Ctenoid Soul

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Nelthurin pondered Andrew’s question a moment. ”That’d be Talia. Blacksmith’s daughter. Works at one of the taverns.” He grinned. ”You’ve been away awhile. A lot more of the gear’s homemade nowadays than you realize. Blacksmith himself is in on the business indirectly, but he’ll only take orders through his daughter. If you want an import, she’ll pass word to whoever her contact is. Couldn’t tell you for sure, but I’m pretty sure it’s Findir, the farrier, who is also what passes for the ironmonger in Pigeon Spit. He’s also your smelter. You know…for turning identifiable jewelry and plate into something less compromising.”

Bork perked up at this. Remembering his own note about costume jewelry, he commented, ”Sounds like somebody I should get to know.”

The harbor agreed. ”Indeed. You’d like him. He’s a dwarf, too.” Because, the Nelthurin’s mind, all dwarves got along.

sorry

Little stale at the moment. I'll post something more detailed with Bork tonight.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Nelf the Elf Himself

Next to him the dwarf’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. It was a lot to process, Nelthurin thought, with a mixture of amusement and pity. ”As to the Captain,” the harbor master pointed out, ”he has no reason to think I know anything about his sword and dagger, nor has he asked me about them.” His elf eyes saw the sword and glanced at it meaningfully. ”As to your plan-”

”You have to cut those miscreants down to size,” the dwarf burst out angrily, cutting Nelf off: ”let them know Your Grace is not playing that game anymore! I’ll help you capture this ‘Cat’s Paw’ guy, sure. I’ll help you skin him, too!”

Nelthurin waited until he was sure Bork was finished before continuing. At first he was annoyed at all this insufferably square self-righteousness, but then he realized that it could be a resource. ”To capture this Cat’s Claw leader,” he suggested, stressing the name slightly for the sake of the street-lingo-challenged dwarf, ”we first need to find out who and where he is. I think we know who at least one of the members is, don’t we, Master Bork?”

The dwarf gave the elf a sharp, surprised look. ”You mean that miscreant who threw a rock at me? Could be.” The elf nodded. The dwarf was a bit slow on the uptake, perhaps, but not hopelessly dumb.
”Do you know who it was?” he asked.

”I think it was that Werli kid,” Bork answered. ”Tall for his age, thin, upturned nose, kinda pretty-looking. The sort who’d feel like he had something extra to prove to the guys.”

Nelthurin nodded knowingly and looked at Andrew. ”The sort who’d come up short in an established guild, but feel like he could make it big in a new, upstart outfit. A useful idiot.” He looked between the engineer and the abbot. ”We could lure him, capture him, question him.” He shrugged. ”You and me, Your Grace, probably no one in town would think we’d do anything drastic, but him…” he head-nodded towards Bork. ”I reckon he and the Captain could convince the Cat’s Claw they’d do whatever it took to get to the bottom of things, find out who CinC CATCOM is. Someone who could convince Werli that he might end up short a few fingers if he didn’t talk.” He looked at Bork. ”Would you be up for that?”

Bork gave the elf a sharp, puzzled look. Nelthurin gave him a few breaths. Slowly, insight dawned in the dwarf’s eyes. ”You reckon I should lure him,” he said. ”’Werli, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot. I tell you, working for the abbot ain’t easy, so I think I know where you’re coming from. Let’s have a drink?’” He looked expectantly back and forth between the elf and the abbot.

Nelthurin looked at the abbot as well, perhaps with a touch of smugness. You’re not the only one who knows how to work a mark his look said.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Bork’s face wrinkled like an ill-used rag as he hung his cloak up to dry. ”I don’t think you’re takin’ the right attitude here…Your Grace” he growled, only adding the style as an afterthought. He turned back towards the abbot and stomped irritably towards the table. ”I just had some ne’er-do-well throw a rock at me because I offered to pay him to do a job for *you*.” The dwarf paused to let the import of that sink in. At least, the import he thought it had. ”Not wanting to work is one thing, but why would he turn hostile and throw rocks the moment I mention it’s for *you*? There’s something you’re not telling us!”

Nelthurin Sebheon

The elf beside Bork sighed. ”You can probably thank the goings on with the Gold Tooths and Cat’s Claw for that rock, Master Bork,” he pointed out.

Bork shifted his mistrustful glare to the elf. ”What’s the thieves got to do with this? People are mad because they think the abbot is ordering martial law and shutting down the port. Why do they think that?”

