Ctenoid Soul

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Bork sat down after a frantic session of visionary scribbling to regard the chalk figures he had scrawled across the wall. So many ideas. So much promise. So much cost. All these brilliant ideas he and the abbot were having would cost money to realize, something Pigeon Spit did not have much of. Scowling at the sketches and notations, the dwarf rocked pensively on his chair. There must be more money, there must be more money, he thought.

Money required trade, and that meant producing things with good value density. The abbot was right about smelting. Making copper ingots on site before shipping them would be far more efficient than hauling ore somewhere. Yet even smelted, copper wasn’t the most pricey metal; Pigeon Spit would hardly transform into a boom town with it. Could they do better than ingots? Copper tools and fittings were useful, but wouldn’t command a high price. What else?

Bork heard someone stir in the house and realized that it was probably Drom. That reminded him for some reason of Roswith, and he smiled. Rising and returning to the wall, he wrote: “jewelry”. Make a bit of shiny metal into a ring or bracelet, and suddenly it was something precious your daughter or girlfriend would coo over. People paid good money for that. And copper was easy to work.

What else? Well, add some smooth, shiny stones to it, and it was even prettier. Didn’t even have to be precious gems. Cuprite, seashells, coral, bone. Bork added the word “cheap” in front of jewelry, then thought. There was a nicer-sounding word for cheap jewelry. What did his wife call it? He struck through the word “cheap” and wrote “costume” over it.

What other goods might Pigeon Forge make for trade? Some of the farmers raised sheep, and sheep could be shorn for wool. Wool was always a good, reliable trade good. They would need to bring in more sheep, and clear some more land for meadows, of course, to do that. That was another thing. Many of these projects used up land. Still might be worth it, though. Bork wrote “wool??” and then stepped back to think a bit more.

Pigeon Spit had a brewery. And that meant they could distill as well. Spirits had good value density, too, and traveled well. He wrote: "distillery?" Of course, distilleries required more grain to feed them, and that would again, use up more land, possibly interfering with sheep grazing.

What sort of economic production *didn’t* use up land? Fishing didn’t use up land, that’s what. And they were on an island. Dried fish could be traded. Even better, so could fish oil. “Fish. Fish oil. Oil press” now all appeared on the wall.

What else? Were there seals or walrus on the island? Narwhals or whales nearby? Otter? If so, then more blubber, and pelts. “Animal pelts/skins”. And then, still thinking of the walrus, he wrote: “ivory”? What was more, Bork reasonsed, hunters and trappers were probably easier to entice to an underdeveloped island than were the more urban-oriented tradesmen.

Bork yawned and stretched. It was late, and he still intended to rise early tomorrow. Time for bed.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Had to write a two-parter to get caught up since the thread is moving quickly.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

…or so he thought. Around dusk he heard a disturbance in the front of the house. Bork ignored it at first, but at lenght he could not. Muttering idioms in dwarvish the abbot probably wouldn’t approve of he went to investigate. The dwarf gaped at the activity. Was the abbot running some sort of sick house here? Well, of course. He was an abbot and there was apparently no hospital in Pigeon Spit. To whom else would these yokels turn if they needed healing?

Helping set broken bones was not a normal part of Bork’s skill set, but apparently this would be the new normal, at least until this Pigeon Spit town got bigger. Any mining engineer had to know some first aid, of course; people got hurt in mines. And Bork could help with herbs and such. But setting broken bones was not part of his normal skillset.

“Dammit, I’m an engineer, not a doctor!” he would exclaim, too annoyed to care if the abbot minded the breach in etiquette. This had not been how he had planned to spend this morning. When they were able to take a pause from their ministrations, he pointed to the chest with the medicines in it. ”I can help you more with those than I can setting bones,” he explained. Curious, like a snooping house-guest, he peered at the bottles and jars, thinking. ”We could use an herb garden,” he said after a moment. ”At least some of these plants will grow around here. Maybe we could start one once I’ve got the wall up.”

As he listened to the abbot’s ideas, he nodded thoughtfully. ”An official building of some sort is a must if this town is to grow,” he agreed. ”At least one. That’ll be one of the first things I’ll draw up working on my plan, in fact.” And the next thing he would get on with was his plans for his log boom and timber-raft system. And wheelbarrows. There wasn’t much hope in much of any building project until they had a solution to moving large quantities of building supplies.

”I’d just have the runner tell the quarrymen to start cutting all the rocks they can. It’ll take me a while to figure out the right size for the order, but it’ll also take at least that long to fill it, anyway. Once I have the numbers, I’ll send them so that they know when to stop.” The dwarf shook his head. ”We *really* need a wainwright,” he muttered.

