50th of Ash, 4617
The last few days were a blur. Almost every waking moment was spent in the heat of the steel processing plant, hovering over the amber glow of heated metals and searing flames. The knighthood agreed to feed them in exchange for their wages at the end of the week, which was to say that they would be working for naught but a single meal of questionable volume and quality.
Arkash refused, and opted to spend the time he would have otherwise spent sleeping on hunting rats in the nearby grimy streets. His attention span suffered for it, but he had the energy to keep going. The cold of the Rien city was at least refreshing, in contrast to the burning heat of the foundry they slept in.
At least there was that, he thought. Even if they weren’t afforded the Knighthood’s table scraps, they were at least allowed to sleep under their roof. The ambient warmth was nice, too; it meant that Arkash didn’t have to light any hearth before collapsing on the cast iron floor. The warmth of the blast furnace radiated through the air there and kept them warm despite the heat-stealing thirst of the cold hard ground.
There were pros and cons to the arrangement, he supposed. He did have it better than a lot of the other nameless, as very few of them could smell rats with any degree of ease, and even fewer had the stomach to actually eat the rats. That was to say that Arkash had far more energy for the hard labor that the foundry demanded, even if he was running on just a few hours of sleep.
It didn’t matter, though. He’d worked entire weeks with little to no sleep because of Cojack’s coughing. The situation was nothing new to him, he was prepared for the strain.
If it weren’t for that horse, Arkash wouldn’t have even agreed to take the trip. Cojack’s medicine was pricey, and sometimes cut into their savings. To combat that, he volunteered to board the train to Westfalen and produce steel for the extra benefits. They were offered double the pay for the week, and the young Rath was already counting his earnings and how far they’d buy them into their escape. Two farthings for a day’s work, putting in two days’ worth of work every day meant that Arkash was earning four farthings a day for the seven days that he had worked. All in all, he counted twenty-eight farthings total.
If it weren’t for the dryness of his scales, the ache in his muscles, and the soreness of his throat, he would have thought he was in a decent position. Alas, that lifestyle was unsustainable. He couldn’t function on so little rest forever, and his body would eventually deteriorate in those conditions. As much as he wished he could continue to work for that wage, it wasn’t realistic.
Such reflected in the fall of his eyelids while he manned the crucible, only to snatch himself sober with a swipe of his claws across his muzzle. Widened yellow eyes strained in the dark of the factory floor while he held the chain, and his quickened heartbeat began to slow once more when the sting on his scales was consciously recognized as his own doing. “Wake up…” he told himself, and eyed the enormous vat of molten steel to his right.
His cut claws wrapped the black iron chain while he breathed hard to fill his lungs, and his back began to tense all the torn and achy muscle fibers there. A deep breath flared his nostrils before his lips peeled back to bare his serrated teeth, and he curled his nose as he put his meager strength and weight into the pull. His arms shook and rattled the tense chain as he pulled down and puffed a strained breath. Again, his yellow eyes fell on the crucible as it began to tilt. The fruits of his labor pushed him further to succeed, and he growled in a desperate effort to heave the pulley. One leg came off the floor, and his tail slapped the cut stone floor aggressively.
When enough of the weight had been tilted forward, the job became easier to manage. Though Arkash grunted through his teeth, he failed to lose focus and immediately shifted to catch the upper chain. Its weight almost pulled him from the floor, but his hold on the other stabilized him. He stood there, arms held apart under the immense weight of the crucible, and with a pained grunt, he eased the molten metal forward.
Steadily, the dense, white-hot substance poured from the burning holder, and began to fill the mold of some Knight’s weapon ahead of him. He was steady with the pour, well-practiced in supporting the weight of things that were much heavier than him.
When he relented the flow, the hollow that manned the mold turned and proceeded to the next station in the process, and the next lined up in the exact same spot with machine-like coordination.
“F-fack…” Arkash cursed under his breath, and pulled down on the lower pulley again. It came easier than the first time with thanks to how much of the steel he’d poured into the first mold, but still weighed something fierce. His hands were raw, heated by the throbbing pain in the muscles there. Even so, he poured the second mold steadily, and ceased the moment he’d filled the instructed amount with the molten steel.
“Hf…” he started to catch his breath as the third lined itself up in the same spot, and Arkash groaned as he willed his crumbling arms to pull yet again. Despite being lighter, he could scarcely move it. He let go of the floor completely and tried to sit his weight into the pull, but couldn’t quite make it. A pained grunt escaped him as the building pressure in his muscles became so severe that he wondered if his bones had broken.
