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The salt spray clung to his passenger’s clothes and hair, having not said a word for the past several hours, not since Wuwa took his money to ferry him over to Portia from the small fishing village on the southern coast of Barnarock. Not even when Wuwa had approached did they say anything, they simply cocked their head, (Wuwa could’ve sworn he saw a flash of smug satisfaction) nodded and hoisted themselves, pack and all, aboard. They stood, silent, their traveling cloak billowing around them from the ocean breeze like a threatening storm, eyes locked onto the distant horizon where Portia was. When they had first approached Wuwa to hire him, he had first mistaken their passenger for some sort of ghoulish being, completely drenched and encased in mud and salt from yesterday’s storm, their limp blond hair clung to most of their face, once tan skin sallow and pale; their dark, dead eyes made hollow from the heavy under eye-bags. (Wuwa couldn’t help but feel pity for the stranger accompanying him home, what could cause someone so young to look so empty.)
The bar, full of drunk sailors, had grown silent when they first walked in, wind and rain howling outside from the mid-spring squall. Seconds later the bar door had slammed shut of its own accord, making the patrons (Wuwa included) jump in their seats from the sudden noise, still the figure stood just inside the threshold, one visible eye sweeping across the bar, searching, until it settled on Wuwa. Their heavy travel pack and the frighteningly large parcels they carried with them shifted all at once as the figure moved forward, the bartender moved to intercept the imposing figure, only to stop and cower from their glare. They continued past, the only noise coming from them being the shifting of their heavy pack and the flutter of their cloak (and Wuwa knew, without a shadow of a doubt that, unburdened, this figure would make no sound), they made their way across the bar before stopping before Wuwa.
“Captain Wuwa?” They had asked, voice sounding like the cracking thunderstorm raging outside. “I require passage to Portia, I hear you’re familiar.” A shift from under the dark cloak and a hand, heavily scarred, emerged with a small bag. “I hope this is enough.”
Wuwa had extended his own hand after the small offering was laid gently onto the table (the bag is filled with bones, the irrational part of his mind screamed, don’t be ridiculous, the logical side snapped back, it sounds like Gols and it feels like Gols so it’s going to be Gols) and dragged it over to count. It was enough, barley, but it was enough. He did some quick mental math, Vegas 5 needed the supplies that Barnarock had to keep the scientists there going, with most of the trade goods coming from Atara. (“They always decide to be frugal by the time supplies get to Portia, the stipend just barely covers supplies to and from Barnarock!” Wuwa would gripe to Django, who nodded sympathetically while he cleaned the bar top.)
He snapped out of his rumination, realizing the stranger in front of him was still waiting for an answer, “It’s enough, sure I can ferry you over to Portia, though it looks like it’s gonna be a few days on account of the weather.”
The one visible eye blinked slowly at his statement, they hummed in contemplation, face angled towards the ceiling in concentration. “The storm will pass by sunrise.”
Wuwa blinked behind his spectacles in confusion at the stranger’s odd declaration. The figure turned back to him, reiterating his previous statement. “Once it has, I'll meet you by your vessel, Captain.” They nodded once, before turning, bag and parcels thumping in time with their silent steps, and exited back into the mid-spring squall that showed no sign of stopping by sunrise the next morning.
Wuwa couldn’t help but look incredulously to the other sailors sharing a table with him, all of them shared the single thought of ‘What the fuck was that?’
The next morning dawned clear and bright, promising a warm day once the sun rose higher into the sky. White cotton clouds dyed pink and gold drifted high above the small village, the gulljays began their usual morning racket (which always woke Wuwa up, the drated little dock rats), while the ocean lapped gently at the shore.
Wuwa could only stare for a few minutes before shaking his head in disbelief. Leaving his room above the bar he descended the stairs to see many of last night’s patrons passed out at their tables; the few awake were eating quietly and eyeballing the world beyond the bar with nothing short of trepidation, they nodded to Wuwa solemnly as he passed by.
(Wuwa had to mentally roll his eyes, sailors were a superstitious lot, himself included but acting like he was a dead man walking was just absurd.)
