Duncan Allistair sat on a reclined couch in a workshop littered with metal scraps and tools. The exacting neatness of his clothes was at odds with the disorder that surrounded him, and he distracted himself from it with a hand written, leather bound book he read. A research report from his eldest daughter. It held nothing new or interesting to him. He wore one of his more subdued outfits, powder blue waistcoat and trousers, a yellow cravat. His pale yellow jacket was folded neatly and draped over the back of the couch. He had eschewed a wig for the day, and his shining silver head was bare.
The workshop was a single roomed building that sat not on a foundation, but floating surprisingly still in the middle of the Inner Circle. It hovered as a bridge between the entire tower owned by the Allistair family, and the penthouse suite that Gideon Lockheed rented. The Artificer in question had shared a partnership with Duncan for many years, and this floating arrangement was borne out of convenience for the both of them. It was owned and kept exclusively by Gideon, much to the chagrin of the neater-minded Magus.
Duncan did not put his book down when the door to Gideon's apartment opened, and maintained his attitude of disinterest even as a large lump of clay - A bust, he knew, of Queen Isabella - was hurled through the air and soared past his head.
"She did not like it?" Duncan asked, apparently uncaring. His voice was almost human, but had a slight tinny vibration that belied the fact that it was produced by a set of metal vocal chords.
"A damned insult to my craft!" Gideon was already raging, as if he had skipped to the middle of his rant to save time. He was moving swiftly to where the clay bust had landed to pick it up viciously, untying his uncharacteristically neat hair from its bun as he walked. He slapped the now mostly mishapen lump of clay onto a nearby table and glared at it as if it, and not the woman it represented, had been the one to insult him.
Gideon, as it transpired, had been contracted to create a new face for the Queen, who had long since been completely Technomantic. Her old one was made out of interlocking metal plates. A work of pure genius, but outdated in comparison to the one that Duncan himself sported, which was made out of a single, solid piece of silver that had been enchanted to be malleable as flesh.
"What she says to my face is only half of it, you know," Gideon was quieter now, but still obviously angry. His voice was just as artificial as Duncan's, but it was harder to tell.
"I expect she's telling everyone who will hear that she's waiting on a new face," Duncan said, "But the Artificer she's hired is taking too long."
"I'm sure of it," Gideon was half-heartedly trying to reform the Queen's bust on his table. "This one was accurate to the molecule. I checked. She asks for perfection and I give it."
Duncan turned the page in the journal, still not looking at Gideon. "You gave what she asked for," he said dryly, "But not what she wanted."
Gideon slammed his scalpel down after making a particularly vicious swipe on the bust. "What?"
Finally he put the book down and stood up. He was tall and thin, almost surreal looking. "You don't know people very well. People are vain. Even when they say they aren't. Me, I'm honest about it. I told you I wanted to be better looking. She won't say that, but it's what she expects. Because you did it for me. Accentuate her best features... downplay the bad." He looked over the now thoroughly mangled bust. "And maybe give her some good eyes. I've been meaning to have you make me a new set..."
