GoodMorningMaxIt's already a hot, sweaty morning in Sarethis. Sarethis. The main port city on the eastern coast of the main continent in Menius that funnels the grain from this bountiful shadow to the ovens of Castle Amber. And it's hot today. And dry. And pretty much miserable this morning. There are two levels in this port city. The lower port, where the humans of Sarethis handle the cargo loading and unloading and the merchant houses who deal with us. And there's the upper, drier and warmer level up the cliffs where the dragonkin houses perch above the harbor. A lot warmer. The scaleheads like it hot. And because of our trade arrangements with Menius, the Corp has a garrison here to protect our trade interest. Oh... yes. The Corp. Also known as the Amber Royal Marine Corp. We're here to help guard the port from... anything that might disrupt trade between Menius and Amber. Especially Corilaine and Euterpe. There's a history between the two of them and Menius. I hear the Sihde run Euterpe. Don't know anything about them. And Corilaine is run so I hear by Sand. Daughter to Oberon. And... it's not my problem why right now. I don't care who started what. I just care that the grain continues to flow to Amber. And the human/dragonkin here want that too. Good. Yesterday my squad got our marching orders. Report to Menius Garrison immediately and fortify. You don't ask who or why when you get an order like that. You move. And now I'm busting my ass this morning on the upper right cliff side of Sarethis in Menius repairing a rotted out big ass arbalest capable of punching holes in the side of an armor plated cruiser coming in or blockading the port in heat that could fry an egg on stone. I'm Max. Lieutenant Max. Of the Royal Engineer Corp. Attached to the 5th Royal Marine Corp of Amber. 6 years solid. And I'm a woman. Deal with it. Greffet you if you can't. Max takes a deep breath, puts her boot on the metal brace on the arm of the arbalest, and cranks as tightly as she can on the winch. The decayed weapon groans at the strain as the ropes tighten the arms. Her tanned arms glisten with sweat as she strains, tightening the device far past anything it's experienced in years. Off to one side the half dozen marines instructed to accompany her up to this fortification watch, pretending to be ready to help. And trying not to look impressed as Max by herself cranks up the crossbow the size of two of them. The couple of scaleheads accompanying them just look away, pointedly not watching. Fortunately she doesn't need their help. Nor does she want it. Another crank. Max can see what the marines can't; bits of rust flaking off the arms, showing impossibly unpitted metal beneath. The ropes tightening the arms back themselves refibering. The formed, shaped wood of the base frame firming up slightly to take on more of the strain. Max takes a deep breath, turns once more. And the old wooden and metal device barely holds. Max releases her breath, takes another deep one, the hot air burning her lungs, and turns once more on the tool, muttering tones under her breath. Fortunately she knows the tool will take the strain. Her tools never let her down. But she's not so sure of the actual structure. The marines the background mutter as the arbalest tightens enough to be usable. Max lets out a slow sigh. She's pretty sure it'll hold. Almost sure. "All right," she announces. "That's good. Someone get some bolts so we can test this ... device" she orders. And... she probably has at least another half dozen of these to deal with before she can get a shower and a cold one. Max curses the fact she drew the short straw this morning. The rest of the dozen of her squad are down below, rebuilding the defenses down near the wharves. Under the trees and near the water. Where the temp was actually bearable. And she is up here on the top of the cliffs trying to explain to the jarheads and the scaleheads what resources she needs to fix their dry rotted out defenses. She steps away from the mechanism and stretches her lean, muscled body. Five foot ten, one eighty, all muscle, able to run the Black Road Marathon in under two hours. She's wearing a sand colored t-shirt and trousers with cargo pockets. On her left forearm is a standard issue bracer. Max detaches the winch arm from the weapon and folds it into a smaller form. She snaps it to the webbing belt around her waist, next to her belt knife. Her clothes would be completely drenched in sweat, if it wasn't drier and hotter than the courts. And it's still only mid morning. She sighs, looks down the cliff to the wharves below where the rest of her squad is. Runs a hand through her short cropped brown hair. The bronze bracer on her arm just barely showing the red highlights in her hair. Max turns back around and looks at the men who are accompanying her. "There are bolts... rods... arrows for this... yes?" she asks them, since they haven't moved. "Get this weapon tested and take me to the next one." She stares at them, waiting for either the marines or the dragonkin to get moving. "Yes, Lieutenant." one of