“Come on…!” He roared as the central weight of the crucible rolled forward, and began to pour from the lip in a drizzle followed by the flow he sought. The moments in which he watched the molten metal pour were the most agonizing, for he knew he had to hold that position until it was done. If he went too fast, the mold would overflow and it would create the opportunity for bubbles to form in the metal. Any compromise on quality was sure enough to result in a compromise on his pay, and such wasn’t acceptable after everything he’d put toward it.
It did eventually end, and Arkash leaned back to let the lower chain go lax while the pulled on the upper with his full bodyweight. Quickly, the crucible snapped back into its resting position, and the mold-baring hollow moved on to the next station. He stood there, gasping and panting while he began to unfurl his tensed claws. The metal stuck to his ruined hands, but came free with a pull and a slight sting when he put a little more effort into releasing the weight of the beast.
The shape of the chain was embedded in his scales, formed under the weight of his grip and the intensity of the pull. Some of the osteoderms, the natural armor of his carapace, were seeping a shallow shade of red. His hands trembled while he basked in the state of them. His jaw tensed with despair and his eyes burned in tandem with his throat. It took a moment for him to successfully flex his fingers, and he began to regain a feel for them after he’d grown accustomed to the white-hot pain there.
Just like the days prior, doubt began to cloud his thoughts and weighed in his chest while he breathed. Could he make it to the end? Would he die there if he tried? Could he reason with the Overseer and get a portion of his cut early and quit?
His nose curled as he brought his fists to clench on those broken scales, and shook with tension as he squeezed the stinging flesh.
He was in control of his body, not the other way around. He decided when it was time to quit, not the dull pain that begged his pause.
As the next hollow lined itself up, Arkash reclaimed the chain with a hiss, and began to pull down once again. Every bone ached with the unbearable weight of his labor, every muscle was torn and worked to weakness, and all he had to fuel him was the meager meat of a few Rien rats and half a night’s sleep. True to his word, Arkash would be the sole decider of when it was time to quit, not the likes of his arms, his shoulders, or his back.
When he was dizzy from the heat and the exhaustion, he paused to eat the cleanest snow he could find outside the soot-spewing facility, and took the opportunity to soak his scales with the icy cool water, which seemed to steam off him for the first few minutes of his time in the foundry. Tattered rags made the makeshift bandages that wrapped his hands in other tasks, but did him no good in gripping the pulley of the crucibles. For the next few hours, Arkash toiled away in the dark with naught but the pale light of the morning to illuminate his work from the highest point of the plant, and the glow of the molten metals he poured into their respective molds.
He wasn’t nearly done. What good did crying do him?
The last few days were a blur. Almost every waking moment was spent in the heat of the steel processing plant, hovering over the amber glow of heated metals and searing flames. The knighthood agreed to feed them in exchange for their wages at the end of the week, which was to say that they would be working for naught but a single meal of questionable volume and quality.
Arkash refused, and opted to spend the time he would have otherwise spent sleeping on hunting rats in the nearby grimy streets. His attention span suffered for it, but he had the energy to keep going. The cold of the Rien city was at least refreshing, in contrast to the burning heat of the foundry they slept in.
At least there was that, he thought. Even if they weren’t afforded the Knighthood’s table scraps, they were at least allowed to sleep under their roof. The ambient warmth was nice, too; it meant that Arkash didn’t have to light any hearth before collapsing on the cast iron floor. The warmth of the blast furnace radiated through the air there and kept them warm despite the heat-stealing thirst of the cold hard ground.
There were pros and cons to the arrangement, he supposed. He did have it better than a lot of the other nameless, as very few of them could smell rats with any degree of ease, and even fewer had the stomach to actually eat the rats. That was to say that Arkash had far more energy for the hard labor that the foundry demanded, even if he was running on just a few hours of sleep.
It didn’t matter, though. He’d worked entire weeks with little to no sleep because of Cojack’s coughing. The situation was nothing new to him, he was prepared for the strain.
If it weren’t for that horse, Arkash wouldn’t have even agreed to take the trip. Cojack’s medicine was pricey, and sometimes cut into their savings. To combat that, he volunteered to board the train to Westfalen and produce steel for the extra benefits. They were offered double the pay for the week, and the young Rath was already counting his earnings and how far they’d buy them into their escape. Two farthings for a day’s work, putting in two days’ worth of work every day meant that Arkash was earning four farthings a day for the seven days that he had worked. All in all, he counted twenty-eight farthings total.
If it weren’t for the dryness of his scales, the ache in his muscles, and the soreness of his throat, he would have thought he was in a decent position. Alas, that lifestyle was unsustainable. He couldn’t function on so little rest forever, and his body would eventually deteriorate in those conditions. As much as he wished he could continue to work for that wage, it wasn’t realistic.
Such reflected in the fall of his eyelids while he manned the crucible, only to snatch himself sober with a swipe of his claws across his muzzle. Widened yellow eyes strained in the dark of the factory floor while he held the chain, and his quickened heartbeat began to slow once more when the sting on his scales was consciously recognized as his own doing. “Wake up…” he told himself, and eyed the enormous vat of molten steel to his right.