He continued to think through the abbot’s suggestions. ”Irrigation, sure,” he answered somewhat noncommittally. People always liked the idea of irrigation systems. But those could be tricky to design, since it involved changing the course of waterways. Ideally, Bork would prefer to see what the creeks and rivers were like over the course of a year before designing any major irrigation systems. But then he had a boss to humor, so perhaps he would just draw something up that looked good. “Proposed” irrigation systems could always be redesigned before anybody started damming and digging.

Lastly he got to the mining ideas. “A smelter? Sure. But right now the only metal we’re digging up is copper. We need to find us some other metals like tin, lead, zinc, iron before we can start smelting the good stuff. As to the blast furnace?” he shook his head. ”No, Your Grace,” he said, hoping the title would soften the blow of shooting down the abbot’s suggestion. ”We don’t even have iron yet, let alone any way to make steel. First things first: as I said, prospecting for more metals. Also, I *am* in the process of drawing up a bigger charcoal furnace, which we would also need for steel.” In fact, he would be able to show the abbot his design for the furnace before midday. Charcoal was ideal for smelting, and you definitely needed it for steel. You could also use it for writing, and to make ink for even more writing. And for absorbing moisture in a sick house. And filtering medical preparations and water. Good stuff, that charcoal.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork had a week in which to do things for his “test”, and although he intended to focus most of that time on his plans and drawings, he decided to start with some work on the wall. Having heard something moving under the floorboards, the dwarf checked around the perimeter of the house for burrows, or other likely entrances for animals in the foundations of the house. It had been abandoned and in disrepair for a while, and who knew what sort of vermin had decided to make themselves at home in that interval?

He saw no signs of burrows, nor did he see any groundhogs galumphing about in the nearby fields. He did notice a spot where the ground had been freshly disturbed at the base of the wall. Looking more closely, he saw traces of sawdust on the ground. He shrugged. Any number of persons or things could have come by here. There being no obvious hole or other entry, it might be unrelated to what he had heard. But he would pay attention to that particular spot in the near future.

He paced around the house, tracing what he judged to be the best course for a wall. The lot was flat enough that he could probably put it wherever he liked. He would need to stake out the intended course, dig a shallow trench, and put in a gravel bed first. Fishing out his abacus, the dwarf figured the volume of gravel he would need. That would need to be ordered from the quarry as soon as possible. He would ask the goblin to help with that. Then he needed landscaping stakes, which he would get from Patmor the carpenter, another item in his note for Ms. Drom. For a third item, he needed tools. A few shovels and spades and a wheelbarrow would do for now. He only needed one hatchet and mallet, and he had those.

Once he had these requests together and handed to the clerk, he would start walking about the town, looking for some of these “boys who are hanging about town” to find out if they were both able-bodied and able-witted enough to do basic work, and whether they would actually do so if asked. If all went as planned, he could have them well along with digging the trench this time tomorrow. He would just need to make sure he could pay them. He also talked to the innkeeper about some sandwiches for them.

Having done all that, Bork would then get the things he would need for work out of the inn and moved into his office, and have an early dinner. The balance of the evening would be spent sketching ideas in chalk on his office walls…. (to be continued)

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Bork appraised the room with increasing satisfaction. It was a bit run-down, but he would fix that. The only obvious flaw with the space was that he currently shared it with a goblin (and this goblin, even more annoyingly, was an elf), but he would soon fix that, too. He was startled, and then annoyed, when the goblin spoke. The abbot was a good man? Blah blah blah? He gave her a scowl, but then softened it to a cursory “understanding” nod. ”I’m sure he’ll do fine,” he mumbled somewhat absently as he looked intently at the blank walls.

”I’m going to need soft chalk,” he announced after a moment. ”I have some for now, but I’m going to need a steady supply going forward.” Eventually, he would want a large slate board, but that could wait. The available flat surfaces would suffice in the meantime. He nodded again as the elf put a quill and some ink on the table, he continued. ”Apart from that, the usual office supplies, of course.” He looked around at the other furnishings, and then back at the table with the quill and ink. ”I’ll talk to the carpenter myself about a proper drafting table.” Another thought occurred to him, and he took a piece of chalk out of his pocket and wrote directly on the tabletop next to the quill and ink: "bigger charcoal facilities?"

