Mark of Making

Clang! went the hammer, as Tyburn pounded the blade into shape. It was properly unnecessary to use such force, but there was more at stake than forging. Sparks flew with every strike, as he took out his frustration, his worries, his years of suppressed grief out on the innocent metal at his mercy.

Maenya's forge exceeded his expectations, to the point of shaming him into reflection. She'd forged every blade she'd ever wielded, and had better tools and hopelessly more mastery than he could achieve in a human lifetime. She, of course, eschewed the automation of Artifice, or even of her natural magic, but in his current state, Tyburn was happy to do things the old-fashioned way.

Byeshk-forging isn't a beginner's art. The rare metal, only found in Droaam, had peculiar properties, and none were more interesting to him than its resistance to heat. But it meant, naturally, that the heat of the forge it required was far greater than normal. And even behind walls of hard-baked brick, the heat of witchfire was sweltering in this place. He'd stripped off his shirt, but nonetheless sweat dripped down his back as he hammered, breathing in air hotter than his heart, burning as it was with fury. While unused in his efforts, his dragonmark still shone dully, a residual effect perhaps from its recent growth, as its longest fingers traced along his shoulders and down the muscles of his back.

"Was he always this...um..." Ariadne wasn't sure how to word her own thoughts. With each thrust of the hammer, she could see the power of his back flow to his arm, and hear it as it transferred to the tough, glowing metal. He grunted with effort, seeming almost to enjoy the challenge before him, channeling his righteous anger into his work, focusing his energy on this fertile shard of metal lying before him. Her thoughts drifted away from the business she'd meant to address.

Ahem. She wanted to say something clever, something disarming. But the red glow of the metal, the heat of the flame, the sweat, the--well, she had to say something.

"It's purple," came the voice of the great orator.

He paused, seeming to consider another thwack, but settling for another soak of the workpiece in the nearby vat of oil. It bubbled with heat, and it wasn't the only thing to do so.

"Byeshk," Tyburn began, as he pulled the now-cooled blade from the oil, its glow dulled enough to make out its wine-purple sheen, "is a curious thing. But I think it might be perfect for my next invention."

"Really?" she asked, slinking forward, inside his grasp, taking in the smell of burning coals, a hint of phlogiston, and a wash of powerful musk. He didn't respond immediately, meaning he was deep into his thoughts. Not a problem, that was hardly a barrier either. His mind raced--she could hear its thoughts like a vampire might hear the race of blood in his heart--but she didn't pry without his consent. Still, human emotions ring out beyond the bonds of the mind, and it was obvious he was pained and preoccupied. In times like this, nothing soothed him like...shop talk. "What's that?"

"Well," he began, setting the blade alongside a dozen others that looked just like it. Already, his aura changed, his anxiety dulled underneath his rising excitement. He always go so excited to show her cool new inventions. And they were cool, although he ought to be excited for other reasons. Still, better to let him get there his own way.

"You're familiar with the Arnaud Principle, the basic physics of propellers. And they're great--I don't think we've maxed out the technology by far. But, for a few years now..." he paused, grunting with effort as he picked up some sort of heavy, metal contraption that looked like a crazy, spiky spindle balanced on two rounded, forked prongs. It looked a little bit, she had to admit, like the first thing her journalist mind wanted to label it, like a warforged porcupine roasting on a spit.

"I've been thinking about the limitations of the piston engine. Even with perfect timing, most of the time, no power is entering the system. Four strokes, and only one provides power. And the shaft could spin so much faster, but the combustion only happens so fast. I'm not going to wait for us to discover some new fuel that burns faster than phlogiston. So the obvious solution..." he paused, as if the answer was obvious.

"Not a new fuel, but...a new...shaft?" She tried to lace the word with suggestion, but it was fruitless. He was on a roll. This was something big, something he was proud of, and--her journalist's instincts whispered to her--probably something really important. I guess important enough to come first.

"Exactly. It's all about the shaft! The crankshaft is doing all the work, all that crap in the pistons is a means to end. Merrix can dick around with 16 pistons or whatever, but the real question is: do we need pistons at all?" His eyes told the truth: the field of aviation was fertile for innovation, and he was fully engorged with ideas, ready to birth new possibilities. Better not to stand in the way. Even if she could see uses for a piston at this particular moment.

"The fuel's job is to make the shaft spin faster. Hell with the piston itself. How do we do that? The key was to imagine the propeller in reverse. We don't spin the propeller to move the air...we move the air to spin the propeller!" He gave the device a shove, causing it to spin. It looked like there was a single, solid shaft, with a few cones: the frontmost one started out narrow and widened, followed by a relatively flat region, and finally a sudden widening and fairly rapid narrowing. All of these cones and regions had blades, like a propeller, but more of them, maybe a dozen? If she'd been hard pressed to describe it, she would say "imagine someone put like 10 propellers with 12 blades on a single shaft, and the blades weren't all that long. I don't know why."

