Chapter Text
Sparksburg is that awkward size between a town and a city, nestled just off one of the busier trade routes - a perfect place for tourism and well under the Baron’s protection, so safe enough to travel to. Sorin plans to stop for a few weeks at most to refuel and maybe pick up some work here and there to boost his coffers - but not too long, a place like this will have it’s own smithies who probably won’t appreciate someone muscling in. If he’s lucky, some of them won’t mind teaching him something. He hasn’t officially contacted anyone here about learning, because he doesn’t plan to stop here long - a bustling tourist city like Sparksburg will have most of the smithies busy with either knickknacks, noble patrons or outsourced work for the local spark. Lord Andrus Dalca if Sorin remembers correctly. Admittedly the last two could be interesting, but neither sparks nor patrons would tend to chance things on newcomers, and Sorin was travelling, not settling down and looking to build up a reputation.
Except when he actually reaches Sparksburg, it’s not really as he expected.
The guards on the gate pull him over, ask his business. They’re pleasant enough about it, but Sorin picks up an undercurrent of worry, of suspicion. Still, they let him through after a cursory inspection of his things. Tell him to keep to Lowtown, not bother those in Hightown unless invited. Give him the address of an inn who might be able to give him information about work.
Lowtown is...well. In the nicest way, it’s a dump. Sorin passes abandoned buildings almost more than he passes inhabited ones. People are around but they don’t stop and chat to each other, and they keep moving constantly. It raises flags. Big ones. True, it becomes less bad as he progresses into the city, but by the time he reaches the inn, Sorin is sure that something is going on here.
Of course, the posters have helped confirm that suspicion. Plastered among faded posters and advertisements, in big block red lettering and thick parchment that’s been coated with something to keep it pristine, are wanted posters for ‘a rogue spark’. There’s no picture, but there’s a short description and reward amount that’s almost ridiculous. It’s also stamped with a seal of Lord Andrei Dalca, not Andrus Dalca.
When he ducks into the inn, the atmosphere is a little better - or at least livelier. People are drinking in groups, laughter in the air. Darts-players congregate round a well-peppered target, and barmaids in fluffy skirts dispense drinks to the crowd. At the back booths a well-muscled man with a mechanical arm laughs loudly as he manhandles a barmaid, who’s eyes are bright with a smile on her face. Behind the bar a more matronly woman banters with customers, dispensing drinks as she does so. Glances flicker towards and then away from Sorin, though a few cast longer glances.
He heads to the bar, smiles at the bartender as she bustles over. She smiles back but it’s tired around the eyes.
“What can I get you?”
“A half-pint, please.”
Sorin slid the appropriate change in coin across the counter. The women eyed it.
“Not from around here, huh?”
“No, just passing through. I was hoping to pick up some work whilst I was here, though.”
“What’s your trade, handsome?”
“Uh. I’m a blacksmith? I also do farrier-work for horses - “
The woman snorts and her eyes crinkle as real amusement crosses her face.
“Well there’s not many horses left now that - “
A tense moment. Eyes turn to the bartender, hands grip tighter to tables, to drinks. Catching herself, she continues.
“- now. But in terms of blacksmithing, we’re short a few. Talk to Shackleton. Big guy at the back, mechnical arm.”
Sorin tips his drink in thanks, and sips it thoughtfully. It looked like he might be staying here a bit longer - or a bit shorter - than initially planned. Depending what was happening, it seemed like it’d be another case of messaging someone. His face twitched, but he didn’t allow the scowl to form.
Mug drained slightly, enough so it wouldn’t spill over the sides, he picked his way across the room to Shackleton. On seeing him approach, the larger man gently deposited the lady who was sprawled across him onto her feet.
“Catch you later, Marie. Give my best wishes to Frank and the kids.”
The barmaid smiled and nodded before collecting a few empty mugs and ducking behind the counter.
Shackleton smiles back and when he turns to Sorin he is still smiling but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a wariness there, even as he extends his mottled arm for a handshake. Sorin takes it, feels the calluses that match his own grate against the rough skin of his palms.
“Shackleton, though I go by Shacks for short. Reckon old Marie sent you over about Blacksmithin’, eh?”
Sorin nods, offers a smile of his own, and meets Shacks’s gaze without flinching.
“Sorin, and yes.”
“Excellent. A pleasure to meet you. I used to be the main blacksmith around these parts before..well.”
Shackleton waves his mechanical arm in the air in lieu of an explanation, and now Sorin looks closer at it the skin is still raw and puckered at the connecting seam, the shiny pink of healing. It’s a smooth scar though, the line of a blade not a burn. Interesting.
“...so now my forge is lying mostly empty. Got a couple of apprentices in sometimes, but the forge is big enough for you to use it too, and they only do every other day.”
“I’m alright for a forge, I just need somewhere to work with a water source and somewhere where I won’t be stepping on people’s toes.”
The big guy frowns.
“If you’ve already got an agreement with someone to work their forge-”
Sorin shakes his head.
“I’ve got a portable forge.”
The bar quietens again as Shackleton leans forward and speaks in a very different tone.
“You’re a spark?”
“No, though the forge is sparkwork.”
The noise resumes. Shacks shakes his head and breathes out, flesh hand rubbing his metal one. He doesn’t say anything, but Sorin is increasingly concerned.
“In which case, there’s a yard ‘bout half a block away - it’s got a well and plenty of space.”
Shackleton seems almost...curt with him now, the initial friendliness replaced by wariness. Still, he wishes Sorin well, and tells him that he’ll put the word out to those looking for smithwork. Interestingly, he does drop an offhand comment about staying away from Hightown.
Yes, Sorin mused as he trundled down the street with the lava engine in tow, watching the inhabitants scurry away or slip into alleyways as he passed, he was definitely going to have to keep an eye on this town.
Unseen by Sorin, a rat scurries from under the lava engine into an alleyway, where it squeaks frantically as it’s picked up by a cloaked figure. The figure soothes the creature, listens to its report, and places it back down with a morsel of biscuit before melting back into the shadows.