Brady didn't need to smoke, because he inhaled enough smoke to knock out a small child every day. But that was part of working in the Soot district. You took it like a man, and once you were done with your shift, you left to go breath clean air and try to live a little. If there were cigars that made you breath easier, Brady might have even bought them. But there weren't.

His friends had all gone off to their wives, or to drink, or to do whatever it was they did with their evenings. They knew better than to ask him to go with them. Brady had responsibilities. Fun wasn't in his vocabulary.

You lying little shit. He thought to himself with a grin. Truth be told, Brady did have fun... he just didn't consider spending his hard earned money on beer particularly 'fun'. And while he loved and appreciated both of his parents (even his father, who had turned into a rather testy man after his accident), spending the evening with them wasn't what he would exactly define as entertaining.

"And the weary toil under darkened skies// Like so many rows of pebbles// Pounded on by a great...big...uhh..."

Brady scratched at his chin, feeling the texture of his stubble absently, "Damn. Lost it. Again." He took a seat on the edge of the public fountain, staring at the ground, lost in thought. This was Brady Owens having fun. There was really no better way to spend the last hours of the sun. And it wasn't even raining this time, which was a plus.

"Pounded on by a ...hammer? A what? Pounded on by a fist?"

He snorted. What sort of fist pounds pebbles, for Alioe's sake...

So things were done for the Resistance. Or, rather, her part for the moment was done. She was never much of one to get into things like that until they needed plans for skirmishes and aeroships. When they needed her, she would come. But not a moment before. Whatever was on their quaint little minds, they would have to find this brain before she'd ever leave her new horrible job. It was better than her old horrible job of looking for a unappealing job. All of it was ridiculous. Anaxas was deplorable. The people were insane and happy with their lot, or insane and trying to change it. All of them.

She missed her lovely books back home, her understanding father who debated the finer points of freedom as an ideal and the downfalls of other revolutions. He'd shaped her to be a lietenant in some great movement that fought for the freedom and welfare of all-- Instead she was stuck in a grey city with grey people, nearly homeless and barely making any money in her job. Her arms were sore every night from dying fabric in the vats, and though muscle was forming there, she hated it still. Her stomach was still as jiggly as ever and she didn't care. No one cared what the great minds of the past century looked like; she was no different. She was meant for great things.

The rain was lighter this evening than most, and she decided to walk out her increasing rage. Her face twisted angrily at passerby, she walked until her feet hurt, and then some, until she found herself in a rather empty bit of town. The rain had stopped, and she glowered at the rainclouds, as if berating them for their lack of precipitation.

Sinking down on the fountain, she saw a man had also seated himself a little further on. The nerve; this was her fountain. She'd needed it more. Internally grousing, she coughed a little, trying to get his attention. Maybe if he saw her, he'd leave.

Brady turned towards the source of the noise that had disturbed him out of his revelry and blinked at the rather irate looking woman who was glaring at him from across the fountain.

"I was here first, you know." He pointed out to the woman in an amused voice. She clearly wanted him to vacate the premises. And he, clearly, did not. Quite the dilemma. But not really. Brady was about as movable as a stone wall, right now. He was incredibly comfortable, even with the added distraction this young woman was providing. Besides, she didn't necessarily have to be a nuisance... she could be the audience he was looking for!

Most of Brady's friends thought his poetry was one of his quirky habits-- something he quoted at them as they worked. Something that ever so often made them think, or brought them a small moment of laughter. But none of them knew how serious he really was. And Owens was very serious. Serious enough to ask anyone and everyone for their opinion.

"Here, what do you think of this-- start of a new stanza, mind you. Part of a longer piece." He always began by diving right into the topic, wasting no time on comments about the weather, or long drawn out prefaces about what he was doing. He expected his audience to catch up with him.

"And the weary toil under darkened skies// Like so many rows of pebbles// Pounding on machines like dead men pound on graves."

He paused and rubbed the back of his head, eyebrows knit together pensively. "Why th'dead would pound on graves is a bit beyond me though...can't seem to get that last line quite into place."

