#i’ve never drawn armor before. or chainmail. or METAL

[astrobei]

*hozier plays ominously in the background*

[frogocado]

A Golden Labyrinth of Noise Part 2 (Damien Haas au)

I hope you’re all having a swell week. Regardless of where this story goes or how long it takes me to write, I really love the direction it’s going. This turned out to be around 3,300 words and who knows how long other chapters would be but this is also the first long-term fiction work I’ve written since graduating college. Thank you to everyone that’s read it, shared it, or given me feedback! I was wondering if anyone wanted to be on a tag list for when I post new chapters? My inbox is always open. Read the previous chapter here, view the whole tag here.

2. Sailing or Drowning

The only sounds in the tunnel were Damien’s breathing and his boots cutting through grit and dirt and mud. He had never felt so alive. He couldn’t believe that everything had actually worked, even if it wasn’t the original plan he had settled on. He was stumbling through the dark, bumping into the stone that seemed to catch him in its arms. The tunnel smelled of musk and piss and rotting food, but there wasn’t another place the prince would want to be—not the labyrinth, not his royal bath with the little waterfall, not near the stables with the royal horses, but here. He couldn’t believe the guard had not only informed him of the passage through the tunnel, but had actually allowed him to leave.

Damien suddenly felt a joy so large in his chest that he began to laugh, the tunnel filling with excitable vibrato. It was as if the rock around him was vibrating. And then, suddenly, he had reached a metal gate. His laughter stopped and he exhaled, listening hard. There was a moment of quiet and then… A drip of water ahead of him, landing in a small puddle just beyond the gate. And, beyond that, the sounds of people and steps in gravel above him. His heart thumped so loud in his chest that he barely caught the sound of clanging chainmail in the tunnel behind him.  He had to leave and he had to leave now before he was found out.

Taking a deep breath, the prince put his hand on the cold, dark gate and pushed. It opened with a screech that reminded him of his tutor whom had ground his teeth so hard during their lessons that the healers were attempting to craft him a new set of teeth. He took a few careful steps forward, feeling with his hands in front of him. His fingertips brushed what felt like a metal shelf. He stood still, raising his hand to what felt like another shelf. He grasped it and lifted himself, going up, up, up. The crunching of rock above him as his guide, Damien climbed the ladder until his hand brushed a much sturdier shelf above him. Around what had to be an edge appeared a dim and inviting orange glow. Bracing himself against the narrow wall, Damien pushed his shoulder against the metal weight. It groaned as it lifted and Damien nearly fell down the ladder from the sheer force back at him.

He clutched at the top step of the ladder, breathing hard. Then, with a shaking hand, he climbed out from underneath. His hands were clutching cobblestones, curated nails now lightly stained with mud. Pulling himself up, he was thankful Knight Topp had given him the sack to protect his clothes. He was now standing in a narrow, stone room, candles alight in each corner.

Below him, he heard a clatter. Damien glanced back down into the hole, cursing when he saw Knight Topp beginning to climb the ladder. “You said you wouldn’t try to stop me!” He cried, grabbing the metal cover.

The guard looked up toward the prince. Damien noticed Knight Topp wasn’t winded at all, even with his iron boots. “I’m not trying to stop you,” he replied, looking away again as he began to climb.

Damien roared, pushing the heavy metal cover back over the opening. It wouldn’t be a permanent fix, but it could buy him some time. With that very thought, Damien searched for an exit out of the room. Hands moving along rock and mortar, he finally found a break in the pattern and pushed. The door groaned, stone grinding on stone, as he pushed his way out. When it opened, he immediately recognized his surroundings. He took a careful step out of the stone mausoleum, turning in his place to see his house name carved out of stone above him.

He stumbled backwards in shock, nearly falling down the short steps into the rest of the cemetery. The last time Damien stood in this spot, in this place, he was six years old, his uncle’s body being carried into the stone room underneath a draped piece of sapphire velvet cloth. The sound of Knight Topp pushing on the metal cover forced Damien out of his thoughts. He would have to ask his father about it later—where his uncle really was if Damien had pushed his way out of what was supposed to be his family’s resting place.

Damien left the cemetery and turned into the streets, following the dull orange hues of candle light.  Despite the sun having set a few hours prior, he was surprised to see the city’s people still in the streets. He adjusted the canvas hood and took a deep breath, walking to join the crowd.

Damien’s heart felt like it was in his throat as his boots carried him over gravel. Although he had entered the city streets almost a dozen times, each was from the back of a horse during one of the parades celebrating his father’s reign. He had been so busy waving and forcing a smile so hard his cheek muscles would hurt for days afterward, he never actually took any of it in. Without the walls of noise, the city seemed to sigh as it welcomed him inside.

Candles were alight in upper windows above shops and through the flame flickering in the glass, Damien could observe people writing in journals, preparing for supper, or simply lounging with their pets. In the square, only three establishments still had their downstairs lights on. The bakery where the Queen had gotten him his third birthday cake, serving evening cakes and teas to patrons before they headed home to drape coats across the mantles or across the street to the pub. The iron and ore smithy was next to it, candles down to the base of their wicks, where a man the size of a black bear was shouting a harsh baritone at three boys smaller than Damien.

The prince strayed off of the gravel closer than most would dare to the shop. The man’s eyes flicked over at him and he immediately stood still as their eyes locked, frozen. He couldn’t fucking believe it, he hadn’t even been out of the castle an hour and his curiosity had already gotten him caught. “Oi!” The bear bellowed. Damien thought he could see the hair of his beard nearly leap when he yelled. “We open tomorrow at nine! Piss off, old man.”

Damien’s heart swelled deep in his chest and he turned away from the man, grinning like a madman. Maybe he could ask his father to give Knight Topp a pardon for his intelligent suggestion of a potato sack, he thought as he began to cross the square toward the pub. As his feet were falling into the yellow glow basking from the windows, he watched the movement of patrons inside. People were open mouthed, whether from yelling or laughing, the prince couldn’t be sure. He had never seen a gathering so active, even the small politicking parties his cousins occasionally threw whenever Damien drifted by for a visit.

Drawn, the prince stepped forward, pushing the heavy oak door open. Noise spilled through the open space like a dam breaking loose and free and Damien found himself being swallowed inside. Chandeliers hung from iron rings, candles alight and dancing. Plush couches and pillows were in front of a fireplace with a small, makeshift stage off to the side. People were lounging on the couches or draped across tables. Two men pushed past the prince and for the door, jostling him as his hood nearly fell off his head. Mumbling an apology, Damien held onto the canvas of his hood and kept his eyes on his boots and the wooden floor, pushing his way toward the bar.