His cut claws wrapped the black iron chain while he breathed hard to fill his lungs, and his back began to tense all the torn and achy muscle fibers there. A deep breath flared his nostrils before his lips peeled back to bare his serrated teeth, and he curled his nose as he put his meager strength and weight into the pull. His arms shook and rattled the tense chain as he pulled down and puffed a strained breath. Again, his yellow eyes fell on the crucible as it began to tilt. The fruits of his labor pushed him further to succeed, and he growled in a desperate effort to heave the pulley. One leg came off the floor, and his tail slapped the cut stone floor aggressively.
When enough of the weight had been tilted forward, the job became easier to manage. Though Arkash grunted through his teeth, he failed to lose focus and immediately shifted to catch the upper chain. Its weight almost pulled him from the floor, but his hold on the other stabilized him. He stood there, arms held apart under the immense weight of the crucible, and with a pained grunt, he eased the molten metal forward.
Steadily, the dense, white-hot substance poured from the burning holder, and began to fill the mold of some Knight’s weapon ahead of him. He was steady with the pour, well-practiced in supporting the weight of things that were much heavier than him.
When he relented the flow, the hollow that manned the mold turned and proceeded to the next station in the process, and the next lined up in the exact same spot with machine-like coordination.
“F-fack…” Arkash cursed under his breath, and pulled down on the lower pulley again. It came easier than the first time with thanks to how much of the steel he’d poured into the first mold, but still weighed something fierce. His hands were raw, heated by the throbbing pain in the muscles there. Even so, he poured the second mold steadily, and ceased the moment he’d filled the instructed amount with the molten steel.
“Hf…” he started to catch his breath as the third lined itself up in the same spot, and Arkash groaned as he willed his crumbling arms to pull yet again. Despite being lighter, he could scarcely move it. He let go of the floor completely and tried to sit his weight into the pull, but couldn’t quite make it. A pained grunt escaped him as the building pressure in his muscles became so severe that he wondered if his bones had broken.
“Come on…!” He roared as the central weight of the crucible rolled forward, and began to pour from the lip in a drizzle followed by the flow he sought. The moments in which he watched the molten metal pour were the most agonizing, for he knew he had to hold that position until it was done. If he went too fast, the mold would overflow and it would create the opportunity for bubbles to form in the metal. Any compromise on quality was sure enough to result in a compromise on his pay, and such wasn’t acceptable after everything he’d put toward it.
It did eventually end, and Arkash leaned back to let the lower chain go lax while the pulled on the upper with his full bodyweight. Quickly, the crucible snapped back into its resting position, and the mold-baring hollow moved on to the next station. He stood there, gasping and panting while he began to unfurl his tensed claws. The metal stuck to his ruined hands, but came free with a pull and a slight sting when he put a little more effort into releasing the weight of the beast.
The shape of the chain was embedded in his scales, formed under the weight of his grip and the intensity of the pull. Some of the osteoderms, the natural armor of his carapace, were seeping a shallow shade of red. His hands trembled while he basked in the state of them. His jaw tensed with despair and his eyes burned in tandem with his throat. It took a moment for him to successfully flex his fingers, and he began to regain a feel for them after he’d grown accustomed to the white-hot pain there.
Just like the days prior, doubt began to cloud his thoughts and weighed in his chest while he breathed. Could he make it to the end? Would he die there if he tried? Could he reason with the Overseer and get a portion of his cut early and quit?
His nose curled as he brought his fists to clench on those broken scales, and shook with tension as he squeezed the stinging flesh.
He was in control of his body, not the other way around. He decided when it was time to quit, not the dull pain that begged his pause.
As the next hollow lined itself up, Arkash reclaimed the chain with a hiss, and began to pull down once again. Every bone ached with the unbearable weight of his labor, every muscle was torn and worked to weakness, and all he had to fuel him was the meager meat of a few Rien rats and half a night’s sleep. True to his word, Arkash would be the sole decider of when it was time to quit, not the likes of his arms, his shoulders, or his back.
When he was dizzy from the heat and the exhaustion, he paused to eat the cleanest snow he could find outside the soot-spewing facility, and took the opportunity to soak his scales with the icy cool water, which seemed to steam off him for the first few minutes of his time in the foundry. Tattered rags made the makeshift bandages that wrapped his hands in other tasks, but did him no good in gripping the pulley of the crucibles. For the next few hours, Arkash toiled away in the dark with naught but the pale light of the morning to illuminate his work from the highest point of the plant, and the glow of the molten metals he poured into their respective molds.
He wasn’t nearly done. What good did crying do him?