Eventually, he returned his attention to the goblin. ”I’m not available for anybody while I’m working, except the abbot. And don’t make appointments for me. If somebody wants to see me, have them leave a note, and I’ll respond to it if I wish to talk to them. I’ll tell you about any appointments I make.” He scratched his unfashionably short beard. ”I’ll take a look at any information and records you currently have about the town’s resources and facilities, who and where the skilled craftsmen are, what they normally produce and trade for. I’d do all that legwork myself, but as you know, I’m working against a deadline.”

And that reminded him of yet another thing. ”Oil and rushlights,” he said curtly. ”I expect I’ll be working late in the coming days.” He would retrieve his lantern and rushlight holder from his baggage at the inn. ”And if you can scare up a cot, that would save me some lugging from the Rusty Peg.”

He set the chalk down next to the ink and quill, and the empty notebook next to that. ”I think that’s all for now. I know where to find you. Drom, is it, or Dorm? Thank you.” Just then there was a soft but heavy rumble somewhere under the floorboards. Bork’s frown returned as he looked back up at the goblin. ”That sounds awful big and slow for rats, and it’s still daylight. Do you guys have marmots under the house?” Marmots could pose an inconvenience, especially for any wall he was supposed to build around the house.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

OK, so the abbot wanted to show off his dwarvish. That was fine. When His Andrewness asked if he had a plan the dwarf shrugged. ”Not really. I have some ideas, and have made some sketches, a couple of which I have with me.” He reached into the scroll tube once more and unrolled a large piece of parchment with charcoal sketches and doodles on both sides.

One was a sketch of a large wharf along the coast, with lifting cranes, loading platforms, and warehouses along it. The warehouses were numbered, and were drawn as solid rectangles fronting the wharf that were extended by dotted lines into deeper rectangles farther back from it. The area immediately behind the warehouses was marked “right of way”.

Another was a cartoon map of the river showing logging sites and a path running down to it from the mine. On one side of this was a detailed sketch of a timber raft, and another of a log boom at the mouth of the river. In the area on the other side of the river, as if marking some sort of terra incognita, were the words: “No wainright?! Crappy roads? Transport problems! Try rafts. Ask Rorik how he got his carts.”

On the back side of the parchment was a picture of a wheelbarrow using wheels made from barrel lids and hoops. It had the caption: “Cooper?”

On the same side were various calculations of quantities of rope, wood, stone, gravel, and other materials. Rope was cheap, but whatever Bork had in mind was going to require a lot of it. Scribbled notes about inventorying tools, and also finding sources of tin and iron.

Bork listened next to the abbots “conditions” for his employment. He frowned until he realized that the conditions were actually challenges, whereupon his face took on a relieved grin. He had been afraid they would involve dress codes or paperwork or something. Building a stone wall without a stone mason? That could be done, if the ‘lads about town’ knew how to work and could learn anything.

Getting a plan written up in a week? He took the book and smirked as he leafed through its empty pages. Sure, one could whip up a plan in a day or in a year; it all depended on the amount of detail you went into. He had a pretty good idea how much planning he could do in a week; he’d push himself a little bit, but not enough to go crazy.

With a start, he realized the abbot had finished talking ; however, there was a minor detail. ”That’s only two conditions, your Grace,” he observed. ”The third?” He also wasn’t sure if His Grace meant the week deadline to apply to the wall as well. If he did, then he was a fool. A proper team of stonemasons with a design in hand and a load of material already in place could possibly build a wall like that in a week, conditions permitting. But here? With ‘lads about town’ and makeshift tools? Bork would go through the motions. No good being seen to ignore the abbot’s request. But he had already decided that he wasn’t going to make progress on the wall a priority in the coming week.

He would have to find out what if anything the last condition was before deciding how it would fit into his busy week ahead. After that, it would be time to examine his new digs, and then inform the goblin of his needs. It looked like the abbot was taking *his* leave, rather than leaving Bork to figure out how to withdraw from the conversation. That was a good thing. Spared a lot of fussy etiquette stuff. All in all, the abbot seemed interested more in getting things done than in standing on ceremony. Things were looking up.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

His Abbotness had given Bork the slip at the Rusty Peg, and the dwarf was not going to let that happen again. As soon as he discovered where Abbot Andrew Whitewood III was setting up shop, he marched straight to the dilapidated house.

Bork had dealt with protocol and procedures before. There was always some officious little goblin eager to feel important and throw his weight around by making people wait in line or run in circles. ”I’d like to talk to the abbot,” he declared to the scribe in the front room. “No, I do not have an appointment,” he continued, not waiting for the inevitable question. “And no, I do not wish to make an appointment; I wish to talk to the abbot. I know he is here, and I know that he has already met everybody in this town important enough to wait behind. Will you please just announce me? Bork Valding, Engineer.” He extended his card. “No, I did not give you that to ‘file away’”! he growled, as the scribe moved to consign his card to some oubliette in his desk. “I gave it to you to show the abbot when you announce me. Fine, then, I’ll do it myself. Hey! get your hands off me!”