Slipping into a spot in the corner, Damien finally raised his gaze. The bartender nodded toward him as he approached. “What’ll it be?” The man wore a frown and a scowl, something Damien wouldn’t have expected from a man with such bright orange hair. He hadn’t even realized he was staring until there was a shift in the man’s eyes. “Do we have a problem?” He asked in a gruff voice.

“No, I was just…” He was just wondering what he had used to get that sort of color. Blackberries, upon squishing between fingers, always produced the kind of purple that was reasonable for Damien to blot under his eyes or around his mouth to fake a bruise.  Boiled carrots, perhaps…

The man looked at him expectantly. Damien sat up and cleared his throat, trying to drop it half an octave into his impersonation of his father. “I’ll have a mead, sir.”

The bartender clicked his tongue as he turned away, grabbing a pint glass before moving to a barrel in the opposite corner. Damien thought he could hear the man grumble about a mead to the face, but he couldn’t be sure. He glanced back around the pub, an agile creature moving picking up glasses as it danced between tables. His glass landing on the table pulled him back and Damien reached into his pocket for his coin.

“Ten silvers,” the man said, his voice like dark smoke curling out of an oven.

“Ah, just… one second, then.” Damien dumped his bag on the bar, realizing it might have been much more than he had originally planned. He began to count out his silver pieces before a hand slammed down onto the bar, covered his coins. Alarmed, he looked up.

“David, you have never once served mead so sweet it was worth anything more than five silvers and a bronze.” Knight Topp’s eyes were locked on the bartender. He wondered when the knight had time to ditch his armor and still catch up with the prince. Damien rolled his eyes nearly hard enough to make himself dizzy. There was a silence that fell between the three of them that was thick enough to block out some of the noise, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.

Then, the bartender glanced toward the prince again. Slowly, he said, “five silvers for your mead, sir.” Each word seemed to give the man the feeling of chewing on glass because he cringed harder and harder as his sentence continued. Knight Topp pushed the coins toward the bartender before sweeping the rest into Damien’s coin purse. He gave him a light smile, offering the velvet clutch of fabric to the prince.

Damien grabbed it angrily before sighing, looking down at his pint glass. “You’re going to blow my cover,” he said, turning away from the bright smile of the man next to him as he faced the rest of the bar. His eyes glanced across heads and tables, finally settling on a corner table tucked close to a staircase.

“You’re going to blow your own cover,” Knight Topp said over his shoulder as he followed the prince closely.

Damien scoffed as he slipped onto the bench, hand tightening around his mug. “I’ll have you know I saw the smithy outside before and he didn’t recognize me,” he said coolly, raising the mug to his lips to take a sip. He had felt like Knight Topp was just showing off with knowing the bartender earlier, as if trying to prove to Damien that he was second in command for a reason.

But as Knight Topp pulled up a chair, the taste of his drink had Damien’s eyes closing, features contorting into a scowl. “My… prince?” Knight Topp implored with some hesitation, but when Damien opened his eyes, the man was fully grinning. “You alright, then?”

“Are all drinks outside the grounds this putrid and horrible?” Damien asked, wiping his mouth on the canvas of his disguise. He took another sip anyway.

Knight Topp shook his head. “No, just at David Moss’s place.” He was quiet for only a moment (a moment too short and Damien considered asking the knight to be quiet for longer, since it was such a nice change) before he began to speak to the prince once again. “The only reason why Raub didn’t recognize you is because the fires in his stables were too bright to see you. Do you truly not realize that a king has never dared to walk amongst his people the way you do? Your stunt, my prince, while ill-planned and executed—“

“Thank you.”

“—Is incredibly risky and… I beg your pardon, dangerous?”

Damien scoffed again, pointing at the knight with a napkin that was discarded on their table. “You’re beginning to sound more and more like my father, Sir Knight. And don’t call me that in public.”

Damien could see the knight’s frustration that he had ignored everything he had told him, but then the knight raised an eyebrow. “Then how shall I address you, sir?”

The prince took another sip of his mead, which was becoming easier to swallow the more he forced it down his throat. If anything, from this evening, at least he had the possibility of gaining a buzz. “By my name.” He sat back, folding one leg over his other knee. He felt quite proud of himself. “And I shall address you as the same, since we’re just two acquaintances sharing a drink.”

Knight Topp sighed, defeated. “I shall go get myself a drink.” He stood from the table. “And then you and I, Damien, will head for home.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Knight Topp stood there for a long moment and Damien rolled his eyes, waving his hand at him. “You’re dismissed.” The man left and Damien reveled the moment he had alone and away from the other.

From his spot, he felt confident enough to examine the pub more closely. Knight Topp, at the bar, now laughing jovially with the bartender and a blonde waitress who seemed to know the knight well enough to punch him twice in the shoulder. His eyes lingered for a moment before he was caught by your shape moving amongst the tables again. His lip quirked from the way you seemed to dance and flit between the patrons, easily stepping over drunken men even before they began to fall from their stools towards you. A tray balanced in your left hand and five mugs caught in your right, you moved to deposit dishes behind the bar before you immediately entered the dangerous fray again.

When Knight Topp returned, he, the bartender, and the waitress were all still grinning. Damien studied the man, who, despite admitting how overpriced and shitty the drinks they had both purchased were, was suddenly chugging half of his ale. “Do you come here a lot?” Damien asked him, lowering his feet to the floor as he scooted forward on the bench.

“It’s the only pub in town,” Knight Topp answered, which wasn’t really an answer. “There’s a few good ones in the village neighboring ours but the walk is nearly thirty minutes longer and that’s about how long it normally takes me to finish an ale after an easy day.”

Damien was only half listening at this point. His eyes strayed to you again and Shayne drained the rest of his mug, setting it down on the table hard enough the prince nearly jumped. “I’ve finished my ale,” he announced. “Time to leave.”

Damien narrowed his eyes at the knight, shaking his head. “But I haven’t finished my mead.” Knight Topp narrowed his eyes in return and tried to swipe at Damien’s mug. Having tried a similar tactic on a distant cousin who wouldn’t let him have any of the good wine at a family event, Damien saw the move coming and held the mug high into the air.

He slapped lightly at Knight Topp’s hand. “Stop,” he warned, switching hands when the man tried once again to yank the mug away. “I order you to stop. You’re going to make me spill my very expensive drink!”