Exiting the bar he was hit with the smell of fresh brine, the cobbles crunching under his shoes from the caked on salt, around him the village began to stir, the smell of fresh bread filled the air, men and women bustling about, preparing their vessels and supplies, rushing to catch up and ship out now that the storm has passed. His vessel was further down the docks, moored with the town’s small fishing vessels, even at this distance he could see them, the stranger from last night. Wuwa huffed and picked up his pace, there were a few things he needed to do and he had a traveler to transport after all. “We’re coming up on Portia!” He called to his companion, his heart leapt in joy seeing Portia grow ever larger, soon he would be home, back with his brothers. “So I didn’t ask before, but what are ya going to be doing there? Ruin divin’?”The wind caught the stranger’s hood as they turned, tugging it down and freeing the long blond strands, they cursed, scrambling to tie it back into a serviceable bun and answered back absently. “Something like that.” Wuwa couldn’t help but smile, having gotten used to his quiet companion’s foreboding appearance, ‘Ah to be young again,’ his heart sang. “We get someone like you once in a while, always seeking that adventure, good to be young!” They were close now to the dock outside his home, with the ease of having docked here a thousand times he began to wind the gears that would close the sloop’s sails and coasting into port. As they bumped gently into the dock, the Old World tires protecting his precious vessel from any real damage, Wuwa hopped off his chair and began mooring his little vessel, the thump of a pack on the dock telling him that his passenger was departing. “Well, good luck to ya kid.” “Nightingale.”He looked up, the young person, Nightingale apparently, had left the hood of their travel cloak off and was currently making sure the pack was settled correctly across their back. “My name, it’s Nightingale. Thank you, ah, again for ferrying me here. It’s… I appreciate it.” “It’s no problem, really. And hey, if you ever need a ride again, you know where to find me.” Nightingale stared at Wuwa, baffled that he had offered such a thing, before nodding and quickly walking away. The sun shone warm and bright in the mid afternoon sky, the spring breeze wafting the smell of flowers and the ocean all around Nightingale as he began his journey up the road towards the small city-state of Portia. There were several figures, he noted, a few in the farmlands up the road and to the left, small people shaped blobs by the entrance of the city going about their day; and one person walking down the road towards him, growing closer with each passing moment. The figure waved, he looked towards where Wuwa was and couldn’t spy the older man (oh gods it’s going to be so awkward now) and began to jog towards him.He was middle aged, if Nightingale had to guess, with soft brown hair that was combed over with a few flyaways and graying in some places, a small square pencil mustache; and rectangular, yellow glasses perched on a small, round nose. He wore a simple blue suit jacket, yellow striped tie and black trousers with shiny brown dress shoes, all of which were well loved and well maintained (he screamed Walnut Grove and it took every ounce of willpower in his body not to roll his eyes). He stopped before Nightingale with a smile, not out of breath or sweating in the noon day heat, eyes full of recognition. “Nightingale!” It took him a few moments to remember that he had been in contact with Morrigan’s friends that lived here, he coughed and readjusted his pack. “Presley? How do you do?” His smile grew brighter, as he fell into step with Nightingale. “Good to see you again! Hope you had a pleasant journey… from Barnarock, right? That’s quite far.”“Yeah, it, uh, was. Yeah.” If he noticed the awkward tension he didn’t mention it as he led Nightingale up the road, closer and closer to Portia. “Anyways, I’m here to show you to your workshop, so if you would please follow me, it’s pretty close.” Nightingale couldn’t help but huff in exasperation as he followed Presley up the dirt road, “I wonder what it’s like, I didn’t get to know Morrigan too well.” He could see Presley glance at him out of the corner of his eye, his jovial mood dampening somewhat, “No one’s been working there since your Pa -pardon- Morrigan left Portia so many years ago.” Presley’s voice lowered as they walked, his sentence petering out, “He was a good friend.” Like he was trying to convince himself. Nightingale did feel bad for Presley, Morrigan had the awful personality trait of picking up and dropping people whenever the mood struck him but Morrigan being a good friend? He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, the idea was laughable. He decided to take pity on Presley, they were a hundred yards out from an eye-sore shit shack just outside the city’s walls when Nightingale stopped him, “Look, uh Presley. To me Morrigan will always be a bastard, I have no love for him, that's just going to be a fact of life, but my opinion of him shouldn’t change your’s.” He held up his hand when Presley went to speak, “People are flawed, they can be great friends and at the same time be deadbeat and absent in their kid’s life, it’s shitty but it can’t be helped, so don’t - don’t worry about it, okay?” (All this talking was making his throat hurt fucking shit.)His guide looked at him for a few moments before smiling gently and patting him on the shoulder. “Not much further now, come on.”The pair trudged up the winding dirt road, the wind being mercifully cool as it was funneled down the rolling hills and farmland outside of this small seaside town. At last they stopped before the eye sore shack, Presley flinging his arms wide with a flourish, “And here we are, your workshop.” ‘It looks even worse up close,’ Nightingale thought. She could already feel a headache coming on, ‘This place is going to need so much work.’ As if the universe heard her a gust of wind whistled by, dragging one of the sagging fence gates open, only for it to break off and flop over with a dull thud. The house, if that’s what you could call it (and that was being generous), wasn’t much better. Most of the wood siding was a warped, splintering mess from the sun and coastal storms; the stone foundation was crumbling, with copious amounts of moss and lichen growing wherever it could find perchance. They couldn’t see the roof but imagined it wasn’t much better.‘Hopefully the inside is salvageable. Thanks so much Morrigan, you really know how to make it up to a person.’ Nightingale grimaced. Presley coughed, “This place has sure’s seen some wear and tear.” He turned to Nightingale, “What do you think?”She looked down at him with a quirked brow, “Looks, uh… homely. Sure, homely, let’s… go with that.”Presley had the decency to look sheepish before smacking himself on the forehead in admonishment, “Oh! I almost forgot!” The commissioner exclaimed, he began frantically patting down his suit jacket and pants before pulling out a small slip of paper from his breast pocket. “Here’s a letter from your father. He asked me to present it to you once you’ve seen the house.” She took the letter reluctantly, like it was going to spontaneously combust in her hands, sighing she began to read.