Nelthurin sighed again, exchanging a knowing look with Andrew. He really doesn’t know, it said. ”There is reason to suspect,” he explained to the dwarf patiently, ”that it’s this new splinter group, this ‘Cat’s Claw’, spreading these rumors. They’re the only obvious ones who stand to gain by shaking things up.”

”Well, then, we have to put a stop to them!” barked Bork. The elf nodded indulgently and looked at the abbot.

”Easier said than done, though” he observed dryly. ”Is there anything you know about the Cat’s Claw that might help, Your Grace? To anticipate a question: No, nobody new has come to me offering ‘protection’ yet. That would be too easy. So I guess the question is, what is to be done about this situation, Your Grace, and how can we help?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

The young layabouts in town seemed uninterested in work; in fact, to the dwarf’s surprise, they turned actively hostile when they found out the job involved a stone wall for the abbot. ”The guv wants a pile o’ stones, does he?” called out one particularly rowdy oaf. ”Here, he can have one!” A rock big enough to fill the palm of Bork’s hand narrowly missed his head. Bork happened to be holding a long measuring stick, and with a litany of oaths that would probably have made His Grace’s ears fall off, launched off in angry pursuit after the brat, who fled quickly, cheered on by a small group of his friends, who, however, kept their distance. Just as the malcontent ducked into a shack, the rain erupted once more, causing dwarf and kids alike to break off the altercation and retreat to their respective lodgings.

Bork’s mood was as black as the clouds overhead. His face scowled deep within the folds of his hood as he reached the shallow trench, which now resembled a tiny moat, marking the planned course of his wall around the abbot’s house. His boots squished in the mud, making a sound that only his good ear could pick up. The dwarf was not actually upset about the delay; he had not intended to finish the wall on time, anyway, preferring instead to concentrate on his plans. His work ethic, however, compelled him to monitor the situation, chafed on principle at the lack of progress, and took offense at the local youth’s hostility to a chance for honest labor.

What was wrong with this town? He fumed as he watched yesterday’s accomplishments fill with soupy water. Did it not want to grow? Become something other than a small, run-down pirate’s nest? ‘Spitters (that was the demonym Bork had assigned to them) were fools, with no vision, and a comfort zone that languished in a disorderly heap of squalor.

Nelthurin Sebheon

Bork did not look up when the harbor master first greeted him. Bad ear, the elf remembered. ”Master Bork!” he called out more loudly, ”I see you’re making fine progress on your canal” This time the squat cloaked figure turned sharply towards him. Nelthurin could not see the dwarf’s expression, but judging from the silence that greeted his attempt at banter, he guessed that it was unpleasant. And he could guess some of the reasons for that. Walking around to the opening in the trench where the front gate was to be, he came alongside the dwarf.. ”We need to talk to the abbot about this port closing nonsense,” he said more seriously.

He was close enough now to see the frown on Bork’s face. ”I thought that was just a rumor,” the dwarf said.

Nelthurin nodded. ”It is rubbish,” he confirmed, ”but it is rubbish that has spread all over town, and that is as worrying as the restlessness the rumor is causing.”

The dwarf nodded and started to walk towards the door. ”His Grace was resting earlier,” he said glumly. ”Up all night treating night coughs, but let’s hope he’ll see us.”

A couple moments later two dripping cloaked forms walked into the lobby. Facing Scribe Drom they both pulled back their hoods to regard her with stony expressions. Bork spoke up first, although he only said what was on both of their minds. ”We really need to talk to the Abbot. The village is turning as nasty as this weather. Is he up yet?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Good Work, @Meleck! Bork now must start saving up for his masterwork didjeridoo.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Bork sat down after a frantic session of visionary scribbling to regard the chalk figures he had scrawled across the wall. So many ideas. So much promise. So much cost. All these brilliant ideas he and the abbot were having would cost money to realize, something Pigeon Spit did not have much of. Scowling at the sketches and notations, the dwarf rocked pensively on his chair. There must be more money, there must be more money, he thought.

Money required trade, and that meant producing things with good value density. The abbot was right about smelting. Making copper ingots on site before shipping them would be far more efficient than hauling ore somewhere. Yet even smelted, copper wasn’t the most pricey metal; Pigeon Spit would hardly transform into a boom town with it. Could they do better than ingots? Copper tools and fittings were useful, but wouldn’t command a high price. What else?

Bork heard someone stir in the house and realized that it was probably Drom. That reminded him for some reason of Roswith, and he smiled. Rising and returning to the wall, he wrote: “jewelry”. Make a bit of shiny metal into a ring or bracelet, and suddenly it was something precious your daughter or girlfriend would coo over. People paid good money for that. And copper was easy to work.