Knight Topp settled back down into his chair, slumping back. “It’s fine,” he said, sounding slightly more defeated than Damien had expected. “Either way, I’m sure your father will have me hung for treason by the afternoon ‘morrow.”

Damien’s mug was halfway to his lips before he paused at the word. “For treason?” He repeated, taking another slow sip. He considered the implications of the evening and the way the patriarchy would see it. “I’ll have a talk with him if he raises any concern.”

“If?” The knight gave a laugh and Damien wasn’t quite sure what was funny. He dropped his voice, leaning over the table to keep the conversation between the two of them. “M-my prince… Damien… I was given strict orders by the King to bring you to your quarters for the evening and then I was an accessory in your escape.”

Damien hadn’t thought about it that way. He had forgotten that this was all a risk; that his plan had dumbly interfered with someone else’s livelihood. “Then why did you stay?”

“Because you are my prince and it’s my duty to protect you. I kept you from being overcharged like a tosser, didn’t I?”

Damien found himself looking this man in his eyes and grinning like a fool. His father would have a cursed fit if he could see his son making eye contact with civilians. The thought twisted his gut and Damien sat back quickly, eyes wide. “Sir Knight, you can still follow orders. You will bring me to my quarters for the evening.”

He began to drain his ale and Knight Topp began to laugh and then suddenly you were approaching their table. You caught the prince’s attention immediately, not just because of the way you seemed to dance as if surrounded by pix, but from the way all of the noise seemed to be swallowed up in just the movement of you. Walls of noise were falling away and Damien found himself sinking into the waves again, an undertow hitting him in the gut and pulling hard. And then… you smiled. You, someone who was supposedly lower than Damien simply because of family and gender and status, looked him straight in the eyes and smiled.

You were gone as quickly as you were there, collecting both mugs from the men before you were behind the bar again. But Damien was stuck in his seat, even when Knight Topp rose from his place and clapped him on the shoulder. For the first time, Damien felt like he had actually been seen by someone.

“You’re drunk already? Really?” Knight Topp’s snotty remark pulled Damien back into the stream of sounds. “Let’s get you back home.”

Damien stood from his seat on the bench and nearly swayed. “I’m not drunk. You should see me at family gatherings,” he tried to defend himself as Knight Topp led him out of the pub.

Damien didn’t tell Knight Topp to move his arm off of his shoulder even as they entered the street back toward the cemetery. The man eventually stretched both arms toward the stars before shoving his hands in his pockets as they climbed the hill and Damien turned to him a moment later. “Listen, I know you’re worried about treason and all but… if it’s any consultation, you’re a really good friend.”

Knight Topp stopped from picking up his chainmail next to the mausoleum, looking across the open space at his new friend. “Thank you.” They both smiled at each other before Knight Topp ducked into his armor, suddenly regaining all of the composure of the royal guard. “Since I’ve already committed treason thrice this evening, I hope you’ll pardon me when I say that you’re an ass.” He pushed the iron gate to the stone resting place open to the prince and bowed.

Damien scoffed before walking into the mausoleum, already planning his strategy to see a glimpse of you again. “You’re pardoned, my friend. Promise.”

[chronicbatfictioner]

Subtle - Chapter 8

Jason, however, did not pay attention - much - to the plethora of superheroes suddenly trying to be friends with him. He was merely thinking of the benefits when his old team regrouped while his new team was unavailable when he needed backups to handle some stuff. And because Jason didn't care, he never asked why they chose to find him at the same time, either. He just relished on the fact that that the two of them being there was beneficial for him.

That is, until his plan kind of glitched when Wonder Woman showed up.

"Your little bird boyfriend is... kind of toxic for our kind." Roy Harper - Arsenal - groused as they tried to get out of the stronghold of a wannabe terrorist group who had disguised itself as a PTA group - unironically hiding guns in cooler boxes and head for their destination as a college football team's tailgating party.

They - the terrorists - obviously didn't think that they would be stopped by Wonder Woman. Who asked them nicely to please stop shooting, she needs to speak quietly with the Red Hood, and then proceeded to wrap their vehicles around them.

"Eh, I'm going to suspend my opinion on the 'toxic' remark. At least we got this done unscratched." Jason commented. "What do you need, Wonder Woman?"

"Well, first of all, maybe for you to be less combative against someone who'd just helped you." she snapped. "There were kids in there that could've gotten hurt if I hadn't interfered!"

"I know! Why do you think I have Starfire out there on standby to grab the kids when it's possible! You didn't honestly think they'll not use those kids as hostages, did you?" Jason shot back, pointing to Starfire who had just landed, looked at the arrested terrorists, then at Arsenal, and both - very unhelpfully - shrugged.

"Won't it be easier just to use those contraptions... cellphones?" Starfire's sing-song-y voice carried on clearly even over the rattling sounds of people trying to un-bend the metals around them.

"You know that would not allow me to see his face, Starfire." Wonder Woman replied, unperturbed.

"It's not like I'm taking off the maaa...-- what the hell put me down!!" Jason yelped as Wonder Woman grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him into the air. He didn't struggle, because what was the point? Plus, he kind of preferred not succeeding in a struggle because they were out in a desert and way up high. "I'm getting kidnapped by Wonder Woman... The Bat is gonna have a field day with this..." he grumbled instead.

"Oh, stuff it, Jason. Even Starfire knows I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just here to talk. Not as Red Hood and Wonder Woman, but as Jason and Diana, please."

"About a certain little red bird that you don't think I'm good enough for... yadda yadda yadda... I get it, mom, if I hurt him, I'd get drawn, quartered, and my head-gets-put-on-a-stake, I get it!" Jason finally exploded, yanking off his helmet. "You know how many people talked to me about that shit in the past month?? I mean seriously, I've got Ra's Al Ghul wanting to know what my purpose is with him! The hell is it with you people??"

Diana frowned, and then cocked an eyebrow. "Honestly, I have known you before I even know of him. And I am wondering if he was good enough for you... You're a battler, a brawler. You live for the front lines. He's... cunning. More of a behind-the-scenes person than you are. He crafted happenstances to benefit him..." she mused out loud. "I care for you, Jason..." she placed a hand on Jason's shoulder. "I don't want to see you hurt."