To Brady, if Baena commented, it was neither here nor there. He was once again lost in his thoughts.

The irate Baena's chin rose, and her eyes narrowed, and with a rising sense of selfrighteousness, she raised one accusing finger with vindictive intent.

"I said nothing. You admit however that while you were here first I have more rights to it as my feet are tired and you disturb my rest. So." Somehow the logic that carried her through aeronautic algorithms didnt carry through to real life. No, this man was somehow out to upset her further, she knew it.


She paused, rather taken aback. Poetry? From anaxi ground-pounders? It was baffling, like hearing of a hingle that quoted scripture. precisely in a mellow baritone. It just didn't happen. Her only retort was stilted and quite foolish.

"Uh-- dead do not pound on anything. People pound on things when they are angry or running or working. Maybe something to do with-- with days?" She suddenly realized she'd spoken all this aloud and quickly closed her jaw with a snap. Well! "Now excuse me, my feet hurt." Without much other warning she pulled off her shoes and began massaging her poor toes, deciding if the man wanted to oogle at her feet he very well could. His poetry seemed to enthrall him more anyway.

Bah. This is all stupid. I should be with the Resistance right now.

"Mmm people pound on things when they are working. Yes. That seems to be rather the point, doesn't it?" He said with a small smile. "As th'poem's about working, and all."

While Baena took her shoes off Brady stretched, popping his back five times, then both of his hands, then his ankles. "Days is good though." He said suddenly, looking up mid stretch.

"And the weary toil under darkened skies// Like so many rows of pebbles// Pounding on machines like th'days pound on us// And do beat us till we fall// Only bones upon th'ground."

He finished his stretch and sighed with the air of a man truly satisfied with his lot in life. "So what's got you so tired, gel?" Brady asked, thumbing his nose idly. "You're not grimy enough for the factories, so it must be sommat else--Speakin' of grime..."

He pulled out a dirtied handkerchief and wiped his face with it, trying to make himself mildly more presentable. There was a lady here now, after all. He hung the scrap of cloth around his neck when he was done, glancing up at the sky. Grey. Always grey.

She had been made a fool of. The mortification would never ever die. She turned her face away from the man and busied herself with rubbing her feet, listening to the revision of the poem. She wouldn't admit it, but Baena had a soft stop for poetry. She always imagined setting some stanzas to a tune and making a battle hymn, but never had the musical talent to do so. Instead, she cocked her head to listen in more closely, attempting to be discreet but failing.

At his question, she spun around and placed her feet on the fountain, wriggling her toes at him, eyebrow lifted. "Char house." She pointed to her dark clothes, and in the light he could make out many different dye stains. Even her dark toes looked like she'd gotten them in the vats. As he wiped his face, Baena quirked a small smile. He was certainly unphasable. A good quality for one who would only rise as far as the soot-stains on the cities buildings.

Although not asked, Baena felt the need to elucidate on her situation. "I walk ages to get to the Dyeing area, and then have to be on my feet all day and stir vats of foul smelling things that makes my skin turn colors, and then I have to walk to someplace to eat, spend hard earned money on bad food and then walk home. It is a nuisance and I am tired of it. I decided to walk extra just to spite this." It was perfectly logical. Of course it was.

"I see." The older man said with a nod, looking over the woman with new curiosity. He scratched his chin and then started picking at his fingernails. "Must be workin' out well for you. You look fresher than a new plant pokin' out of th'ground."

It wasn't much of a compliment, but Brady had never been really good with those. "Makes me glad my job is as it is-- though it's filled with dust'n all sorts of things that congest your lungs. I don't do well standin' still. It isn't good for your bones. Maybe you should try'n spite your feet more often. Th'walking probably did you a world of good. Walking is good for most anything, really."