He watched her face, as if expected her to figure out. Then, realizing it wasn't entirely obvious, he reached for another piece, a clamshell harness of sorts, some sort of not-quite-straight metal tube, but cut in half lengthwise. As the device spun, he held the piece so that it covered it, as much as half a tube could. "Imagine this whole assembly is encased. Out here," he gestured toward the "front" of the device, "the air enters. Ambient pressure, ambient temperature. But as the blades spin, they compress it. The narrowing aperture intensifies the pressure. But then..." He gestured toward the place where the first cone reached its widest point, before it suddenly got narrower.

"The duct is the same size, right? So we're at maximum pressure here. But then we inject burning fuel here," he indicated toward the central area, "and it increases the pressure, which pushes the blades further. Finally, as the air exits here, it carries the extra energy. So the air coming out has to move faster than the air coming in. How much faster? Well, it's given by the square of the velocity times the..." he trailed off, seeing her attention wane.

"The point is, the jet of air coming out of the back is more powerful than the air moved by a propeller, and there's no limit coming from the piston mechanics. The only limit is how fast the shaft can spin, and how much fuel we can burn. And, realistically, how hot the blades can get before they start deforming. And with this metal, we can..."

He was losing her, and he could tell. He needed a sound bite, a headline.

"The turbine engine is going to be faster than the propeller. Much, much faster. The speed we've been flying is child's play. I'm not sure what the limit is, but, we're going to find it." He offered her a hand. "Together."

Okay, maybe he wasn't totally clueless. He pulled her forward and offered a kiss--hot, wet, and passionate. Her body was as hot and pliable as the metal he'd been hammering, ready to be forged. As much wear and energy he'd spent, she could sense plenty more in him, and was ready to expend the rest on a far more important craft.

But then, there was the...issue that needed to be discussed. It couldn't wait. Could it?

Turns out, it could. The witches were busy doing other things, the Warchief had who knows how much businesss to attend to. Maenya's forge wasn't a home, but it was a retreat of sorts, and while she didn't need many creature comforts, she did have a room with a bed that was up to the task.

Every man's passion is a siren's plaything, but nothing was as potent as Tyburn's brain, when it was fully aroused to its purpose. Even she was satisfied.

Finally spent, he basked in the cool breeze, shedding his last embers of warmth like his hammered blade, the coals that stoked his fury finally coming to the surface. She could sense his unspoken words, as they gazed at the vast starfield above in a long silence.

"He's...important to you in some way. You've been thinking about him." He spared her a look, and she laughed off his fears. "I don't mean just now. I know nobody could have thought about anything else just now. But before. You took longer with him than I expected, and you've not spoken about it since. You know me. I can smell a good story, and this one's just p---popping with...potential." She barely recovered from her slip, but if he noticed, he didn't let on.

Ariadne suspected all women could sense this, to some extent, even without an iota of psionics. But to her, the sensation of someone considering speaking their mind plainly, then diverting to some safer alternative, was as loud as a primal scream. And just as annoying.

"It's just the usual Cannith nonsense. Probably Osborn. Some insane plan to make a billion gold of the back of wars or whatever. If anyone is the future, it's--"

She just couldn't afford to play games anymore. Not with what she'd learned today. Not with the world on the brink of such change. She wasn't going to grab his mind and force him to comprehend, but she wasn't going to mince words, either.

"He said something to you, and he almost unmade you with it. What did he say?"

He stared at her, afraid of confronting the truth, but more afraid of defying her. This wasn't the siren would hollow him out to impregnate him with a thousand eggs, this was something more dangerous: the reporter who could and would pierce through any lies or deflection he could muster, who smelled the truth like a bloodhound smelled bacon, and would stop at nothing to get it. And he didn't dare test her resolve.

"I...he..." he steeled himself. "My grandfather, Starrin, was the last universally-recognized baron of the house. None of his children survived the Mourning, including...my mother."

He swallowed the fresh pain of an old wound, knowing he owed her far more elaboration. "But that construct, he...he's marked. There's no denying it. Warforged don't have marks. Maybe a handful of cases in history, and all of them aberrations. But that's my mark, the mark of..." he trailed off, his eyes telling the tale of his momentary shame. He worked so hard to project the image he preferred, an independent inventor, aloof from politics and intrigue, uninterested in names, titles, and lofty legacies. And yet, now, in this conflict, it was "my" mark. As vulnerabilities go, it was like a massive, swollen, blood-red nit ready to be picked, and every journalistic instinct told her to dig in, and hard. It was an act of love to let it go.

"He said he was Starrin's son. Ozlan. And...surviving the Mourning is hard enough to believe. But...a human becoming warforged? How am I supposed to take that? Is this a cruel joke?"

She couldn't help but hear his thoughts--they were as loud as a rock song, burning with the fire of his heart, which yearned to speak the truth, no matter the cost. And they answered his question immediately: no, it wasn't a joke. It was true. Impossible, but true.

"If..." she began carefully, lovingly, and with a deeper understanding and compassion than anyone else could have mustered (quite frankly), "if anyone could have made such a thing happen, it would be your family. And if it's true, you have...an opportunity. I know there's risk, and everything will change, but before all that, you...deserve to know."

She held his hand tightly. "And I'll be there with you. You won't be alone. Whatever the truth is, we'll find it together, and we'll be better for it."

She couldn't quite say the rest. He'd be less alone than he could even yet imagine. But...there would be time for that conversation.