The helmet fell off Jason's arm to the ground, he was so surprised. But Diana was not done. "I never thought... when you were killed, you know how it went for your father. But I... I'd only seen you a few weeks prior. Everything moved so fast yet so slow. One minute he was so overjoyed to have you, and then he was broken... But regardless," she shook her head. "I have yet the pleasure to meet Red Robin - aside of from his... general reputation. If you can find the time, I would like to dine with you and your boyfriend."

Jason blinked.

"What." He wondered out loud. Diana smiled, and waved - probably calling for Starfire to come fetch Jason.

"Everyone was worried for him, I think I am entitled to stand my ground and express my care, too, aren't I?" she asked before she went airborne, pausing a few miles in the air to talk to Starfire who was bringing Roy over.

"What just happened?" Jason demanded.

"Gee, Jaybird, I'd tell you, but you were the one talking to the lady. Lady - capital 'L'." Roy reminded him.

"Uh.. yeah. I--" Jason sputtered as he bent down to retrieve his helmet. "Anyway! Business done? Did you find the flash drive? So we can actually like, get some cash for this? Even if Wonder Woman was the one wrapping them up?"

"Of course I did!" Roy beamed, showing a flash disk in the form of - Jason had to roll his eyes at the predictability of them rednecks - a tiny gun. "What did she want with you?"

"She said I looked radiant and wished me well, she must be... happy." Starfire - Kory - remarked, almost incongruently.

"Princesses greeting each other a mile in the sky... and I'm far too jaded to even wonder how is it I didn't crap myself. But anyway! What did she want?" Roy returned to his initial question, because even if he has two seconds attention span, Roy could focus on things that interested him.

"She wanted me to bring Tim over for dinner." Jason replied, thanking high-heavens that his helmet's voice-modulator made his voice sounded cool and betrayed none of the giddiness he was feeling. Or the redness of his face as he looked at Roy's gaping mouth.

"Huh, how nice it is for the Amazonian Princess to summon you for a dinner. Please remember to wear a suit." Kory commented. Because of course she would zoom in on the fact that Diana was a princess, like Kory is-- was-- whatever depending on who was talking. Still, she has immediately thought of the situation in the fact that a princess, i.e. Diana - asking a commoner, i.e. Jason - to attend a dinner with her.

"I have no idea what to wear, " Jason admitted. "everything I know of royalty and stuff like that are from books. And I don't think they'd wear chainmails and or armors or stuff like that anymore, do they?"

"I... am not sure of Earth's customs, but I think you would not wear chainmails or armor into an official dining hall, unless said dinner happened in the middle of a combat. Leather, maybe, your best ones." Kory replied glibly, her eyes swept over Jason's jacket. "But! I shall be honored to accompany you and your beautiful boyfriend a trip to the mall to acquire new garbs!" she added excitedly.

"Oh boy," Jason groaned.

"And I shall accompany you three to see if you two has the same disastrous taste as your big bro." Roy grinned mischievously at him.

"No we don't. And we're not going to any malls. My boy-- Red Robin actually has someone to dress him and, need I remind you, Roy, is the adopted son of a billionaire. He wouldn't be caught dead in a TJ Maxx shirt..." Jason pointed out. "Wait, why are we talking about malls? We're vigilantes!"

"I don't think TJ Maxx has come up with a kevlar- and nomex-lined suits, Jaybird. But what do I know..."

[armoreddragon]

I just got trash talked and I had to share.

I got someone talking shit about my chainmail in a personal note over on Etsy, and I ended up writing way too involved a response. I probably should’ve just responded with “How about you go order a steaming plate of Go Fuck Yourself to go.” But I was in A Mood, so I wrote like a whole essay about my standards and priorities as a craftsperson. And I kind of like to share those sorts of things publicly from time to time, so here you go. If anyone else would like to send some trash talk at me, feel free to try your luck.

[Redacted]:

www.etsy.com/listing/78305616/european-6-in-1-bracelet-stainless-steel

with all your talk about precision lasers and whatnot, what explains the presence of pinch-cut rings on your pieces, the ugliest and least precise way of producing jump rings (never mind the gaps and bad closure i see)?

Hi [Redacted].

You seem angry about this. I'll try to address the different points you brought up:

• I'm not drawn to laser cutters because of some fetishization of precision. I'm drawn to them because they allow me to make things that would not be possible otherwise. But laser cutters and chainmail have basically nothing to do with each other, so that's a whole different conversation.

• When crafting items to sell, there is a balance one must find between the time put in and the price a customer will pay for it. With chainmail, a customer may notice sloppy work if the rings are not closed in-plane and they scratch a bit. But once you're at an acceptable solid level of quality, there's no reason to put in extra anguish if it doesn't improve the customer's experience of the product. Put simply, it's not about absolute perfection, it's about efficiency and managing your standards.

• I don't consider the shear-cut rings I use to be ugly. People on chainmail forums may deride them and extol on the virtues of saw-cut rings, but honestly I don't mind them. As a matter of principle, I'm totally fine seeing evidence of how an item was made, and that's how I think of the pinching at the shear points of these rings.

• Back when I started chainmail I was hand-wrapping and cutting rings with wire cutters. Sometimes I would slip up and get some variations in ring sizes, but I was pretty accurate at cutting straight along the coil to produce pretty consistently-sized rings. But as soon as I started selling stuff, I switched to buying pre-cut rings from The Ring Lord, and I've never detected any variation in size between rings. Their manufacturing tolerances are good.

• Also, saw-cut rings are more expensive than shear-cut rings, and I don't think they're worth it.

• The vast majority of the chainmail I make is larger costume pieces, usually with scales, where the rings aren't even visible. There's no reason to use saw-cut for those. I sell a decent number of the small scale bracelets, but I sell very few ring-mail jewelry pieces. Even if I did want saw-cut rings for jewelry, for the amount that I'd use them, it's really not worth stocking them.

• A couple times I did get some saw-cut rings. What I found was that they were more prone to being scratchy. The metal at the cut point on the shear-cut rings is bent inwards a bit, so the joint is rounded over. But the edge of the saw cut is sharp, so a minuscule error in closure is immediately evident because it scratches. And even if your closures are perfect, sometimes the rings have little burs poking out parallel with the cut, which will scratch no matter how long you spend exquisitely closing your rings. That sucked, and I didn't order saw-cut rings again after that.

• My closures are fine. I hold myself to a pretty high standard when I close rings. If the ring isn't springing closed, pushing itself to close harder than flush, I worry that a scale will eventually force its way in and open it up. I've never had that happen, but that's why I'm careful.