He might have gotten a bit preachy towards the end, but Owen's father used to complain to him about all the places he couldn't go because of his mangled his leg. Brady considered having both of his feet a blessing-- as well as the fact that he'd managed to survive life in the factories without injury. Sure, there had been a few close shaves that had put him out of work for a day (because any longer meant they wouldn't have anything to eat), but he'd pulled through out of those with most of his skin in tact.

"The woman stirs vats of colors and does pour her soul into them// does this work on foot all day// watches the stains drain and pull// her tears into the dust// only to find the colors have bled into her skin."

He didn't like it very much. It could have been better. And he was sure she wasn't going to be pleased about the tears part, but then, Brady didn't ever really aim to please others with his poetry.

"What's your name, then? Th'poem isn't gonna be good until I've got your name."

She looked at him hard. There was no mockery in his tone, and yet she could not believe he meant what he said. She'd seen the girls around town, those young witches desperate for any man they could claim long enough to be wedded. They could sing and dance and all flirted with anyone with enough twig and berry to reciprocate the feeling. And yet-- she didn't disbelieve him. He didn't seem the type to call out her plainness.

So, she decided to ignore it altogether. It had never been said; thus she spoke, thusly she believed. She went on tot he next comment. "Yes while defying the will of my laziness, I have managed to run my poor feet ragged. Therefore, I rest." She managed a flash of a grin before her face resumed it tight-lipped scowl at the rest of his poem. It was both oddly satisfying that she was finally getting the sympathy she deserved, and yet insulting that he thought she cried.

"Oh no, if you want it more powerful make the vat woman a stronger character. She doesn't cry, she bleed into the vats. Like dye can bleed into other clothes if its done wrong." She nudged herself over towards him, awkwardly shifting on palms and scooting her butt on the stones. "It'll also go with the 'bled' bit. I'm Baena." She sucked in on her bottom lip, trying to find other things she could try and fix with the poem. "Hm. I also go by Ms. Staker. At the pubs and all."

Now what was the use of that? She blinked once, wondering what was going on. She didn't move back, but she watched this man all the closer. "And you're name?"

Brady considered for a moment. "And what if she doesn't know she's crying?" He asked curiously, not trying to discourage her-- rather trying to gauge the depth of her character by starting a conversation. To write a truly good poem, one had to know his subjects rather intimately. Owens often wrote about his friends... these poems, though, he kept secret. Over the years he had found that people didn't often like being shown the truth about themselves. They lived in ignorance, and when confronted about their flaws and problems, they got angry.



"Owens." He said, getting up and bowing. "Brady Owens, son o' Vance Owens and his wife Lena. Lena bein' my mum."

He sat down and grinned at her. "See-- the name is a window into the person. Tells you a whole slew o'things about someone. For example, from my name, you can tell, oh, that my parents didn't like none o'them flowery names like Tybalt or nunna that. They were sensible people. Brought me up sensible. An' all that from a name."

Baena considered his rather effective inspection of her character. Did the vat woman cry? Maybe, sometimes. Perhaps crying for justice, but the tears were those if betrayal and anger, nor sadness. It stung, but she'd suffered worse. Besides, art was art and could not be denied. She knew she never cried. Ever. The leakages from her eyes on hard days was irritation from the vats.

"Bah. If she were crying she'd know it. Either way, something ought to be different; the rhythm is not as it should be in that line. It is in need of fixing." She refused to get too angry, mostly because she hadn't found anyone to just sit and talk to her in so long. Whether the poetry was and reflection of reality or not, she was enjoying herself, insults and jabs aside. Leaning forward, she recaptured a foot and began working from the ankle up her sore calves, more or less to keep her hands busy while they talked. Plus it felt marvelous to take a load off and just work out all the strain.


Good old fashioned values. Baena's father had never had any time for them, and her mother had an entirely different set to eschew, so the name was quaint rather than sensible in her opinion. Nonetheless she scoffed and lifted her face skyward superiorly.

