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[A Curious Night at Work - The Curious Curio Part Four]
Long run the nights of an Ul'dah winter. Â Where could anyone find time? Â Some days had passed in the quiet activity of the season: work, play, and perhaps a bit of pleasure mixed together to occupy the time. Â At last she closed the door of her dark room one evening, knowing that the hours ahead were her own. Â The early shift had begun in the markets that morning, one of her favorite errands, and ended just after the supper rush. Â It was near nine bells before she slipped away into the quiet dark, but none now would bother her.
Approaching the small, worn table that served in the stead of a workbench, she struck a match and lit a small oil lantern on the nearby shelf. Â She took in a soft, deep breath as its gentle illumination settled over the area. Â A pleased, anxious little smile crossed her lips as she took in her workshop, Lalafellan stool and all. Â The expression slipped away as she began her preparation: she tied her hair back, covering it with a scarf, unrolled her small set of heavily used tools, set her miniature crystal work-light above her ear, and donned the wire framed lens holders and lenses that would expose the smallest details of the miniature parts which she would be working.
She covered the work surface with a cloth, and at last brought the cigar box whose contents resembled a veritable pile of miniature gears, cranks, and fasteners down to the work surface. Â Each was individually bagged and labeled, and she set about sorting them placing them in the order they would be added back to the reassembled mechanism. Â She had noted many of the part when it had first been disassembled, and now thanked goodness for the detailed nature of her notes and drawings.
She settled in upon her stool, having to carefully manage her balance so that she could never quite relax. Â Gear work came as naturally to her as the graceful lightness of her step, still the miniature nature of such watchworks pressed her finesse to its very limits. Â Slender tools worked beneath the intense but shadowy light of the work light, every otherwise indiscernible little motion of her fingers wildly exaggerated by the tiny scale of the parts as viewed through a magnifying lens. Â
Blue eyes strained and focused. Â It had been months since each part had been carefully disassembled, but the memories were still sharp. Â Still, she was thankful for her notes as no fullness of detail could stand the test of so much time. Â Though, even that did not prevent mishaps: the ordinary mistakes that mark every tradesman's day. Â The slightest error in assembly would not be uncovered until several later steps, necessitating backtracking through a half-hours' tedious work. Â The spring that found its way free of her grasp, located again only after a quarter hours relentless, maddening search on the floor. Â
She set the most important tool aside. Â A crystal oscillator; it appeared little more than a fancy tuning fork, but the crystals embedded within its design could either set a crystal in motion, or if properly used, bring it to a stop. Â It would be the only way to restart the watch once reassembled, or, with luck, to stop it if something were not working correctly and more work were required.
The hours stretched from evening into night. Â The lantern burned low, the flame dimming as the supply of fuel was supped away. Â Still, she was consumed in her purpose and engrossed by the task at hand. Â As the inner workings of the piece began to take shape, she was reminded of past work. Â Most of what she had done had been larger in scale, excepting some control systems that had sought to rival this watch's complexity. Â Some of those had seemed complex beyond need, as if designed as a tribute to the craftsman's ingenuity and cleverness. Â Making them even more challenging, many of those could only be worked on in place. Often in cramped, awkward space that made the work all the more difficult even with her lithe frame and dexterous fingers. Â Still, in this case she found herself far from her old suppliers and their supply of replacement parts. Â If, indeed, replacements could even be made for this piece. Â
Every project presents its own challenges.
And that was the way of it: challenge after challenge as the night grew late and passed into the early hours. Â The lamp wick flickered out, hastening the darkness of the shadows that plagued the overworked little crystal-lamp that was now her only illumination. Â Still, there was no thought of pausing, stopping, or halting. Â She worked on, enshrouded by darkness as the pile of parts began to take the form of a watch. Â
This piece was different from those control mechanisms and their overly-convoluted arrays of inputs and calculations. Â This was no practical equipment, but instead a work of art in its own merit. Â In that sense the craftsman's cleverness and artfulness became a thing of beauty. Â The intricate gear-work, the perfect notching and threading. Â The careful weaving throughout the mechanism that left one to wonder how any portion could have been conceived outside the whole. Â
But what was the purpose of it all? Â The appreciation she held for the inner workings were never meant to grace the owner of the locket itself. Â It must be there for some more meaningful purpose, rather than to impress a future tinker utterly unworthy of the locket's intricacy. Whatever it was, she hoped she would know soon enough as each additional piece left precious few and fewer remaining for the reassembly.
She would know soon, very soon, despite the lateness of the hour that seemed to stretch and stretch. Her eyes strained for focus. Â Her fingers were long ago sore, but now her whole body ached in the clutches of a tiredness that was resisted by every nerve of her frenetic energy. Â
Almost there... almost there.
So cold... so very, very cold. Â The young girl shivered against the rush of a gale that forced its muscular way deep within the tunnels and wide-open caverns that cut their way through the stone foundation beneath the city. Â She was a young woman, barely more than a girl, and that frigid Coerthan wind cut right through the meager cloth of her cloak.