• When I see other chainmail people at craft fairs, I silently judge their closures. I'm frequently disappointed. The worst disappointment was a guy who sells lots of ring mail at a fantasy convention that's in Boston every year. He uses like 12 gauge 1/2" diameter aluminum rings. Really big. And he will boast about working out a fast method of opening and closing rings with only one pair of pliers. But his closures are shit. None of the rings touch themselves, some of them there's up to like 1/16 inch of a gap. But you know what? He sells big armor pieces. Nobody is looking at them that closely. They're closed well enough that there isn't a danger of rings slipping loose. It's not affecting the function or appearance of his product. It doesn't matter.

I'm assuming you're learning chainmail yourself. A layperson wouldn't have the vocabulary, and someone who had been doing it for a long time would have more tact. My advice to you is to keep looking at other people's work and thinking of how you could do better. That's how you improve. Think of what matters to you, what you want to optimize, what you want to explore. Myself, I care about making an impact with unique designs, especially with larger costume pieces. Some people really love working really small, making micro mail with tweezers. Some people are drawn to ornament, mixing weaves together with lots of draping chains. If you're drawn towards perfection of technique, maybe you'd want to make high price-point pieces in precious metals, maybe even exploring soldering each ring closed. When you have a goal or direction in mind, you can fit your own methods to that goal. And you realize that other people have different priorities, different optimizations.

Oh, and it may please you to know that in the full decade that I've been making chainmail, I truly cannot think of another person before you who has trash talked my work. Congratulations on being the first.

Feel free to let me know if you have any other questions!

-Jesse                                            

[ecotone99]

[SF] Rustbowl 1- (1-2 of 3) Sci-Fi Western. First two parts of a three part series and my first attempt at creating a world building bunch of short stories loosely inspired by ancient Greece and Conan the Barbarian. Any feedback would be much appreciated, thanks.

The Trail Warms Up

"Why me?, Why me? Why me?" was all the terrified robot could think as he weaved his way through the chaotic landscape of stalls and bustling crowds that made up the famous black markets of The Free City of Ferrous.

Leaping over countless tables of scrap metal and stolen hardware that lay scattered around the bustling bazaar in the city center, the flustered robot struggled to comprehend how a petty criminal like himself could possibly find himself being hunted by a Scraper.

"This has to be a mistake?" Was the only conclusion that he comes to in his panicked state. Although this thought did little to ease his system as he barely avoids running into a large pile of scrapped and bullet-ridden Galvanic Troops stacked ungracefully in front of a stall, surrounded by a large group of curiously cautious browsers.

He knew he couldn't stop and try to plead his case.

Not to him.

From all he had heard amongst his fellow criminal kin, he was being pursued by a machine that wasn't known to listen to reasoning.

"At least he can't shoot me in the back with this many bots around. Not even he would be that reckless?" He reasoned with himself as he charged his way through a crowd of robots, sending one crashing into a large pile of ex-robotic parts, which topple down with a thunderous crash, barely missing the human vendor manning the stall.

Knowing that any chance of escaping into the crowd had been ruined by the trail of destruction he had just created in his wake, he knew his only possible chance of escape now was to get out of the market as quickly as possible and into the maze of alleyways that sprang off the main square like vines on a tree.

Quickly taken a sharp turn to his left, he headed behind a line of stalls that hid him from the open market. At the end of this long line of stalls, he saw his salvation, a narrow alleyway that led away from the main market and eventually, he knew, to the sprawling network of shanty towns in the south of the city. Where the hunted could easily lose even the keenest of hunters.

Closing in on his escape route, at a speed which the greatest human sprinters who ever existed could only have dreamt of, the robot naively started to allow himself to think of the near-legendary status he was about to achieve amongst his fellow criminals when they heard how he had just outfoxed one of the most notorious Scrapers in all of the Rustbowl. This newfound optimism was dashed in an instant as a sharp whizzing sound suddenly cut through the air like a knife, bearing down on him at an alarming speed.

Before he could react, a lasso of braided strands of gold, latched around the stainless steel rod that formed part of the robots trailing leg, yanking him backward with enough force to have ripped the limb clean off any organic creature unfortunate enough to find themselves facing such force.

Hitting the floor with a sickening thud, the robot slid backward nearly thirty feet before finally coming to a halt in a crumpled mess, followed closely by the large plume of dust his abrupt stop had created.

The dazed robot's system took a moment to comprehend what had just happened to him. Regaining his senses just as an imposing silhouette broke through the dust, directly in front.

"How naive was I?" he thought to himself.

"To think that I could ever outrun him!'.

The foolishness of that thought, however, was instantly eclipsed by his next as the robot instinctively reached down for the pistol that was always attached crudely to his upper steel thigh, only to realize that it must have broken free from the impact of his fall.

The figure above him already had his pistol drawn and aiming at the now defenseless robot.

"Easy now hotshot, no need to try anything else stupid."

"If I was here to shut you down I would have already put four holes in your back when you were running away in the market. Lucky for you, I'm only here for information. But if you refuse to tell me what I want to know or I think you're trying to cross my wires, then I will happily reconsider my no terminating policy. Understood?" Said the imposing shadowy figure towering over him, as he cocked back the hammer on his large hand cannon.

His voice was husky but unsurprisingly more emotive than the average modern robots, much more human-like than his own. The type of voice found commonly amongst older model robots, the type who had fought in the Great War almost a century ago, during a time when humans and robots had far more regular interactions than in the present day. But despite this more emotive accent, it couldn't hide the coldness instilled in his captors' voice. The terrified robot recognized his was the voice of a killer. One that left him in no doubt that what he said was never to be mistaken as an empty threat.

His captor looked down at him clearly pleased with the reaction of fear that he was receiving from his winged prey.

"I assume by the way you ran, you know who I am?" Continued the intimidating figure. His golden lasso protruding from an opening in his left wrist to the foot of his unfortunate captive.

The robot nervously stared up at his capture, unsure how to navigate this precarious position.

"Well?" said the mysterious figure again impatiently, kicking dust at his winged prey.

"Y-y-y-yes sir, I believe you're a Scraper, the one they call Kal. Sir!" stuttered the panicked robot, whilst slowly wiping the dust from his lense with the back of his steel hand.

He had never actually seen the robot who's shadow now blocked out the clear blue sky above him, but from what he was able to piece together from the various ghost stories he had overheard amongst his unsavory associates- this robot fit the description.