What else? Well, add some smooth, shiny stones to it, and it was even prettier. Didn’t even have to be precious gems. Cuprite, seashells, coral, bone. Bork added the word “cheap” in front of jewelry, then thought. There was a nicer-sounding word for cheap jewelry. What did his wife call it? He struck through the word “cheap” and wrote “costume” over it.

What other goods might Pigeon Forge make for trade? Some of the farmers raised sheep, and sheep could be shorn for wool. Wool was always a good, reliable trade good. They would need to bring in more sheep, and clear some more land for meadows, of course, to do that. That was another thing. Many of these projects used up land. Still might be worth it, though. Bork wrote “wool??” and then stepped back to think a bit more.

Pigeon Spit had a brewery. And that meant they could distill as well. Spirits had good value density, too, and traveled well. He wrote: "distillery?" Of course, distilleries required more grain to feed them, and that would again, use up more land, possibly interfering with sheep grazing.

What sort of economic production *didn’t* use up land? Fishing didn’t use up land, that’s what. And they were on an island. Dried fish could be traded. Even better, so could fish oil. “Fish. Fish oil. Oil press” now all appeared on the wall.

What else? Were there seals or walrus on the island? Narwhals or whales nearby? Otter? If so, then more blubber, and pelts. “Animal pelts/skins”. And then, still thinking of the walrus, he wrote: “ivory”? What was more, Bork reasonsed, hunters and trappers were probably easier to entice to an underdeveloped island than were the more urban-oriented tradesmen.

Bork yawned and stretched. It was late, and he still intended to rise early tomorrow. Time for bed.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Had to write a two-parter to get caught up since the thread is moving quickly.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

…or so he thought. Around dusk he heard a disturbance in the front of the house. Bork ignored it at first, but at lenght he could not. Muttering idioms in dwarvish the abbot probably wouldn’t approve of he went to investigate. The dwarf gaped at the activity. Was the abbot running some sort of sick house here? Well, of course. He was an abbot and there was apparently no hospital in Pigeon Spit. To whom else would these yokels turn if they needed healing?

Helping set broken bones was not a normal part of Bork’s skill set, but apparently this would be the new normal, at least until this Pigeon Spit town got bigger. Any mining engineer had to know some first aid, of course; people got hurt in mines. And Bork could help with herbs and such. But setting broken bones was not part of his normal skillset.

“Dammit, I’m an engineer, not a doctor!” he would exclaim, too annoyed to care if the abbot minded the breach in etiquette. This had not been how he had planned to spend this morning. When they were able to take a pause from their ministrations, he pointed to the chest with the medicines in it. ”I can help you more with those than I can setting bones,” he explained. Curious, like a snooping house-guest, he peered at the bottles and jars, thinking. ”We could use an herb garden,” he said after a moment. ”At least some of these plants will grow around here. Maybe we could start one once I’ve got the wall up.”

As he listened to the abbot’s ideas, he nodded thoughtfully. ”An official building of some sort is a must if this town is to grow,” he agreed. ”At least one. That’ll be one of the first things I’ll draw up working on my plan, in fact.” And the next thing he would get on with was his plans for his log boom and timber-raft system. And wheelbarrows. There wasn’t much hope in much of any building project until they had a solution to moving large quantities of building supplies.

”I’d just have the runner tell the quarrymen to start cutting all the rocks they can. It’ll take me a while to figure out the right size for the order, but it’ll also take at least that long to fill it, anyway. Once I have the numbers, I’ll send them so that they know when to stop.” The dwarf shook his head. ”We *really* need a wainwright,” he muttered.

He continued to think through the abbot’s suggestions. ”Irrigation, sure,” he answered somewhat noncommittally. People always liked the idea of irrigation systems. But those could be tricky to design, since it involved changing the course of waterways. Ideally, Bork would prefer to see what the creeks and rivers were like over the course of a year before designing any major irrigation systems. But then he had a boss to humor, so perhaps he would just draw something up that looked good. “Proposed” irrigation systems could always be redesigned before anybody started damming and digging.

