Language of Metal

Log Info

• Title: Language of Metal
• Emitter: Skielstregar
• Characters: Skielstregar, Crik
• Place: Lower Gardens
• Time: September 28th, 2022
• Summary: Skielstergar is helping move extra supplies from the hospital back into storage with others from the clergy and The Watch. An egalrin named Crik poses in 'helping' with moving things before he asks to see Skiel's weapon, passing himself off as a Jonas, his profession being a smith. He lets the egalrin inspect it, them discussing if thoughts need language and symbols to be thoughts before Skiel conducts a test on the weapon to get a reaction of it. It slips out of his grasp. Before he could ask the wise 'smith' more about this, they've vanished.

Lower Alexandrian Gardens, Midday

It's an overcast day, the clouds heavy and quietly rumbling, cueing that rain is to come in the later hours. Not the gardens mind that, the plants would enjoy such succor. However, despite the calm, there is a line of people going to and from the Defense, carrying supplies out and away southward.

Less refugees crowded means the hospital didn't need to be as heavily stocked. Back to the city stockpiles they go. And who's working it? Various guardsmen, volunteers, and folks of the cloth. The latter of that being an incredibly shiny silver scaled sith-makar, him hoisting two crates attached to ropes and looped over an unsettling halberd. The polearm rests across his shoulders, distributing the weight as he hums deeply yet quietly to himself, the symbol of the Dragonfather clanking against his breastplate with every step.

Hop. Hop over. Dibble dabble as if he were yet another figure walking amongst the crowd. A hooded figure with dark face and clothes moves to pick up an appropriately sized crate and lifts it up on his shoulder. Dark beak twists this way and that - before dark eyes focus on the very noticeably tall sith-makar.

The dark eyes look towards the halberd. Unsettling. The corvid egalrin slowly moves to step in after Skielstregar - oddly enough matching the other's walking rhyhm with his own. Considering the other was far taller than he was, it did give him a distinct back and forth wobbling looking step.

The towering, hulking makari twists his head to the side as he hears someone walking in tandem with him. Dead eyes look down, maw opening to show a row of wicked teeth. "Oh! Thisss one did not sssee you there," he rumbles warmly, stepping out of the way to give them some space. "Do you need a hand?" he inquires, seeing the wobbly gait.

But they did. Foiled. Crik looks down at his feet, then add the other. Tail quickly thwipping him upright, he straightens just a touch so he can better support the crate.

But not too much. The contents inside his cloak might not be very well appreciated.

"No." The egalrin responds with his deep rumbling voice. Head tilting sideways, then looking back up at the halberd, then back at Skielstregar. "... the end is sharp." He observes, finally.

Skiel smiles. A creepy thing with too many teeth and fangs on display. But a chuckle rumbles from him. "Very well."

He glances to his halberd, the axe and spear head gleaming silver even though the light was dim here. "It isss. But thissss one isss much taller than mossst othersss. Do not worry, they are careful." He resumes his pace, but keeps speaking. "Who might you be? Thisss one doesss not run into many sky-brothers and sisters."

Another time to panic. Not just because of the teeth. The dark egalrin looks around him rapidly, even behind him with that avian neck flexibility - then he spies someone. "Jonas." A pause. "Stormborn." The khazad he was trailing before mentioned that as his name. An excellent decoy name, that is.

Tilting his head back up towards Skielstregar, he nudges his head towards the blade. "Can I see the blade?" Several moments pass, as the innocent corvid looks up that the sith-makar. "... I'm a smith."

The towering makari tilts his head to the side quizzically. "Jonas Sssstormborn," he repeats, testing the name on his tongue. There's no way he could buy that, it sounded like such a cobbled together name that- "Pleassssure to meet you! Thiss one isss Ssskielsstregar, Warrior Cassste," he hums warmly.

... really Skiel?

The question makes him pause his stride, but he shrugs and steps to the side, setting his load down with a dense thud. He was using the weapon to help carry the load. After freeing it from the loops, he holds it out. "Take care examining it. It hasss a mind of its own."

It feels cold to be around. A singular drop of black ichor drips from the gleaming steel.

GAME: Crik rolls knowledge/the planes: (8)+3: 11

"Well met, Warrior Caste." Crik responds with a rapid upbeat. What an odd name, warrior caste. At least he put effort on his own fake name.

Head tilting back down on the ground when the other's load is moved to the ground. His own crate is unceremoniously dropped behind him - it seemed to be filled with mostly air - and he reaches out for the halberd. "A mind?"

The black egalrin holds the shaft between his hands gingerly, eyes looking at the black ichor dropping off the edge of it. Then he looks at it some more. At some point his feathers poof up when he realizes he had no way of actually smuggling his way out.

"... the blade is heavy. And it leaks. Should take it to a smith." Crik offers, helpfully, as he holds the halberd back.

Skiel watches idly, tail swaying behind him slowly as the supposed smith inspects the weapon he's so proud of. He bobs his head. "Yesss. A mind. It triesss to tell thisss one thingsss, but it isss not... well. They don't ssspeak metal," he jokes.

The polearm is offered back. Skiel's scaled brows raise. "... it doesss that. Thisss one thinksss it isss trying to sssay something with. It hasss served thisss one well." He takes the weapon back and leans against it. "Are you implying sssomething iss wrong with it?"

The axe head drips again.

Crik stares back up at Skiel with an unflinching gaze, beak shut. "... if you were leaking, would you think it was normal?" The corvid finally offers.

The cloaked figure snaps his head back towards the blade though - and from the folds of his cloak he pulls out a very battered looking chain of... books? It seemed to be a bundle of books with their spines ripped out, odd notes stitched on it and stains.