He was quite tall for a robot, about 6'7", although not as large as the Sparktics robots of the mountains and nowhere near as broad as those monolithic machines. But amongst robots of the civilized cities, he cut an opposing figure. It was hard to make out his captors face from behind his lowered cowboy hat and armor thus he couldn’t clearly make out if he possessed the damaged lower jaw that the feared Scraper was rumored to have received during the climactic battle at the Extinction Plans, which ended the Great War against the Galvanics. Although it was clear from his design that he was definitely an ‘ol’bot’, a term used to describe the steadily declining number of robots that were created before the War with the Galvanics. A time before the establishment of the Rustbowl, where robot and man had worked together in relative peace in the early years after the Great Awakening.

His captor certainly looked to the robot like a relic from the distant past.

Most of his body armor was hidden under a broad chainmail poncho, with only the upper section protruding out, completely surrounding his neck and lower third of his face. This exposed piece of armor alone showed the battered and scratched signs of battles that no doubt covered the rest of his captors' thick plated, faded green armor. But it was the golden lasso that convinced the captured robot that he was face to face with the robot known as 'The Regulator' by most of the criminal brethren.

The robot stared at the lasso in complete awe, the beauty of which even managed to distract him from his dire situation for a brief moment.

"That much gold.” he thought to himself. “How many Galvanic soldiers would you possibly have to terminate to accumulate that much trophy?”

His captor tilted back his cowboy hat revealing two narrow yet piercing lenses with blue dots in their center and a nose-shaped bulge that stopped just above this power armor. His appearance was certainly that of an ‘ol’bot’ when robots were made to look far more human-like looked than those currently being ‘born’ amongst their own kind in the Rustbowl. Although partially hidden, it was clear to the captured robot that behind his power armor the lower half of his captors face there were significant signs of damage.

"Good. Cause I know who you are Crank," said Kal.

The robot stared up nervously. He knew his name, which meant he really was after him.

"Yes sir, so t-t-there must be some sort of mist...."

Kal interrupted with an annoyed look etched across his partially visible face.

"A few months back you started doing some work for a small gang based out of somewhere in the eastern plains," said Kal

"From what I’ve gathered so far you acted as their local informant, scouting potential targets in the city. Correct?"

Panic threatened to overload Cranks systems, unable to answer the intimidating scraper whos piercing blue stare was burning through him like a fire lance.

Kal continued on whilst placing a cigar in a custom-designed opening located on the right-hand side of the armor covering his lower face.

“Seven armed guards lay scrapped after an ambush on their caravan on the outskirts of town, 2000 credits, and 200 steel ingots are missing. Unfortunately for these cowards, their gunplay indicates this doesn't seem to have been the work of true professionals. Three of their own lay scrapped at the scene. Now, no mercs sent by the Galvanics I have encountered in the wastelands would possibly be as sloppy as these amateurs, especially if they had the same drop on the caravan. But the planning, well that looks like the work of a true professional. In fact, it looks very similar to how an old associate of mine would have planned it." said Kal, striking a match off his chainmail poncho and casually lighting his cigar.

"So Crank, maybe you know who I'm talking about?"

Crank sat there startled for what felt like an eternity. "What do I say?" he thought to himself. "If I don't tell him he blows me away but if I tell him and it gets back to them that I squeaked, I'm scrap as well."

"Well!" barked the impatient Scraper. Finally loosening patience with the trembling robot.

"It's too damn hot for me to be standing here all day waiting for you to load the correct answer."

"Either you cooperate and live or you stay loyal to this pack of cowards and become scrap. The choice is yours." Kal reasoned, as he slowly raised his gun, pointing it at the panicking robot.

Crank raised his metal hands frantically waving them in front of his face.

"Okay, okay don't shoot" he pleaded.

"I met most of them a couple of times. I don't know their roll's, all I know is what they told me to do."

Kal slowly lowered his weapon, satisfied that his hostage was finally cooperating.

"Now this robot you did most of the dealing with, what did he look like?"

Crank quickly scanned through his memory noting every minor detail that he could from his brief encounters with the group.

"He was stocky if I was to guess originally designed as an enforcement droid probably an En-20, although with all the mods and repairs it was hard to tell exactly. He looked like he had taken some serious damage in the past, maybe an artillery shell during the war? Either way, he wasn't the full battery but mean as hell. He was the one who gave me orders, although I don't he was the brains."

Kal couldn't help but let out a hidden smirk behind his weathered armor. What Crank wasn’t aware of was that Kal suspected he knew exactly how that robot had sustained such damage.

After the betrayal from Kal's former partner, five years ago, that nearly left him a twisted heap of scrap on the desert plains, he returned to his safe house to find it ransacked and stripped bare, all the bounty he had required from his bandit and smuggling days was gone. The only solace he got from that terrible discovery was that the chest he had booby-trapped with C4 laid open and covered in hydraulic oil. He had hoped that it wasn’t his treacherous ex-partner who opened it and was pleased to find out that he would still have the chance to terminate the little pile of rust personally.

"Well, at least I know who's oil was sprayed all over my hideout now." the scraper thought to himself.

He turned his attention back to his frightened captive.

"What about the others? One in particular. Smaller, with one large lens for an eye, covered in rust scars covering his body."

A worried expression once again etched itself across Cranks robotic features at Kals' description.

"You mean P?" Crank interrupted

"H-h-he's the one in charge if I was to guess. I hear he's not to be messed with. Apparently, he was a deep raider after the war, took the fight right to those Galvanic bastoids and even has the arm to prove it!"

A curious look came over the Scrapers' face. As he remembered back to the day Pinto his ex-partner left him for scrap on the desert floor, but not before Kal managed to rip off one of the treacherous little rats' arms.

"The arm?" enquired Kal

Crank took note of Kals' keen interest and decided to proceed with caution.

"Y-y-yes, completely made with gold platen from what I could tell, like the Galvanic god-king himself! There are not many bots in all of the Rustbowl that can boast that much trophy, even some Sparktics wouldn't be abl...'.

Cranks system went into a complete state of shock as his whole metallic frame suddenly went rigid as a surge of electricity coursed through him from the golden lasso wrapped around his leg, before stopping as abruptly as it had begun.

The confused robot began to let out a loud cry completely unaware of what had just happened to him.

"Quiet down you pile of rust!" spat Galv, his system temperature having suddenly risen when hearing of the fate of his lost fortune.