Lastly he got to the mining ideas. “A smelter? Sure. But right now the only metal we’re digging up is copper. We need to find us some other metals like tin, lead, zinc, iron before we can start smelting the good stuff. As to the blast furnace?” he shook his head. ”No, Your Grace,” he said, hoping the title would soften the blow of shooting down the abbot’s suggestion. ”We don’t even have iron yet, let alone any way to make steel. First things first: as I said, prospecting for more metals. Also, I *am* in the process of drawing up a bigger charcoal furnace, which we would also need for steel.” In fact, he would be able to show the abbot his design for the furnace before midday. Charcoal was ideal for smelting, and you definitely needed it for steel. You could also use it for writing, and to make ink for even more writing. And for absorbing moisture in a sick house. And filtering medical preparations and water. Good stuff, that charcoal.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork had a week in which to do things for his “test”, and although he intended to focus most of that time on his plans and drawings, he decided to start with some work on the wall. Having heard something moving under the floorboards, the dwarf checked around the perimeter of the house for burrows, or other likely entrances for animals in the foundations of the house. It had been abandoned and in disrepair for a while, and who knew what sort of vermin had decided to make themselves at home in that interval?

He saw no signs of burrows, nor did he see any groundhogs galumphing about in the nearby fields. He did notice a spot where the ground had been freshly disturbed at the base of the wall. Looking more closely, he saw traces of sawdust on the ground. He shrugged. Any number of persons or things could have come by here. There being no obvious hole or other entry, it might be unrelated to what he had heard. But he would pay attention to that particular spot in the near future.

He paced around the house, tracing what he judged to be the best course for a wall. The lot was flat enough that he could probably put it wherever he liked. He would need to stake out the intended course, dig a shallow trench, and put in a gravel bed first. Fishing out his abacus, the dwarf figured the volume of gravel he would need. That would need to be ordered from the quarry as soon as possible. He would ask the goblin to help with that. Then he needed landscaping stakes, which he would get from Patmor the carpenter, another item in his note for Ms. Drom. For a third item, he needed tools. A few shovels and spades and a wheelbarrow would do for now. He only needed one hatchet and mallet, and he had those.

Once he had these requests together and handed to the clerk, he would start walking about the town, looking for some of these “boys who are hanging about town” to find out if they were both able-bodied and able-witted enough to do basic work, and whether they would actually do so if asked. If all went as planned, he could have them well along with digging the trench this time tomorrow. He would just need to make sure he could pay them. He also talked to the innkeeper about some sandwiches for them.

Having done all that, Bork would then get the things he would need for work out of the inn and moved into his office, and have an early dinner. The balance of the evening would be spent sketching ideas in chalk on his office walls…. (to be continued)

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Bork appraised the room with increasing satisfaction. It was a bit run-down, but he would fix that. The only obvious flaw with the space was that he currently shared it with a goblin (and this goblin, even more annoyingly, was an elf), but he would soon fix that, too. He was startled, and then annoyed, when the goblin spoke. The abbot was a good man? Blah blah blah? He gave her a scowl, but then softened it to a cursory “understanding” nod. ”I’m sure he’ll do fine,” he mumbled somewhat absently as he looked intently at the blank walls.

”I’m going to need soft chalk,” he announced after a moment. ”I have some for now, but I’m going to need a steady supply going forward.” Eventually, he would want a large slate board, but that could wait. The available flat surfaces would suffice in the meantime. He nodded again as the elf put a quill and some ink on the table, he continued. ”Apart from that, the usual office supplies, of course.” He looked around at the other furnishings, and then back at the table with the quill and ink. ”I’ll talk to the carpenter myself about a proper drafting table.” Another thought occurred to him, and he took a piece of chalk out of his pocket and wrote directly on the tabletop next to the quill and ink: "bigger charcoal facilities?"

Eventually, he returned his attention to the goblin. ”I’m not available for anybody while I’m working, except the abbot. And don’t make appointments for me. If somebody wants to see me, have them leave a note, and I’ll respond to it if I wish to talk to them. I’ll tell you about any appointments I make.” He scratched his unfashionably short beard. ”I’ll take a look at any information and records you currently have about the town’s resources and facilities, who and where the skilled craftsmen are, what they normally produce and trade for. I’d do all that legwork myself, but as you know, I’m working against a deadline.”

And that reminded him of yet another thing. ”Oil and rushlights,” he said curtly. ”I expect I’ll be working late in the coming days.” He would retrieve his lantern and rushlight holder from his baggage at the inn. ”And if you can scare up a cot, that would save me some lugging from the Rusty Peg.”

He set the chalk down next to the ink and quill, and the empty notebook next to that. ”I think that’s all for now. I know where to find you. Drom, is it, or Dorm? Thank you.” Just then there was a soft but heavy rumble somewhere under the floorboards. Bork’s frown returned as he looked back up at the goblin. ”That sounds awful big and slow for rats, and it’s still daylight. Do you guys have marmots under the house?” Marmots could pose an inconvenience, especially for any wall he was supposed to build around the house.