Isu!
Nightingale!
When you read this letter, I will already be on the other side of the world. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry that I'm not the father you wanted me to be. This was all so sudden, so I didn't have much time to tell you or figure out how to take care of you.
Then I thought about this workshop! It might not look like much now, but it will brace you from the wind and cover you from the rain. I have left my Workshop Handbook that details how I created things in my workshop. The rest is up to you. Do your best and live a wonderful life! You will always be my pride and joy!
-Pa
She tisked and shoved the letter into a random pocket to burn later. Presley had turned away to give her a modicum of privacy whilst she read, turning back he had handed her a thick, poorly bound book, made of soft blue leather with gold-tarnished corner protectors. It was old, possibly older than her, the parchment yellowed with time. “Here’s your Pa’s workshop handbook. Take your time and come to the Portia Commerce Guild tomorrow, it’s located around Peach Plaza, you can’t miss it.” Flipping through it there are a good handful of diagrams, well drawn (if a bit goofy looking) and detailed instructions to make each item. Where the rest of the diagrams should’ve been were their chewed up remains, the information now lost to time. “As much as I’d like to give you a Builders License right away,” Presley continued, “You’ll need to prove your worth through a couple of tests.” “Got it, tomorrow.” She said, disappearing the handbook into the folds of her cloak."Anyways, I’ll leave you be, get some rest. Welcome to Portia, Nightingale." Presley smiled, leaving the (hopefully) new builder to their workshop.Nightingale watches him leave, tension leaving her body with the return of blessed quiet. She dropped her belongings by the workshop door and began to inspect the yard. Everything was ramshackle, or rusted, or warped; though, miraculously, still functional. The assembly station needed a few of the wooden boards replaced and weather proofed but held up under the brief abuse Nightingale put it through, same with the workshop bench.
‘All in all, not as bad as it could’ve been.’ She mused. She began to walk around the house and just as she expected most of the stone foundation and wood siding were going to need some serious repairs before the summer monsoon season hit. What really threw her for a loop was the large water storage unit/boiler/well valve access monstrosity clinging to the left side of the house, surprisingly the whole unit seemed to be in good condition. With the attached wood shack and tool shed next to it was obvious where exactly Morrigan put his time and energy with his workshop.
Nightingale scoffed, “Couldn’t live without your creature comforts could you, Morrigan?” She muttered, though the prospect of having hot water was a small balm for an already awkward day. She gave the storage unit a knock and heard the sound reverberating through the water held in it, making a face and she began searching for a release valve, spying it towards the top of the unit (that’s going to be one of the first things she’d change). Snooping around some more revealed an access ladder that led up to the roof, scaling it (it also needed to be replaced) gave her a pretty good view of the surrounding area (roof was shit, just as she suspected, though it didn’t look like she’d fall through). The surprise water collection gutters would need to be cleaned and waterproofed, she determined as she kicked the release valve into the ‘open’ position, the sound of rushing water caught her ear as a pipe sputtered to life forty feet to her right. Nodding in satisfaction that that was one less thing to worry about she began to slowly turn the access hatch on the unit to get a look inside only to immediately recoil from the smell.
Leaving the hatch open she shimmies her way back down the ladder, and towards the front of the house. “That… is going to be a future me problem.” She muttered.
Back at the front door Nightingale sighs, "Well let's go see the damage." She hikes her bag higher and pushes through towards the shack door. The door opened with a whining groan, a gust of air dispersing the layers of dust over every available surface, entering the space there was a dilapidated kitchenette to her left with a partition wall blocking a small area off in the back, next to the water/boiler monstrosity. To her right was a small living room with a threadbare couch and sagging coffee table, behind the living room there was a loft with a small storage space hugging the right wall. Investigating behind the partition confirmed her suspicions of a bathroom, though dirty it looked functional; there was nothing in the closet except a few cobwebs and dead bugs. The loft held a single person bed frame and a nightstand, both items covered in moth-eaten sheets to try and protect them from dust, but to no avail.