Where was she again? Â She turned around in her spot trying to take in the surroundings. Â Oh, right, right... she knew. It was her loft. Â In reality no more than a hollow between the roof of the smithy and the ceiling of the office below her. Â It was almost completely unprotected from the outside winds. Â Why is it still so cold? Â She wondered for a moment. Â It seemed like the Spring was now months behind schedule. Â
She let out a huffy sigh and flopped her head back against the wooden planks that made for a bed in the loft. Â There must have been a party last night; she'd have told her friends she was headed home, that was always the way. Â Late nights galavanting, drinking cheap wine, and often worse. Â It was all there was for exciting life on these streets. Â Sometimes it was different: an arranged evening with a gentleman. Â Fan, potential patron, or admirer the suitors were themselves of every stripe and suit. Â Sometimes it was for fun, other times because she simply thought it best. Â She always teased, sometimes they had their way, more often she left them dancing at the tip of her fingers. But always, always, came the moment to return home. Â And the wrath of the parents. Â Especially father. Â
Here she had found an alternative to, at least, delay the inevitable: her brother's shop. Â Not his, really, he was just an apprentice. Â But it was safety, shelter, and a warm bed without father's thundering. Â The parent's had found out at some point, of course, and she'd brought the weight of the seven hells down upon Osvald's head. Â What now after that little falling out? Â Why not the loft: he need not even know.
She pulled herself up to peek outside, only to be greeted with the the dull red glow of these inner halls, and the near perfect quiet of night. Â Down here the sun was not around to offer its evidence, the time of day had to be discerned from more subtle clues. Â With a quick arm-hanging dismount she found herself silently on the floor of the smithy. Â
Suddenly everything seemed familiar, her eyes were caught by a rusted and worn-looking piece of equipment that occupied a large space nearby the forge. Â It was as if she could still hear the angry word's of her shouting father echoing in her ears: "and you are helping her!" Â What exactly with she knew well enough without having caught it in time, "Its bad enough that you have abandoned your duty, but I will not allow you to aid you sister in betraying hers!"
The next time she set eyes upon her brother, his were not friendly. Â They bore the anger and frustration of father: the sentiment having been transmitted from father to son. Â What more could she do? Â
And what did father say?
"Trollop!"
"Harlot!"
The anger rose from father's eyes like fire. Â The words crashed viscerally against her flesh as she stood, she felt, bare and exposed against the lashings of the storm. Â "We had but one expectation of you: how can you disobey us!"
She was never one to cow. Â Obeisance was not in her blood: she always did what she would. Â But she was one to cry. Â How many tears had been shed in that shrouded space between the rafters and the metal shingles?
She turned her face into the gale. Â She let the words wash over her, joining with tears of defiance.
"No daughter of mine would behave such as this! Â No daughter of mine would so defile her name! Â No daughter of mine would engage in such scandal!"
No daughter of mine! Â No daughter of mine! Â No daughter of mine!
No Daughter Of Mine!
Eyes shot open above tear-stained cheeks. Â They gazed upon that worn out, broken down piece of junk. Â The auto-bellows that decades afore had served to fire the metal-working forge. Â A task that now fell to the Master's apprentice, and his day's endless toil. Â
Perhaps... Â it was as standard model, I've seen the type before haven't I? Â I'm in good with Belincourt. Â He'd be willing to spare a few parts... my performances are paying now, well enough to scrape enough coin together I think.
Then he could focus on learning the trade instead. Â He never liked to complain, but I've seen the disappointment wrote on his eyes. Â They would both be so much more productive if they didn't have to pump the forge by hand!
And maybe... maybe Oswald... maybe he will forgive me. Â Maybe... he will...
KNOCK KNOCK
What is that yelling? Â Father again?
KNOCK KNOCK
"Oi now, lass, you'd better be a'right in there! Â Now speak up right this instant! I don't really wannae bash this door downae, ye 'ear?"
Her head was filled with the thick miasma of interrupted dream. Â The heavy grogginess of an unexpected awakening. Â She lifted her eyes, glancing in confusion about at the soft daylight intruding upon the curtains of her room. The voice seemed disembodied, muffled by the door as her friend called to her from just the other side.
"Jeh... Jericho?" she barely managed.
"Aye, 'course lass. Â The Madame, that is Momodo, is sent me tae look in on ye. Â Says yer shift started half-a-bell ago. Â Yer alright in there?"
With another shake of her head she suddenly caught sight of her desk. Â The locket was open, the watch face exposed, the hands reading half-past-eleven. Â A second hand hummed quietly along its way. Â
It was what surrounded the watch face that truly astounded her. Â There in the intricate filigree that seemed to flow in its ever-changing character around the watch, was the image of Althyk, in whose month the calendar hand was set, illuminated by the pink-blue glow of the crystal buried within. Â The figure seemed to leap from the mithril-work: A stern countenance, great axe in one hand, and hourglass in the other. Â He scanned from side to side, while the sand of the hourglass steadily emptied in an endless cycle.
"By the Twelve..." she gasped in delight.
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