"Names are mere sounds strung together. Unless the name is strange beyond all reckoning, then it is sensible. My name is also my grandmothers, and it has worked well for us, though here it may seem nonsensical to this land." She didn't mention the obvious nickname; she hated it to the point where it no longer existed. "It would take a... I don't know, a Feanaro or a Hestinaverincci to be totally impractical." She switched to the other leg, shrugging. "But your parents do not sound so bad, being of the earth people." While the words could be an insult, they were said politely. She had nothing against parents, they were in fact one of the things she missed most about home.

He nodded thoughtfully and stared out into the street at the few people hurrying by. Nobody liked the possibility of being caught out in the rain. Even in this brief moment where there was no rain to bother them, they hurried.



"The sound's nice, though, in your name. It flows well. I've often wished I could speak Mugrobi... it's a language that slides off th'tongue."



Brady wasn't sure if he was amused or mortified that she thought his parents were 'not so bad'.

"Hmm. They are... well they're sommat else let me tell you." He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to relieve the tense sensation that had come over him. Love his parents he did, but he still didn't find them a pleasant topic of conversation. "Salt o' th'earth, as the sayin' goes."

And by salt of the earth I mean they're the salt that's sewn into the earth to make th'crops go bad.

He frowned and thumbed his nose again. "Okay how about this."

"She done good by me// This woman by the vats.// Gone and pound and pull and pour all day// bleeds and stirs and cries// Till dawn come with new colors// That she knows she'll have t'make t'morrow."

Now that did make her flush, if only for a second. Well! If people here were all more like Brady, she might not have decided it was so awful after all. Nonetheless, he was a spark of civility in a throng of teeming idiots who did not see her splendor. Yet even with the compliment, Baena did not stoop to simper and flirt. She hadn't the will to, and even if she did she didn't know how to be a coquette. She just was a grouchy young woman.

Who had been lucky enough to happen to find convivial company to spend a tired evening with. "It is a lovely language. Ayah, Brady, eh sana'hulali. Xa ma'ralio a ju." It was the nicest thing she'd said to anyone in a long time, but the sound of mugrobi falling off her lips was too much to pass up. Even the drippy vowels made her smile. This was turning out to be a very good walk indeed.


She nodded with approval. "Much better. Polish can come later, for now you have strength in the words and that is what matters. I am... flattered." The pleasantry fell flat so she moved on, ignoring the attempt. "Is there-- do you have more of the Poem?" She scooted a little closer, even, and now they were within comfortable conversation range. It was weird in a comforting way to nt have scared him off yet.

"Though tomorrow is on the nines, so it is off. I believe Hulali and all other gods smile on the nines and tens, because their people come out of the factories and shops and have moments to soak in life. As grime covered and maligned as it is." She surreptitiously glanced at him, pondering whether or not to ask if he was busy over the cessation of work; did she care enough? was it worth the possible affable rejection? In the end she decided to wait it out. See what else the man said.

Just because he was her first smile in months didn't mean anything. If he got her to laugh, however, she'd die.

"Very nice!" Brady said, admiration ringing in his voice, "What does it mean?"

His curiosity was clear on his face, and grey blue eyes looked over Baena with revived interest. Sometimes he was tempted to put the pretty foreign words in his poetry just for the sounds they made-- but then, they never rolled off his tongue correctly, and he couldn't bear to hear it misspoken.



He nodded once, feeling the heat rise on his face a little. Baena might have noticed the tips of his ears had turned red.

"I'm glad you like it." His hand moved to the back of his neck again to ease him out of embarrassment.



"Oh." He blinked, surprised that she was so interested. He loved his mates, and his people, and he loved talking to them and hearing their opinions-- they just usually didn't think poetry was such a high form of art. More often than not, they told him to shut the hell up. "I-- well yes, actually. Of th'first one, that is. I mean t'say, I only just wrote th'vat woman one...Right here with you."

He cleared his throat.



"Aye, well, nothin' wrong with grime." Brady said with another one of his easy smiles, pulling the rag off of his neck and shaking the thing at her with an amused expression. "Gotta make friends with th'grime o'this city. It can't be escaped. Gets in your lungs, clouds up your eyes..."