Descending the latter, Nightingale huffed making a mental list of what needed to be done and in what order, putting her travel pack back outside she began by opening up the two windows on either side of the front door and opened the small window up and to the left of the loft bed. With adequate light and air flow throughout the space next came the monstrous task of cleaning.
For hours after, Nightingale cleaned from the highest rafters to the darkest corners, old furniture was thrown out, the kitchen cleaned and fixtures patched to the best of her ability, and the toolshed organized, by the time she was done the sun was low on the horizon. Too tired to do much else she rolled out her sleeping bag on the living room floor, her reward was a deep, peaceful sleep, dreaming of rolling hills and salty seas.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The next day dawned bright and early, a distant rooster rousing Nightingale from his slumber, he groaned, sleep still clinging to his eyes as he stretched and began pawing through his pack for something to eat. Munching quietly he looked over his “new” workshop critically, there were a lot of things that needed to be done but first and foremost was to get a fucking mattress. He’d go mad sleeping on the floor for much longer. What else? Maybe a couch? Oh and a bookshelf on that wall would be nice and if he could fix the kitchenette up he could make actual food! ‘What a novel idea,’ he snickered, ‘There was some space outside for a garden maybe--’ He stopped and shook himself. ‘This isn’t permanent. Don’t get attached. Just get a bed and fix the kitchen and water system, that’s all this place needs.’ Shoving away any lingering disappointment Nightingale crammed the last of his stale breakfast into his mouth and headed out.
It was a warm, sunny day, a strong breeze blowing up from the coast. To his left he could see a sea of green sprouts emerging into the bright sun, a young woman stepping around them with practiced ease as she watered them all. Seeming to sense his gaze the young woman gave him a friendly wave and a smile, calling out a cheerful “Good morning!”, before returning to her task, he blinked in surprise, giving a small wave back, before turning and hurriedly passing under the entrance to Portia.‘Presley was right, you really can’t miss the guild.’ Nightingale mused. The plaza was large, built with the same off-white stone the city walls were built out of, with an impressive three-tiered fountain that was partially sunken into the ground, the statue of the prophesied hero Peach standing tall. Moving around Peach he stared up at the large cluster of buildings before him, all three were made of the same stone with summer sky blue clay shingles, the commerce guild had a large patch of creeping ivy slowly consuming the building’s face from left to right. The left-most building was two stories, the first story seemingly squished under the second’s weight, the sign, “A&G Construction” with “Hours 8:00-18:00 daily” underneath, swung gently into the building’s side every now and again. Nightingale couldn’t tell what the right-most building was, the round sign above the door saying “Portia” with something smaller underneath. He shrugged, figuring he’d find out at a later date. To the right of that building was a small walkway that lead into a grove of some kind, Nightingale could just see the tops of the trees behind the “Portia” building and another building that said “Happy Apartments” on the front of it. Numerous people were leaving the “Happy Apartments” building now, one woman with enviously long brown hair and wearing the vestments of someone from the Church of Light, carrying a podium of sorts. She was approached by an older man, also wearing the vestments, with shoulder length salt and pepper hair, who helped her set up the podium, both of them noticed him almost immediately. The woman stared with open curiosity while the man was more reserved, suspicious, Nightingale made a note to avoid the man, lest he get preached at, especially since he was aiming to be a builder. Thankfully the two were drawn away with the arrival of some of the other townsfolk, the older man then began to give his sermon for the day. Nightingale thanked his lucky stars he didn’t get pulled into another awkward theological discussion, he didn’t want to be socially run out of yet another town, especially when he just got here. Taking the commerce guild steps two at a time he slipped inside, the glass pane door closing behind him with a soft click. Standing in the brightly lit interior he was met with a large room with sky blue wall paper and white columns with the same blue as an accent color, the tiled floor, once white, was worn and slightly yellowed from age. A large circular reception desk, if Nightingale had to guess, rested on a large rug with the guild’s symbol in the center of it, behind the desk was a set of stairs and a landing with some sort of ranking on the faded blue plank walls. To the left and right of the landing were two other sets of stairs leading to an upper floor, numerous bookshelves against the back wall. To the left of the first set of stairs was a small, simple desk that Presley was working at, he looked up as the door clicked close and positively beamed, seeing Nightingale. He finished whatever he was working on quickly before walking over.