying his dirt-smudged face and eyes that oozed earnestness. He had a fairly under-fed look to him that not even his layered cloak of rags could hide. A soul wouldn't have guessed to look at him that he was a gunsmith. A good one. The irony was lost on him.

"Would you like some help, ma'am? All that stuff seems awful heavy." Urchin asked, with the kind of sweetness that could inspire violence.

Chevya didn't even have the energy to look up at the tiny little voice. "Bugger that for a quarter-fort. Bein nice ain't never done much for me, don't see no sense returnin' no favors. And a Hingle'd probably love it, any case. Everybody knows they're filthy little slu---" Her mind finally caught up with her mouth, and Chevya abruptly realized that she was about three-quarters the way through a positively obscene joke, and talking to a very small child. " . . . lovely creatures." She finished, lamely.

She sat down on the cobblestones, leaning back against her pile. Finally glancing up at young Urchin, she said "Cor, you're a scrawny one, aint'cha. I'd half reckon you'd not lift a single camshaft, all by your lonesome. Got any buddies hangin' 'round, kid?"

"Ayah, Urchin." Came a voice from behind the pair. "Who is your friend?" Amani was grinning. She couldn't seem to help it. Urchin just brought out the smiles in her. The woman had a cartload of...junk? Nothing particularly recognizable and nothing that truly interested the fighter. What good were nuts and bolts? Rusty bits of metal and mirrors.

Without any real ideas she picked up a bit of pipe and threw it up in the air. She caught it and smacked it hard against her hand.

"Hm. Balance is off, I think." She winked at Urchin and stared at Chevya curiouslyu. "So, are you selling this metal pieces?"

Chevya twisted to glance up at the woman, a nervous eyebrow raised. The tiny engineer was well at the bottom of the harbor's food chain, and she knew a shark when she saw one. She shook her head, slowly. "N-no. The idea was to bring em back to the shop, and-and fix em up, or fix other stuff with the parts."

Chevya had barely moved from her position since she saw Amani, but in subtle ways, she was readying herself to make a run for it. "I, uh. I fix things. M'name's Chevya. Chevya Almahdi. Got a workshop down by the docks."

On one hand, she was terrified of the woman, but on the other, she really didn't want to give up her scrap.

(edit: fixed tenses. curse you tenses!)

((Hey Chevya, great posting, just be careful about keeping it in past tense.))

Urchin brightened in a way that shone through his pasty pallour and reflected off the glass around him. Chevya's language had been making him blush and push him to the brink of one of those nasty epiphanies that came with adulthood. Amani managed to push that right off. Amani was nice. Amani gave him cake. He didn't have fall into that world of awareness that was stealthily waiting for him.

"Miss Amani is my friend, ma'am." He told Chevya, tiny bird chest puffing up with pride. "Maybe we can help you, I'm stronger than I look."

Which was actually true, just probably not in the way in which he meant it.

Amani could see the fear flicker across Chevya's face and she sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. This child was young. "Calm yourself, boy." Belatedly she wondered if she'd gotten the gender right. Chevya looked rather androgynous. But his hair was short and he had no breasts...even though his voice was high. Wasn't that the way with young boys? Amani rolled her shoulders uncomfortably.

"Chevya, mm? I am Amani."

Your friendly neighborhood arata at your service...



"What kind of shop is this? And where is it?" The woman asked idly. She wasn't sure if she actually wanted to help yet. Although Urchin's disappointment would probably be palpable, she was sure it could be remedied with cake.

"Does it have weapons?" Was her next question. She looked a little more interested, this time.

((Argh! I wrote it up, and firefox froze. Had to rewrite it from memory. grr.))

She looked quite a bit less nervous, now that Amani was no longer swinging the lead pipe against her palm. In fact, she even managed to chuckle a bit. "Beggin your pardon, ma'am, but I ain't no boy." She grins up at the woman. "I just cut my hair short an' outta the way, and I bind down me . . . er . . ." She paused for a moment, as she searched her rather specialized vocabulary for a synonym that wouldn't hurt poor Urchin's virgin ears. " . . . girl bits." she finished, having come up completely blank.

"Almahdi and Company Repair's my shop. I fix ships and boats by trade, but I'll hack together most anything that's broke, if you put it in front'a me." She beamed with a craftsman's pride. "Don't stock hand weapons much, except some bartered junk from sailors what din't have cash. But I got a couple mended cannon laying around, and I can slap together a mean ramming spike." Chevya was actually quite proud of her ramming spikes.