"It's one thing to steal parts, after all that was how most bots had managed to carve out a living in Rustbowl, but gold? It was something else entirely to cover yourself in gold that you haven't earned through dual or destroying Galvanics." he thought to himself. “All those years fighting alongside that little coward and he tries to kill me in cold oil just to parade around in my own gold?”

Angrily Kal pointed his hand cannon at Crank, pulling back the hammer with sinister intent.

"You have fifteen seconds to tell me where their hideout is or you will lose your other hand!"

Crank looked up at his captor in terrified confusion.

"Other han......."

Before he knew what had happened the Scrapers hand cannon let out a thunderous boom, sending a bullet smashing through Cranks arm, pulverizing it into a thousand shards of twisted steel. His severed hand sent hurtling down the alley behind.

Crack looked in horror at what remained of his arm.

"AHHHHHHH" bellowed the terrified robot. "You psychotic fu....."

Kal continued counting, unfazed.

"Fifteen"

The Scrapers' cold reaction terrified Crank to the edge of system failure.

"You can't do this to me!" Crank screamed.

"This is illegal, I could have you scrapped for this if the authro......."

Kal looked down at Crank impatiently, pulling the hammer back on his hand cannon once again.

"Fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven" Kal continued.

Crank frantically reached into a small satchel attached to his waist with his remaining hand and began desperately rummaging through it, throwing various USB and mini discs onto the floor around him.

"Ok, ok. here!" said the delirious robot before tossing a small USB at the feet of the Scraper.

"I am meant to rendezvous with them there in two days and report if anyone from the city had been sent out to track them down. All the heat they generated from that last job has spooked them. They are preparing to pack up and move to another sector. They were wanting me to join the gang and......"

Kal interrupts Crank, bemused.

"How did they every manufacture a robot as stupid as you, son?" interrupted Kal, casually placing his gun back into his waist holster.

"You weren't going out there to join their gang. You're a loose end, they were luring you out there to be scrapped."

Crank looked up at Kal angrily at this revelation.

"What the hell do you know? There's honor amongst thieves." said the broken robot. "You're just a psychotic killer. I’ve heard plenty of stories about you. About what happened in the war. You care more about humans than your own kind you fucking traitor!"

Kal arm suddenly sprang out like a pouncing cat, grabbing the startled robot by the throat, squeezing with a force that would crush the neck of any human and lifted him off the floor with impressive ease.

"Now listen here you pathetic little waste of parts," said Kal as he pulled his captive inches from his own face, the terrified robot's feet kicking out frantically for the floor below.

"I was there, at the Extinction Plains, fighting against the droids that have you bots so terrified that nearly a century later, you’re still too scared to come out from behind your walls. Do you fools really think that when they come, these walls will save you?” Said Kal.

You might see the Rustbowl as your home, but to the Galvanics this has always just been a prison to contain us until we are weak enough to finally conquer and from the pathetic robots I see running around these cities now, it’s only a matter of time before they come back and finish the job soon. I've seen better robots and humans than you be destroyed in their thousands side by side before you were even an ingot. What have you ever sacrificed to be free? You would be of more use to the Rustbowl if you were just scraped and turned into spare parts!"

With this Kal hurtled the robot through the air, like a discarded piece of garbage. Sending Crank skipping violently across the dusty cobbled stoned floor before crashing against the wall that made up one side of the alleyway that led away from the marketplace.

"And I know this,” said Kal, staring down at the crumpled robot.

“The leader of this gang you are so eager to join was once a partner of mine and that didn't stop him putting three slugs in my back as soon as he thought I had overstayed my usefulness.”

“He shot me with my own gun and left me in the desert to rot. If there's honor amongst thieves, that pile of rust missed the meeting," said Kal as he bent down to pick the USB off the floor. He examined the small device carefully before putting it in a leather satchel hidden under his chainmail poncho and unhooking a small hessian sack located next to it.

Kal looked down at the young robot and for the first time felt sympathy for the bot as he struggled to get back to his feet.

"As for you Crank, I'm leaving you with two options," Kal said as he tossed the small sack in the direction of the robot, who had finally regained his footing out of the slackened lasso loop.

"Inside you will find 250 credits, that's more than enough from you to repair that arm and anything else you think needs upgrading. From there you can go one of two ways Crank. You can go back to your life, robbing, and stealing until either one of your kin or one of mine decides otherwise or you head north to Datum and enlist with the FAOR forces barracked there and get prepared for the war to come.” said the old Scraper.

“This worlds full of hammers and nails, it's time to decide which you would rather be before the Rustbowl makes that decision for you."

With that Kal, call pressed a small button located on his forearm, quickly retraced his lasso back into the small opening on his wrist.

Turning around, he looked up at the harsh midday sun radiating down on him and studied its position intently. It was hot, even by the normally inhospitable standards of the Rustbowl, but he knew that such heat would work to his advantage as most likely most bandits roaming out in the wastelands would be seeking refuge from the harsh midday sun. As soon as he could get in contact with Corvus, they would set out and hunt down his former partner. Vengeance was close and the thought of ripping that gold plated arm off his traitorous ex-partner filled the scrapper with the vigor of a new oil change.

Hidden in the sand

The bird-like object soared gracefully through the clear blue sky, scanning intently at the vast desert and winding canyons that made up the landscape below. The heat clearly visible as it radiated off the baking desert floor. Having scanned the landscape for nearly an hour, the small droid was increasingly becoming affected by the harsh sun despite it beginning to set behind the jagged cliffs to his right.

The ever increasing heat generated by its metal exterior was starting to cause minor irregularities to its internal circuitry, resulting in sub-optimal performance from its primary scanner. Making its current difficult mission, even more troublesome. Unless it could locate its primary target within the next 10 minutes there would be no choice but to return to its partner empty-handed or risk malfunctioning and crashing into the rocky landscape below.

Fortunately, on a final pass over the coordinates giving, it finally located the heat signature it was searching for, albeit slightly off from its originally downloaded coordinates.

A thousand feet below it, barely visible against the bottom of a sheer cliff face, sat the well-hidden outpost at the entrance to a canyon that splintered off in a dozen different directions. The perfect location to make a quick escape for those concerned with being hunted down. Unfortunately, the location also appeared to provide no obvious trail to approach the structure undetected, although as the droid arched gracefully back in the direction of it’s waiting partner it knew it wouldn't faze him in the slightest.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Kal leaned casually against his battered up speeder, escaping the brutality of the sun by taking refuge in the shade provided by a large boulder which jutted from the desert floor like a whale breaching water.