“Nightingale! Nice to see you. How are you settling in?” He asked.“Uhh…” Nightingale’s worst enemy: Small Talk. “Fine?”“Great! Let me introduce you to the Commerce Guild,” Nailed it. “We’re the organization that orchestrates trade across the entire Free Cities region, this is the Portia branch. We’re pretty busy throughout the year.”Nightingale nodded, already knowing this.“Now then,” Continued Presley. “Let me give you your builder test. It’s pretty easy, make an axe and pickaxe and bring them to me. You’ll need to have wood and stone to make these. You can gather them on your own or buy them from Total Tools in Central Square.” He resisted the urge to snark about having no money to the older man.Presley continued on, completely unaware of the young man mentally sassing him. “After you have the raw materials, you’ll need to craft the items on a worktable. I saw your Pa’s old one in your yard, so check and see if that still works.”Nightingale nodded, he’s pretty sure he saw a few in the toolshed attached to the house when he was looking for a bucket to help him clean yesterday. He just had to make sure the heads of either tool didn’t go flying off when he used them, or hurt anyone else who happened to be nearby. Exiting the commerce guild back into the warm early spring morning saw Portia bustling with activity, a larger crowd had gathered to listen to the minister’s sermon, some people paused to listen before moving on, others were stopping into a nearby restaurant the “Round” something, while others still moved further into town.‘Probably where Total Tools is.’ He thought. Walking back towards his workshop he gave the assembled crowd a wide berth, only catching snippets of the sermon itself and the people’s reaction. ‘“Harmony with nature”, “defending themselves from Duvos”, “restricting relic usage”,’ Nightingale sighed. ‘Same old, same old. Good to know, I guess.’Back at his workshop Nightingale began to rummage through the toolshed, all of the axes and pickaxes there were definitely used, though there was some effort in maintaining them thankfully. Any wobbly heads were fixed with a wedge, the blades sharpened and oiled down, the handles waxed, he would have to make a day of repairing the others but, for now, these two would do. ‘Hopefully Presley wouldn’t ding him for using Morrigan’s old things but,’ Nightingale reasoned. ‘He said I could buy them so I should be in the clear.’ He frowned, hauling these around is going to be a pain in the ass, oh duh! He snapped his fingers, leaning his tools on the side of the house he walked inside and grabbed his weapon holster and began finagling the tools around until they were properly settled onto his back. He gave a few hops, feeling the weight of the heavy steel tools settle on his back, satisfied he left the workshop and meandered his way back to the commerce guild.A few more of Portia’s residence were looking now that he was making sufficient enough noise, he paid them no mind however, he doubted he’d ever really speak to any of these people outside a commission. They wouldn’t know him and he wouldn’t know them, make’s life simple for everyone. No point in getting attached to a drifter after all.Re-entering the Commerce Guild Nightingale noted a new face, a young man around his age, perhaps younger, manning the receptionist’s desk. He was shorter than Nightingale, though not by much, with light tan skin with a smattering of freckles across his nose and soft blue eyes. His hair was cropped short, the sides a bright blond while the top was a vibrant shade of pink, the likes of which Nightingale had never seen; his jacket complimented his hair quiet well, Nightingale noted, it was a soft amethyst color with lilac pin stripes with sunny yellow accents on his collar, sleeve pins and pocket.The other man was inspecting Nightingale in turn, looking equal parts of wanting to set him on fire and… something else Nightingale couldn’t name. Or maybe he didn’t want to name it. He met the young man’s eyes, expecting a confrontation, only for the other man to smirk and wiggle his eyebrows, what was he--?.Oh.
Oh.