"If only we could find someone to carry half this scrap, I'd show ya round." She added, with a playful wink.

Amani could understand this-- to a point. Both hair and breasts got in the way of fighting the way you wanted. It could be the same for fixing things. Although now she rarely bound her chest, finding it constricted her breathing-- and she liked her hair long for when she danced.

"It is good. Sometimes these things get in the way." She told her absentmindedly.



"Cannons, really? Could I see them?" Her interest was piqued. She had found-- after much practice with her gun, that she rather liked explody things. She half wondered if a cannon was only a large gun you put on a ship.



Amani sighed and then grunted. "Tch. You pick up too much junk on your way back to your shop." She pulled out a few of the lighter items and made Urchin carry as many as he could handle, then did the same with Chevya-- handing the girl heavier pieces of scrap until she felt that it was all she could handle. She picked up the rest, grimacing as the rust stained her white shirt, but making no complaints other than the face.

"Lead the way, Chevya."

"All right. Let's get going." Chevya hefted her load with the casual strength of someone who learned to hammer at the age of six. Babbling as she went, she led the pair down the street, towards the docks.

"Yeah, the cannon are clever little things. Bloody definition of simplicity in engineering." She said this with approximately the same reverence normally reserved for describing one's deity.

An idea abruptly took root. "Hey - I'll even let ya fire one, if ya like." While technically accurate, Chevya's actual plan was noticeably distinct from the one she had just suggested to Amani: her hope was to have Amani TEST one of her cannon. Most of them are repair jobs, and she only had to have one almost blow up in her face before she started dreading the job of testing her work.

Urchin followed along, skinny legs gamely matching the pace of the two women. He had to try very hard to keep the scrap balanced. His stomach muscles soon felt the strain of it.

"Could I see your canons too, ma'am?" Urchin asked, interest piqued. "I'm good wiv projectiles."

Urchin glanced between them, looking sincerely hopeful.

"That sounds like it might be dangerous." Amani said, not entirely against the idea. She half wondered in what direction she would be firing it. Surely they weren't allowed to fire it into the sea...

Then again, this was Old Rose...Where lawlessness was rampant. And where the least of the things you could get away with was firing a cannon into the sea.



She couldn't help the smile that crept onto her face, but hoped the younger girl would know enough to refuse. What if it was dangerous?!

The girl waved a hand dismissively. "Naw, naw. Do it all the time. No more dangerous than fireworks." While this was also true, Chevya had seen some terrible fireworks, over the years. "'Sides, we got a long stick for lightin' the fuses with, and a stone wall to hide behind." It was a rather thick wall.

To Urchin, she replied. "Well, I don't see why not. A cannon's just a cast-iron pipe, till you load it. But you're not to touch the ammo or the powder, hear?"

A rather strange thing happened, when Chevya told Urchin he wasn't to touch the powder. A light shifted in his eyes and Chevya was left with the distinct impression that she was being scrutinized. Urchin tensed, like a chrove before it bolted.

"But..." He said, carefully, "How will I understand how it works if I don't touch the powder?"

His head tilted to the left, like a child examining a bug. His bruised looking eyes seemed bigger. There was a hint of something strange in his gaze, usually hidden by his positive outlook. There was, after all, a reason the B&B hired him.

The boy was good with projectiles. He made exquisite guns.

"This sounds like fun, Miss Amani." Urchin said, and the moment passed, leaving only an eerie feeling in its wake.

Amani almost recognized the look Urchin was giving Chevya. It was the look she would have given a sword smith who would only let her see the hilt, and wouldn't let her touch the blade. She tried to shrug it off, briefly disturbed by the impression that the look had left her-- That Urchin was less of a child than she wanted to believe, despite his innocent face.

"Yes Urchin." Amani agreed belatedly.

As a child would I have been like that? I was too busy dancing to think of anything else... Is it Old Rose?

She shifted the objects in her grasp again, trying to get more comfortable. Stop getting attached to him. She commanded herself, and then forced herself to look at his frail figure. He looked like he would soon waste away to nothing. She wouldn't be surprised if one day she woke and found him dead...this was the reality of Old Rose...

"Are we almost there, girl?" She spoke up, trying to smooth the awkward silence.

Chevya knew that look even better. She had worn that look time and time again, back when she was that age. It was largely due to that look that she learned to disassemble a steam engine before she turned thirteen. It was also due to that look that she still had a huge steam-burn scar on her left wrist.