The goblins retreated before the sound of their master’s voice, issuing from deeper inside the house, and Bork was able to walk into the abbot’s office unimpeded. It was gratifying. The dwarf gave the abbot a curt bow. “Greetings, Your…Grace? That’s the style, am I right? I am Bork Valding, engineer. I am not from here; I recently came to Pigeon Spit because I heard that the king wished to build this…town into something more. I am here to tell you how I aim to make that happen.”

His eyes widened a bit when the abbot invited him to the table. “You speak dwarvish?” he responded in the same language. “I am impressed, your Grace. Not many humans do.” He was even more impressed by the table itself. People worked at tables. Desks were for goblin clerks to hide behind while asking visitors if they had appointments. Bork realized that the abbot probably simply hadn’t had time to arrange a proper desk yet, but in the meantime, he liked to imagine that the abbot was hardworking. He declined the food and drink, having eaten beforehand. You never ate or drank at an interview or presentation because you might spill something on the nice clothes Roswith had picked out.

Tugging a scroll case out of a sleeve, he continued. “I brought my credentials and references, if you...r Grace wants to see them. As I said, I’m an engineer, and I’m interested in helping to build up this town. Specifically, I’m interested in improving the facilities at the mine and the port, as well as the transportation between them.” Bork had discussed some things with both the harbor master and the mining captain, and he could discuss them now with the abbot: the need for a bigger pier, or perhaps a wharf running along the coastline, with warehouses and cranes. The need to dredge the harbor to make it accessible to bigger ships, maybe even to salvage that derelict sitting out there just off shore. Bigger and better roads -possibly paved with tailings from the mine and crushed waste rock from the quarry. Locks, canals, and dams to turn the local river into a road that wouldn’t need paving, connecting the mine and the port.

“Of course, as your Grace understands, I would require a salary, to say nothing of a budget, for such undertakings.” He looked meaningfully about the room. “And an office, too.”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Pigeon Spit. What a stupid name. Sounded more like an epithet one would use to berate errant workers. As in: “Move it, Pigeon Spit! No, the other hammer, Pigeon Spit! You guys are all dumber’n pigeon spit!”. And frankly, Bork hadn’t seen much of the town so far that would warrant a better name. The dwarf had heard that the king was sending somebody to shore the place up, develop it, make it into a town worth more than pigeon spit. That somebody clearly hadn’t arrived yet when Bork got there, so the engineer had set about on his own, making inquiries, visiting the copper mine and the quarry, talking to the harbor master about facilities and commerce, generally taking notes and forming some ideas.

Both the mines and the harbor facilities were badly in need of some tough love, to say nothing of competent management and a sense of direction. There was potential here. Hopefully, the decision makers in this community weren’t such idiots that they couldn’t see that, or appreciate the extent to which Bork Valding could provide those things. So it was with great curiosity and hope that Bork waited at the dock with a small knot of assorted yokels to watch the arrival of their new…governor? Mayor? Aedile? Commissioner? Whatever his title was to be. The guy Bork would have to pitch his ideas to in order to make things happen. And he had a few of those ideas already.

Bork was dressed in his “nice” clothes, an outfit that Roswith had picked out for him when they were still talking to one another: a beret that kept threatening to fly off his head with every breath of wind, a bright blue cloak fastened by a fussy brass brooch that took too long to polish, a tunic and trouser you couldn’t even really see under the cloak, anyway, and a pair of those silly, uncomfortable pointy-toed boots with shiny buckles as fussy and polish-hungry as the brooch. The dwarf glanced ruefully down at his feet, amazed and disgusted by how dirty and dusty those boots got just in the walk from the Rusty Peg. Once he had gotten his fill of disgust at his own footwear, he looked up to the arriving launch, to behold somebody, presumably His Whateverness, trying to disembark on horseback. Who did that? Perhaps the poor man had a Roswith of his own, Bork thought, loading him up with advice on how best to make an impression. Or worse: advisers.

It wasn’t long before the man paid for his folly; the horse faltered as it tried to step off the boat, pitching His Most Elevated Center of Gravity gracelessly onto the pier. The townsfolk giggled like idiots at this. Bork simply felt annoyance and disgust, much as he felt about his dirty boots. He was willing to give His Nibs the benefit of the doubt, assuming that he had been put up to this equestrian nonsense by somebody at court, or one those solicitous handlers who were now fawning over their fallen charge. Still, it was not a good omen for what was to come. The dwarf fervently hoped that His Officialdom would exercise better and more independent judgment when it came to matters of industry and commerce.