the men, a corporal, exclaims. A couple of test shots of the arbalest satisfactorily launch the payloads into the ocean. Oh, Max is good enough to redesign these things from scratch, if just given the time and remit. She has neither, of course. She might as well wish for cannon, but cannon do not work anywhere near this close to Amber. But, then, incoming ships might carry them too. Max is lucky in that she only has five more arbalests to refit and test before the day can be considered done. The third one in the total set of seven turns out to be a complete loss, the rotted wood falls apart almost at her touch. It's a hole in the defenses, even with overlapping fields of fire, its a spot that can be exploited if and when an attack comes. Max makes an internal note to take care of that later. Preferably tomorrow morning. As the sun sets in the west, the heat of the day having reached its zenith, that last oversized crossbow is done and tested. It is here that two figures come up to Max and her marines and local feodorati. One is a dragonkin, one a human, both dressed in messenger uniforms, jerkins, emblazoned with the insignia of the dual monarchy. Max is in the barracks near a door facing the bay, sitting on a bench, leaning against the back wall in the cooler area. She's obviously recently bathed, her cloths clean, her hair almost dry. On her crossed legs is a sketch book, open. Max is drawing almost absently on the blank pages, the form of a trebuchet is outlined on the first page, numbers and material lists in columns forming lists on the second. Her eyes raise and focus on the pair as they approach. She keeps her expression neutral. Her stylus lifts slightly from the pages in front of her. "You are Lieutenant Max?" the dragonkin asks. "Of course it is." the man says. "How many female engineers in Amber's Marines do you think there are?" "You all still look alike to me." the dragonkin retorts. The Dragonkin looks at Max. "On behalf of his imperial majesty Fynth Icebreath." "And his majesty Creusus III." the human interrupts. Max's right eyebrow lifts slightly as she watches the pair. "A representative of their majesty's court, the illustrious Venedra Ironfang, has arrived here in Sarethis." The dragonkin resumes. "She wishes to speak to you, Lieutenant, specifically, at the earliest opportunity, regarding matters of both personal import and the relations between Menuis and Amber. We have spoken with your commanding officer, Captain Lang, first, of course." The effect of this news on the locals is immediate. The dragonkin start dipping their heads. The men show obvious fear and nervousness. Max keeps her expression completely neutral. Internally she's going greffet, greffet, greffet ... and bleshe ... She is going to completely violate rule #1 if she's not extremely careful here. And that's the last thing she wants. After a pause of 3.5 seconds she carefully closes her sketch book. Puts it on the bench next to her, places the stylus on top. I should have realized... Venedra. female. Dragonkin are either matriarchal, or females are allowed extreme power. Dragon females lay clutches... of course they'd have power. And of course they'd recognize that type of power elsewhere... And she is very powerful, or the locals would not be nervous at the name. Max smoothly stands, her hands moving behind her and out of sight. She gives the two a quarter bow. The human gives a slight nod at the bow. The Dragonkin looks far more skeptical. "I am Lieutenant Max," she confirms with a smooth voice as she straightens. She pauses for two seconds before continuing. "I would be pleased to meet with her Illustriousness now. If... it is convenient," she says, the last with a slight questioning inflection. The two look at each other and exchange a look. The dragonkin gives a nod and turns back to Max. "Her illustriousness might prefer if you somewhat better groomed than you are at present." the dragonkin says. "However, the importance of you meeting with her might allow this breach of protocol to be overlooked. You are not used to dealing with your noble betters, I imagine." The sneer is not quite there, but the implication is clear in the voice. "The choice is yours, of course, Lieutenant." the human messenger adds. "Your commanding officer will no doubt be informed regardless." A second and a half delay. "One moment," she tells the two messengers. Max picks up her notebook and stylus and disappears into a nearby room. In a little over a minute Max steps out, Uniform Jacket with insignia on and buttoned, her webbed belt replaced with a narrower black leather belt. Her knife is in a matching black leather sheath. Her boots are also of a polished black leather. Her hair is combed back smooth. On her left wrist is a gold, embossed wrist cuff, the lights in the barracks reflecting off it in glints. She gives a slight bow again. "I'm afraid this is the best I can do, given we were ordered here to help your defenses with little time to prepare. I hope this will suffice and not cause insult?" Max asks with the barest of smiles. Backlinks |