"What exactly . . . " Chevya began, before she stopped herself. But eventually curiosity got the best of her. "What exactly did you mean, boy, when you said you were good with projectiles?" She asked, though she already had a fair guess to the answer. The way the boy lit up when he heard about the cannon, the way he spoke offhand about gunpowder . . . it wasn't like the ordinary curiosity that boys have for things that make noise. No - it seemed like something deeper - to Chevya's eyes. Like a Maker leaping at a chance to see another's work.

"I'm just good with projectiles." He said with a shrug. "Not much else to say."

To his mind there wasn't. Anything else would be words he wasn't allowed to speak. Certainly not to someone outside the bad brothers. Urchin knew what happened to snitches. They were unmade. He was on the cusp of adulthood, staving it off while he could, abstractly understanding what the future would bring him.

Chevya would have a hard time getting a word out of him directly. He had a lot of cheer but underneath it was survival instinct. If he hadn't had it he would not have survived Old Rose for such a long time.

"Are we almost there?" Amani asked again, irritated that the girl had ignored her question. Her field seemed to buzz with annoyance. She wasn't usually aware of how her anger affected those who weren't galdori-- but this time she remembered in time and tried to calm herself.

"I can carry things, but I do not like it as much as the next person." She clarified, setting her jaw mulishly.

[sfsr]

Chevya was lost in though, giving careful consideration to the small enigmatic child that was now following her home.

Chevya chuckled. "Not far now, not far now. In fact." She turned a corner and waved a hand. "We're here."

The tiny hut was a little ramshackle more than a little small, but it was solidly built. Piles of tools and scraps were scattered about, littering her front porch. She added her load to one of the smaller piles, and opened the front door. "Welcome, welcome."

The one-room workshop was chaotically messy, with tools, scrap metal, equipment, and supplies piled in every available space. A tired old mutt lay snoring in the corner, and did not look like he had moved from his spot in hours, if not years.

Urchin's arms shook as he fought the urge to simply drop his load onto the pile Chevya had selected. Even with all his effort, placing the scrap made the pile teeter and slowly fall. It was like a landslide of metal, making a din that spread outwards and down the street, turning heads. Most looked away immediately, upon realising the noise had come from Chevya's.

Urchin slipped inside quickly, embarassed for having made such a loud noise. He darted about until he was near the dog and the back door. He focused on Amani like she was a lifeline. Something about loud noises seemed to disquiet him. He quickly soothed, surrounded by Chevya's homey but messy workspace.

Amani had winced as Urchin dropped his load, and knelt to let hers go. The various pieces of metal scattered everywhere. She glanced down at her shirt and was annoyed to find a few holes and rust spots were already scattered throughout. Although she'd come with little because she usually packed light to travel, it seemed Old Rose was laughing at her choice of clothing. It was obviously too much for the desert.

She found Urchin staring at her looking somewhat discombobulated. Her hand moved to his hair and ruffled it affectionately. "Ta. We are here. Now you can look at the cannons, yes?"

Amani glanced at Chevya, to make sure this was true.

Chevya ignored the cataclysmic disaster outside - such lesser apocalypses were nothing more than an occupational hazard in her line of work, after all.

Instead, she strode up to a musty corner of the room, where an oiled linen sheet covered a largish lump. With slightly more flourish than was really appropriate, she pulled back the sheet. "Behold!" she cried, with a madgirl's grin. "Miz Betsy!"

It had once been a monstrous, fifty pound brass-and-steel cannon: a fearsome and deadly weapon in it's time. However, it had been lost years (perhaps decades) ago in some forgotten naval battle, and had very obviously spent a significant portion of the intervening time at the bottom of the sea. As such, it all available space on it's surface was coated in rust, barnacles, and oyster-shells. Nevertheless, the inside of the barrel had been scraped out and resurfaced, and despite it's highly questionable appearance, it was (probably - Chevya is 90% sure) quite serviceable.

"Can you believe it just washed ashore one day? Some fisherman bloke tried to sell it for scrap. For scrap!" she laughed at the poor foolish non-engineer. "That's genuine forge-tempered, master's-grade steel, that is. You don't see that much, no more. Craftsmanship!" She runs her hand lovingly along the barrel.

It was mounted on a wheeled base that Chevya had thrown together on the spur of the moment. Weighing in at just under a ton, even on wheels it was not exactly portable . . .