That’s what the other look was. Nightingale quickly looked away, heat rising to his face, he was not looking for anything right now or ever for that matter. (He was glad that he was no longer in danger of being set on fire.)He chuckled quietly before calling Presley over (and putting Nightingale out of his misery thank fuck). “My name’s Antoine, it’s Nightingale? Right?” He glanced at Antonie, giving him a curt nod which made the young man chuckle and Nightingale’s face heat up even more. Though he was, thankfully, saved by Presley, who looked utterly lost. Deciding it wasn’t worth it to ask, the guild commissioner motioned for Nightingale to follow him over to his desk. Presley shuffled some of his work around, making small neat piles with just enough space for him to put his tools down for inspection. He looked over both tools, checking everything that could possibly be checked (Nightingale was thankful he took the extra time to be thorough), once finished he was positively beaming. “Excellent quality. Nicely done. You can keep them, I just wanted to see what you could do. Now, for the second test, you are to build a stone furnace. This one’s a bit tougher so you’ll have to use the assembly station in your yard to complete this task.” He said. Presley ‘hum’-ed after a moment, thinking. “If I remember correctly, Morrigan kept a very detailed account of the things he made. You might want to flip through his old workshop handbook and see if you can find a diagram for the stone furnace.”Nightingale listened quietly as he put his tools back in their holsters, he remembered seeing the diagram, he couldn’t remember the specifics of it. He nodded to Presley and (once again) made his way back to his workshop. (He made his peace that it was going to be a back and forth sort of day.)Back at the workshop he nabbed the leather bound manual and set it onto the assembly station stand, flipping through he found what he was looking for pretty easily. ‘It’s definitely more time intensive,’ he noted. He would need a trough to hold and cool the ingots and a stand for holding up the crucible, both wouldn’t be too back. The biggest challenge would be the crucible itself: he needed a stone that could be carved down to hold the liquefied metals without the whole thing cracking from the temperature, but thin enough for the heat to transfer through. He sighed, he was burning daylight, he figured he’d build the trough first and while he was cutting down the trees near the workshop he could look around from some stone. Returning back to the tool-shed he pulled out a small sled and straps to carry his materials and set out. Over the next several hours, Nightingale spent his time chopping down one of the larger trees to process into lumber and searching for a suitable stone to turn into a crucible. He got lucky, finding several stones all around nine inches to a foot in diameter, he set them at the foot of the workshop table for later. The wood chisels were in good enough condition, having been protected by their leather case, though the wood planers would need serious repairs (which would have to wait until after he got his license, unfortunately). He decided that this was probably going to be as good as it was going to get and began processing the timber into workable logs and then fashioned them into the water trough he would need, by the time this was done the sun was, once again, low in the sky. Deciding he was done, he went over to the well pump to clean up and get himself some water for dinner, the whole time working and reworking on how to chisel a crucible come tomorrow. A vague plan in mind he flopped onto his bedroll and quickly fell asleep. Nightingale woke again to the distant sound of a rooster’s crowing, the sky was overcast, though only light grey rather than threatening rain, only time would tell if that changed or not. Not wanting to be rained out of his work, he decided to forgo breakfast, his subconscious having formulated a solid plan while he slept last night, Nightingale was thankful, he wanted to start getting some Gols, his rations were running dangerously low for his tastes.He grabbed the stone chisels, rasps and a hammer from the toolshed and grabbed his stones. He would start with the base, seeing as how that would be the more complex of the two, grabbing one of the larger stones he began by cracking it as close to half as possible so that it had a flat base, and then worked on shearing off the rounded top into a bowl shape to later hold the crucible. ‘I’ll have to find some clay later to prevent water from getting in.’ He mused, grabbing the stone brace and water to carve air vents into the base’s sides. He spent the next several hours carefully carving out a cavity inside of the base, once finished and satisfied with his work he moved onto the crucible itself. The crucible was much of the same process, the longest part was rasping the sides and bottom to get as close to a perfect seal as possible for both stability and to keep out any water; finally, finally, he was finished. Nightingale loaded his furnace onto the sled and dragged it into town (he really hoped Presley hadn’t left for the day, who fucking knows what time it was).He left the sled at the foot of the commerce building and darted inside.“Presley!” he watched in mild amusement as the older man jumped in surprise, “It’s fucking finished. Are you able to look at it ”Presley blinked at Nightingale’s volume, though he didn’t comment, following the young man outside he looked over the furnace with the same meticulousness as the tools. “Great job, Nightingale. Please follow me back inside for a moment.”The commissioner riffled through the stacks of paper on his desk for a moment, a soft “ah ha!” the only noise as he scratched his signature onto the bottom left corner. “This is your Builder’s license, congratulations Nightingale. All you need to do now is bring this over to the Mayor’s office next door and get your workshop registered. After that you can start taking regular commissions.” He pulled out a small silver pocket watch and grinned. “You have enough time to register today too, Mayor Gale leaves at six on the dot everyday, so you better hurry. I’ll be here when you get back.” All but snatching the license out of Presley’s hands he sprinted out of the guild (“ThanksPresleyI’llbebackinaminute!”) to next door. He skids to a halt in front of the mayor’s office and knocks on the door, a quiet “Come in!” coming from the otherside moments later.Entering the small “L” shaped room he was surprised at how well maintained it was compared to the guild hall. The spring green walls looked new, the shelves almost sparkling from new veneer (the smell long gone, so the renovation was a few months old at the very least).“Can I help you?” To his left sat a relatively short middle aged man with striking ginger hair in a receding hairline, he watched Nightingale from his low desk, green eyes looking him over with curiosity before brightening in recognition.“Ah, welcome, welcome! You must be Nightingale, Presley told me about you. I’m Gale, the mayor of this town. It’s always wonderful to see young people getting involved in the telesis of our society.” He nodded dumbly (why was everyone here so friendly to him?), presenting his license to Gale.“Right, right, Presley said you were taking the Builder’s test,” Gale hummed, reading over the license. “Everything seems to be in order. Ah, tell me, what is the name of your workshop?”Nightingale balked, “The… name? It’s… Uhh…” He had no idea what to call Morrigan’s his workshop. Unbidden two memories stuck like lightning into his very soul. “It’s okay kiddo, you’re safe now. My name is Wren and I promise I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Nightingale could still feel their hands rubbing warm, soothing circles on his back as they took him home. The seemingly endless, repetitive (abysmalworldshattering) days walking under a vast, open sky, made bearable by Wren’s constant warmth and reassurance.