Hobbling the mess in his hands, the dark fingers slowly try to balance a page open. A moment of intense study.

"There is no language for metal." Crik finally says, looking back up at Skielstregar. "Do objects often talk to you?"

Skiel stares back and honestly answers, "Yes. For thisss one at leassst. But thisss one underssstandsss what you mean."

His brows furrow as the cloaked figure rummages through makeshift books and notes, him leaning forward slightly to peer. His eyes reflect off the weapon head, similarly peering.

Dead eyes blink. "Oh! Hah," he chuffs, leaning back. "That wasss a joke. No, they do not. That would be concerning if objectsss talked to thisss one."

An interesting observation passes through him. "You sssaid you were a sssmith, Jonas, would a sssmith know if there isss a language for metal?"

"No." Crik quickly responds. "They would be insane if they did." He knocks his head back and opens his beak in a quiet... something? After a moment, there is a series of quiet clicks. He pulls his head back down. "... that was a joke." He explains. Hitting it off well there.

The books were filled with scribbles and ancient script - as well as lot of little diagrams that seemed to have nothing to do with weapons and everything to do with arcane. As well as the symbol of the Dragonfather. Or something like it. There were lot of symbols - before he shuts off the book(s).

Looking back down at his feet, and then back up at Skielstregar. "If the blade has a mind of its own, it has to have a language." He gives his head a backwards jerk. "Something cannot think if there is no symbols to think. A thought exists because it was well-formed."

Perhaps Skiel wasn't used to conversing with Egalrin, evident in the way he quirks his head to the side. "... very well," he diplomatically says, scratching his neck.

He shakes his head, not thinking too hard into symbology of the texts. Perhaps they just wanted to look something up. The insight offered makes the large man ponder.

Then his brows furrow. "That isss not true. Thoughtsss can be without sssymbols and language, thiss one would know" he states firmly, frowning slightly. "Perhapsss it hasss thoughtss with no way to expresss them?"

"Language and symbols do not need to be languages and symbols. When they are well-formed, they are a symbol, part of a language. And which are not, are not relevant." Crik explains. There's another pause, before he adds, "... 'well-formed' is a nebulous concept."

Then he looks back towards the halberd. "Communication." The egalrin, for whichever purposes, was fully onboard with this idea of thinking weapons now. He crouches down by the tip of the tip. "A desire to connect."

There was a moment. Then another. Finally, Crik turns to look up at Skielstregar. "Have you tried cutting yourself?"

Skielstregar just blinks slowly at Crik as the bird explains. "... er... o.. kay?" It's clear he was not following. Not exactly the brightest man by academic standards, despite how shiny he was. ".. one can ssstill think without language and symbolsss. Thisss one knowsss."

The halberd stands there, being chilly. Slightly glimmering as the eglarin inspects it. Reflecting their visage back at Crik. "... perhpasss you are right, thiss one-"

He blinks. ".. why should thisss one wound themssselves with it?" he stammers, appalled by the idea. "Pleassse explain."

Because Crik was curious. Wasn't that good enough of a reason? Straightening up to his a more crouched stand, he looks at the blade, and then back up at Skielstregar. "You said it spoke to you." Then back down to the halberd. "Or felt like it did." Black eyes returning towards Skielstregar again.

"... maybe it just needs something to share." Like pain and blood. The corvid tilts his head sideways. "Or you could teach it to draw. It is leaking and it has a sharp tip."

"Feelsss like itsss trying to, at leassst," Skiel elaborates. But he scratches his head. "... thiss one hasss bled on it before, and nothing sssseemed different. Erm. Thisss... thisss one isss unsure of how to make it draw."

He looks down at the halberd. "Perhapss.... a poke then?"

He raises a digit over the spear tip. Sharp. Gleaming. Sharp. Did I mention sharp. And very, very slowly, he rests the pad of his index finger on it. Then presses.

What is expected is a smart of pain, a trickle of crimson, and some choice words. Instead what follows is a loud >clang!<, as the butt of the halberd slips out from the ground and clatters to the ground despite him having a good grip on the weapon. The gleam of silver on it dulls slightly.

Skiel blinks. "... thisss one thinkss it did not like that."

Crik looks at the blade clattering to the ground. He opens up his beak and spreads his wings a touch, as if he just saw a snack on the ground. No, wait, focus. The wings reluctantly fold over his back as he walks over the halberd. "It could have fallen before the cut." The egalrin observes, also completely at ease with weapons that just fall off people's hands. He hops over slightly and then back, pointing feet at the shaft with his clawed feet. "It resisted. Fear? Pain? Desire?" Giving his shoulders a ruffle, he finally looks back up at Skielstregar. "... if it did not want to hurt you, it would have fallen before it cut yyou. Therefore, your finger hurt it." He looks down at the blade. "Or you were just more painful."

Back up at Skielstregar. "Hmm." And like all corvids speaking doom, he slowly turns away and begins to hop away into the crowd.

Skiel looks at his finger, it unmarred and unpricked. He kneels down slightly, still towering over Crik, but he tilts his head to the side. "... thisss one'sss... finger hurt it...?" he echoes, confused as he carefully picks the weapon back up. "More painful?"

He looks down at the weapon. "... isss thisss one causing you pain?" he asks quietly, concerned and confused.

There's no indication of a response.

"... Jonasss, what do you th-" He looks up. Blinks. Spins around on the spot, tail trailing behind him. "... where did they go? Did you sssee them Malefic?" he inquires of the blade.

No response.

The sky rumbles in warning. The makari flinches, him reaching down to pick up his boxes. "Ssshhoot, we are to be there post haste." The strange 'smith' pushed aside for now.

-End Scene-