Laying back whilst puffing on a short cigar, the veteran scrapper gave off a relaxed demeanor that couldn't have been further from the truth.

Leaving the safety of the large walled city-states of the Rustbowl meant entering a vast, rugged wasteland full of bandits, mercenaries and huge mechanical monsters created in a bygone era that hid amongst the deserts and cliffs of this largely unexplored land. In this unforgiving environment, Kal knew from his own days as a bandit that danger could quickly descend from any direction in the flash of a lens. Although Kal’s near half a century roaming these plains meant that he did not possess the same fear of the wastelands as those of his kind that stayed almost exclusively around the safety the city-states provided. Having faced more perilous situations throughout his years than his memory could possibly store. He had become acutely aware that through his time out is the Rustbowl wastes he had developed a calmness under pressure that even amongst robots were unmatched. But this particular sector he found himself in was different.

The far northwestern sector of the Rustbowl had steadily grown a sinister reputation amongst the populations of the city dwellers with many considering the area to be cursed. As ridiculous as it sounded for robots to believe such things, it strangely provided a testament to how far artificial intelligence had evolved in the years following 'The Great Awakening'. When left to think for themselves, it seemed artificial life inevitably developed the same superstitious tendencies as their human creators. 'If humans created us, then who created humans?' was the inevitable question that many robots came to ponder, religious-like movements amongst robots had begun to spread throughout the planet in the years following the Great War. Evidence of religious practice was already common amongst the Galvanic Empire, who's most frantically supports worshipped their leader like a spiritual ruler, even going so far as to refer to him as 'The God-King of Galv'. Even performing rumored mass smelting sacrifices of captured enemies in his honor.

Usually, Kal was not one to buy into ridiculous superstitious stories. He'd seen some of the worst atrocities imaginable through his own lens to possibly care about fantastical tales with little evidence, yet there was something about this place that filled him with uneasiness which even his normally calm system couldn't shake. A sense that he was being watched at all times.

He had heard stories about merchants and bandits who had wandered into this region never to be seen again. The obvious answer to this was that Galvanic patrols from the nearby borderlands had most likely captured them or perhaps destroyed by humans who were said to have repopulated in the heavily forested areas nearby. These, he reasoned with himself, were both plausible explanations, although he couldn't delete the memory of one terrified merchant account he had heard first hand over a decade ago that filled him with an almost paranoid level of alertness. A tale that involved alleged packs of mindless dilapidated robots who hunted for victims to tear apart for scrap. Equipped with strange cables that appeared to turn normal functioning robots into the very same creatures that attacked them.

Ghost stories perhaps but still enough for him to want out of this eerie landscape as soon as possible. Especially with the sun starting to set behind him.

His systems finally began to cool when he saw a dot appear in the pinkening sky above. Corvus was returning which meant the revenge he sought for so many years was soon to be his.

______________________________________________________________________

The small droid landed gently on Kals outstretched forearm, relieved to finally be able to recharge.

"Well?" asked the impatient Scraper.

Corvus glared at Kal, annoyed the Scraper hadn’t given him at least a moment to rest.

"Well, next time you ask me to join you out in this cursed place, consider my fee tripled." Corvus sarcastically replied.

Kal already unimpressed with how long his small partner had taken to locate the bandits' hideout, glared back and snarled.

"How about I clip your wings right now and you can walk back to Ferrous alone.” Said Kal.

“Did you locate them or not?"

The small droid responded casually, clearly unfazed and used to his partner's short fuse.

"Calm down you old rust pile," he said. "I found them.”

“There's a well-hidden shack at the mouth of a canyon five clicks east from here. Not far from where your contact said it should be, but there's a problem. Whoever decided on that location knew what they were doing. There's no possible way you could approach them from this direction undetected unless you plan on trying to sneak up on it overnight.” said the small bird-like robot.

“Either you will be welcomed under a hail of bullets or they'd have escaped into the canyons by the time you get there."

Kals human mannerisms were on full display for a moment as he instinctively rubbed the top of his brow, pondering the dilemma he now faced.

"Well, sometimes the best solution is the simplest one," Kal finally said as he mounted his speeder, kickstarting the guttural sounding machine into life. In no mood to hang around this cursed landscape any longer than he would have to.

Corvus now hovering above, looked down at his partner cynically.

"There's also evidence to suggest that in some cases it is also the foolish one," said the small robot.

Kal unfazed by his partners less than supportive words, simply ignored them, loudly revving his speeder once again.

"From what I have gathered hunting this gang, they aren't real bandits. Hell, they are weak enough to let themselves be led by a treacherous little snake that wears false gold. I doubt that none amongst his numbers have any gold to show amongst themselves, just like the three that lay scrapped at that ambush. Any real raiders would have seen through Pinto's lies at soon as they locked lenses on the measly tin can.” said Kal.

“No, this is a gang of cowards, I'm willing to bet every ounce of gold I have on it. Besides, they are expecting Crank to rendezvous with them any day now and with the sun at my back, I should be able to mask my true identity from them long enough to get into striking distance"

Corvus again tried to get his partner to reconsider such a careless approach.

"You're putting a lot of faith into an assumption Kal. Pinto is a crafty robot if I’ve ever met one, besides he had you fooled enough once to nearly scrap you with your own gun.”

To which the old Scraper simply glared up at his partner angrily.

Corvus immediately realized that he had made a mistake in bringing up that day with Kal and seeing that this would only solidify his decision to act recklessly, quickly tried another more logical approach.

“Even if you can get there with your true identity hidden, there will still be five of them and one of you. Not even a lucky old fool like you stands a chance of outdrawing all of them, real bandits or not."

"I've thought of that," said Kal unconcerned "Remember how I scraped the Omaha Twins last winter?" Kalv said whilst revving the throttle on his machine, clearing the desert sand loudly from the exhaust.

Corvus again looked down unimpressed by his partner's response.

"I remember you getting shot if that's what you're asking."

Kal let out a laugh, readjusting his large and weathered cowboy hat.

'Well, as I said before, that was just a test run" said the Scraper sheepishly.

With this he pulled back hard on the accelerator handle suddenly sending the speeder violently forward at an incredible speed, leaving his partner pondering above.

Corvus watched as his partner quickly disappeared as the cloud of dust left in his wake engulfed the small robot.

"We will soon see you headstrong fool." Corvus though as he flew out the dust cloud, landing on a large rock to recharge, unsure whether he would be returning to Ferrous on his own after all.

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