That could be another poem... He pulled himself out of it and rubbed his chin, glancing at Baena sheepishly.

"Eh, sorry. Get distracted. If you like I can bring you th'bits o'the earlier poem that I've written down t'morrow. That is, if y'don't mind th'number it'll do on your feet."

He lifted a single eyebrow and smiled, refering to her earlier behavior perhaps a little chidingly.

Leaning down, she pulled up her socks, shrugging vaguely. "'Hello, Brady, and may Hulali be with you. It's a pleasure to have met you.' Traditionally polite greeting, however I very rarely hear such pleasantries from the anaxi. Well, until today." She beamed at him for a moment before turning her attention back to her feet and pulling her shoes back on.

Brady was perhaps the breath of breeze she'd needed to remind her why she was fighting for equality. He deserved better than a job that would kill him; had he been one of the arata, he would have been a poet of beauty and renown, even if only in small circles. His face would not be greasy-black and his hands would not look so calloused and scarred. Glancing at her newly broken-to-the-yoke hands, she wondered if her once scholarly fingers would look like the thick twigs of the anaxi's. His embarrassment made her bite back a smile. She was fighting for people like Brady, for their right to live freely.

Besides. He was sweet. And it only took one bright star to navigate by.

She had only vaguely acquainted herself with the vats woman in the poem. Now that she saw it stood for her, rather beautifully as well, it was both startling and confusing. Her expression ran the gamut of shock, wary disbelief, smiling hope and finally a thin line of unreadably straight lips. She's already been made the fool of once, no use doing it again.

Nonetheless, his teasing made her flush furiously and she made a great show of retying the laces on her boots. Grime was right. She was filthy everyday, and bathing only exacerbated the problem. Her dark skin hid the worst of it, but she felt it creeping over her, like a predator out to consume the last of her pride. She refused it and scrubbed her skin raw as often as she had the energy to. Dry, broken skin absorbed dye very very well, though.

"My feet will survive such abuses. I have walked longer and harder, but the less I can do, more for the better." She pulled some pins out of her hair, letting the kinky mess fall into her eyes before pulling it back up into it's customary lackluster bun. She didn't know why it was so appealing to have busy hands, but idle ones would make her nervous. "...But I will be here. I would enjoy getting a look at your work. Perhaps I can bring some my book of literature?" Of all the texts she brought from her homeland, only one was of anything like poetry. She preferred science... but Brady might like it. "I would have to translate of course."

He nodded at her explanation of the words and shrugged, "Th'Anaxi humans are a hard people. We don't have time for pleasantries. Specially as they imply that we're feelin' pleasant..." He trailed off, faded blue eyes looking at the ground. It was hard to be in a good mood when life seemed so hopeless. Brady tried not to think about the things he couldn't change, although his mind often returned to these very things.

Owens glanced at her when she mentioned books of literature and shrugged, "Haven't done much book readin' in my life, t'be honest. But you can bring it. Won't do any harm."

He felt a fat raindrop land on his arm and looked up at the sky with a hazy frown. "Mmm I'd best be gettin' back. I'll see you t'morrow? Right here?" He grinned at her with a slightly hopeful expression. He hadn't ever had anybody who really enjoyed looking at his poetry as much as he did.

She nodded, standing up and stretching as the rain began to get harder. He was pleasant. She'd seen in the lines of his face it was hard, but he was. Patting her hair, she nodded imperiously with a serious stare. "Books are wonderful. I shall bring any that could be of interest, and you must bring your poem in its entirety." Shifting her skirt, she tried not to seem self conscious. She had no need of beauty. She was a great mind.

"I will be here. Tomorrow. Meet at... oh, sixteen?" She would pack a lunch. Oh, just for herself. But her eyes were bigger than her stomach, and there might be just too much for her to consume alone. Oh yes. Gathering her things, she began to prepare to leave. "..it was good meeting you. I will see you." I am looking forward to it.

((sfsr!))

He got up and nodded, "I'll be seein' you then." He said and went towards the direction of his home, whistling as he walked.