“Why do you have so many plants, Papa?”
“It’s my grove, darling, they represent us, our love and connection to one another as a family.”
Young Nightingale had laughed at that, “You’re so silly Papa!”
His father’s laugh was a warm timber, filled with mirth, strong hands pulling him up and into a hug.
His heart clenched painfully in his chest and he gulped, feeling clammy. “Wren’s Grove. The name.”If Gale had noticed a change in Nightingale’s demeanor, he didn’t say, he wrote out the name in quick, neat script with a polite smile and a compliment. “There, your registration is complete.” The mayor handed back the license with a flourish. He mumbled out his thanks, watching the paper warp from the residual damp from his skin.“Before I forget, we’re going to have a fireside town meeting once in a while, they’ll be announced through the mail. Try to make them if you can, you don’t want me to be the only one there.” He chuckled, before coughing and continuing on. “I’ll be covering town and world events at large, the usual, you know?”Nightingale blinked and nodded, forcing himself to walk out of the mayor’s office, back into the blessedly cool evening. Once outside he breathed, trying to focus on the birds and insects, the buildup of heat slowly dispersing into the night. Returning to a normal temperature he returned to the guild hall. Presley was there, just as he said he would, leaning casually against the receptionist’s desk (Antoine nowhere in sight), he straightened as Nightingale walked in and motioned him over to the large board to the right of the guild commissioner’s desk. “Congratulations Nightingale, you’re a bonafide workshop owner! You’re-- You should be proud. Let me explain some of the process of our trade. Here at the Portia office, we post workshop commissions every day on the board here.” He paused, watching the newest builder glance at the expired commissions before continuing. “Based on the speed and quality of the results, we make a ranking of the workshops every week on the wall behind me.” He motioned to the chalk board with the ranks on the first landing behind him.Nightingale couldn’t help but ask, “There are other workshops in Portia? Who are they?” “Oh yes, Higgins’ Workshop, Allen Carter Works, Toothfairy Factory, and Neighbor Wang’s, adding yours, there will be five workshops in our jurisdiction. Besides the ranking list, you also have a workshop rating, which is listed on your license. The higher your rating, the higher quality commissions you can get. But don’t worry, if you have your father’s work ethic, you’ll be number one in no time.”He mentally grimaced, oh joy, expectations, but nodded nonetheless. Distantly he noted that the door to the guild opened behind him, the click of dress shoes stopping behind him somewhere to the right. Presley continued onward, this particular speech well rehearsed, “Once you’re done with your orders, you can pick up the commission fee from Antonie if it’s from the guild or the respective person who commissioned you. Builders make most of their money doing commissions for the Guild, but some just build items and sell directly to the market, that’s fairly lucrative as well.“Anyways,” He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Since this is your first commission, I’ve kept one just for you.” The folded sheet was snatched out of Presley’s hands so quickly it almost made his head spin. “Playing favorites are we?” Came the snobbish reply, a man, around Nightingale’s age, stood nearby. He had short black hair set in some sort of professional style, with a white dress shirt and blue checkered lines, a soft grey-blue sweater vest and a yellow tie. His pants were dark wash jeans and black dress shoes. His wide chin and smug expression made him an excellent target (not that Nightingale would miss with an ego making his head so fat). “Higgins,” Presley practically hissed. “You already took one today.”“There are never too many commissions. Good day!” The man, Higgins, sang as he strutted out the door.Nightingale was gonna kick his ass. Out of principle.“That runt.” Presley spat, anger lacing his words like acid. “He’s the owner of the current number one workshop. Brilliant businessman, but I don’t like the way he does things.” He sighed. “Well, I’m sorry, that was our last one today.”“Don’t worry abo--” Nightingale began to say only for he and Presley to jump about a foot in the air as the guild doors were kicked inward. Another young man, perhaps slightly older than Nightingale, walked in. He was tall (though a few inches shorter than Nightingale) with red hair, bushy eyebrows, and an anchor-style beard with no mustache, looking unimpressed as he walked over, inspecting Nightingale as he went. He wore a blue bandanna with some text written on it around his neck, his outfit consisting of a white and yellow jacket with gray details, lightly distressed gray jeans, black fingerless gloves, and various tanned leather straps and holsters. His boots were the reverse of this with brown being the dominant color and the grey straps as detail, he also has a pair of yellow-lensed goggles clipped to his hip. “Hey Pres! I got a job for ya!” This new man announced. Presley blinked in surprise, “Or not.” he muttered. ‘The universe really wants me to get a job, huh.’ Nightingale thought. Presley shook his head in exasperation at the whole situation, “What is it Alro?” “We’re finally building a bridge to Amber Island.” Arlo said. Nightingale could respect someone getting straight to the point. Though a little more context would be great.Presley’s eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise. “So the Mayor finally put up the money?” Good to know that major projects take time to come to fruition, but they do happen. “Well! Young Nightingale here is up for the challenge.” Wait.What?“Yeah, he figured the place could be a real tourist attraction, with the haunted cave and all.” Arlo chuckled. “Now that I think about it, I believe it was your Pa that Mayor Gale first commissioned to make the diagram for the bridge in the first place. You two would be the only ones to have those diagrams.” Presley (unhelpfully) added.Don’t fucking rope me into this?! “Also, and this is important, for a project as big as a bridge, you’ll probably need to dive into the Abandoned ruins to gather materials. We have one such ruin here in Portia, it’s located at the bottom of the church tower.” The two turned to him, faces expectant.“I-wh-fucking--shit--” He looked at the two men before him completely baffled. He could feel the mother of all headaches coming on. “What’s the uh… timeline? I’m supposed to be working with? And I’m assuming there’s a maintenance fee for the ruins?”Thank fuck there was no set timeline for this bridge and for universal practices, but dear calamity this was going to be a pain in the ass. The pay after the job was finished was no joke though, 1,800 Gols? Are you kidding? That had to cover a mattress. Gears started turning in his head, rough timetables and materials he’d need, machinery. ‘Of course I’ll actually have to scout the area first before-- oh fuck me.’ He sighed. “You both are so lucky that I’ve built my fair share of bridges up in Barnarock. But,” He stressed. “We’ll need to rework the contract a bit.”Presley nodded, unsurprised (most likely from Higgins), while Arlo just shrugged. Presley motioned over to his desk, he quickly filled out an addendum for the contract, pen poised over the crisp paper he looked at Nightingale. He hated to have this conversation, “I have, quite literally, zero Gols to my name.” He paused. “I’d like to petition the Commerce Guild and the Civil Corps to waive the entrance fee for the foreseeable future of this project. That way I will have the means to build the machinery I require to fulfill this request, with the understanding that I will pay back the entrance fee owed to the Civil Corps over the period of ten days starting the day after the commission is considered finished and I have been paid. Furthermore, revision of the bridge location should be taken under review if my findings indicate the pre-picked location to be unsuitable for public health and safety.” He watched, wide eyed, as Presley wrote down his request without even blinking, only pausing for a moment when he mentioned paying the Civil Corps back. “Are you sure?” Arlo asked.Nightingale quirked a brow (he did not mentally jump three feet in the air), having forgotten Arlo was there. “I’m sure,” He stated, shrugging. “I don’t like any lingering debts.”When the two men shared a look and then looked at Nightingale for an explanation he sighed.“Depending on where you are, having unpaid debts in northern Barnarock is liable to get you beaten in the street or your workshop burned down.” He shrugged again at the scandalized looks they gave him as he leaned over to look at the addendum. “But that’s neither here, nor there. Yeah, that looks good, let me know what the mayor says or if he has any questions. Once he gives his “okay” I’ll begin testing the site and compiling my report. If that’s all…?”Presley began to clean off his desk, the work day finished, with a calculating look in his eyes (no doubt doing his own mental math), “Yes, that’s all Nightingale. To be perfectly honest I don’t see why the mayor would negotiate these terms, they’re astonishingly reasonable. But I’ll bring the addendum to him tomorrow and we’ll let you know the verdict as soon as possible.”Nightingale waved, exhaustion settling on his bones, and began the short walk home. He had just enough energy to set up the furnace before stumbling into the workshop and flopping onto his bedroll with a pained groan. Either tomorrow or the day after would start days, possibly weeks, of grueling construction, with horrendous hours, little sleep and even less food. He was vibrating with excitement.