There was only one way to find out: follow the procession, now that it was once more up and moving, back to the Rusty Peg and buttonhole His Buttonholeyness as soon as he got the chance.

Pigeon Spit

Not sure what the etiquette is for joining, but I posted a character sheet in the OOC, if you want to review before I post IC.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Name: Bork Valding
Age: 45 or so
Gender: Male
Species: Dwarf
Class: Primary: Engineer/gadgeteer type mid-level. Specializes in heavy, large machines and devices.
Secondaries: Low level fighter (Preferred weapon: spear with or without shield, also some grappling and dagger)
Low level alchemist: Assayance, mineralogy, some basic herbalism for making those chelating teas you give people with metal poisoning.

Appearance: Well, he looks like a dwarf. His beard and hair are prematurely grey, making him look older than he is. Unlike many of his kin, he keeps them cropped short. He is missing the tip of his right ring finger, and his right middle finger is smashed-looking and has no nail. He refuses to talk about how that happened. He is usually dressed in his work clothes, including a miner’s helmet, work gloves, a leather apron, and a tool belt.

Do they dress for other rolls? Bork has some nice dress clothes for meetings with “management”, but he only wears them when necessary.

Personality:

Point – blunt and honest to a fault
Point – conscientious and hard-working
Point – private about personal affairs
Point – visionary but practical. Put foundations under those sky castles and such.
Point – Almost as smart as he thinks he is.
Point - Ambitious


Motivation:
Loves problem solving. Wants to make big and new things happen and make a decent living doing it. He believes (incorrectly) that his estranged wife will reconcile with him if he becomes successful enough.

History:
Bork has made a name for himself as a mining engineer in his home town. He has also made a name for himself as a first-class jerk. He has come to Pigeon Spit because he got tired of working with idiots, and also because his home life had become unbearable (see Relationships). He has convinced himself that Pigeon Spit has much untapped economic potential, and has decided that the community simply needs a non-idiot to take charge and show ‘em how it’s done. Bork, naturally, has himself in mind as said non-idiot. Nosy people won’t find out much more about him because a) He’s pretty much unapproachable when it comes to his private life, and b) he doesn’t really have much of a private life.

Equipment:

Heavy work clothes including a leather apron, work gloves and boots, a mining helmet, and goggles.
Rock hammer, pick axe, and other mining stuff. Lantern and oil. Some carpentry tools as well. His work gives him access to rope and other things he might need.
A gambeson. A boar spear. A battered round shield. A dagger. (not usually carried)
Dress clothes for business meetings with idiots.
Small library of books on work-related subjects.

Weakness:

Married to work - this is a problem because he has an (estranged) wife. Bork just isn’t relationship material
Asocial and tactless - Need a smooth-talker to get you out of a sticky situation? Or to soften hard feelings? Well, you’re screwed. Read a room? Nope.
Incorrigible, stubborn know-it-all. Not only is this off-putting (see above) but also a hindrance to rethinking anything once Bork decides he’s got stuff figured out.
Partial hearing loss in one ear. One of many things he’s in furious denial about. Roll over, Beethoven.
Prone to seasickness. A problem considering the setting’s coastal.
Can’t swim. Ditto.
Uncultured. Bork is literate and knows his practical disciplines left and right. However, he doesn't do poetry or romances or stuff. Or music. If a book has lots of dry text about mechanics or mineralogy and confusing illustrations of assaying ovens or lifting cranes, Bork has probably read it. If it doesn’t, he probably hasn’t.
Mean drunk. Doesn't get drunk very often. But when he does: hooo, boy!

Relationships:
Roswith, estranged wife, left back at home. She resents the amount of time and attention Bork puts into his work and feels emotionally neglected. Bork has misread her discontent and thinks she’ll reconcile with him once he’s successful. His pursuit of success has, of course, only made things worse between them.
Rorik Fellforest (LN Dwarven Fighter/Cleric)- Mining captain, go-to source for any stone that needs to be quarried in Pigeon Spit. So far he and Bork get along simply because they have interests and goals in common. Whether their personalities remain compatible is yet to be seen.
Nelthurin Sebheon (aka "Nelf the Elf") (N Rogue) - Harbormaster. Interested in what's good for Pigeon Spit, but has some unconventional ideas of where legal authority fits into that. Is happy to work with pirates and smugglers if it means bringing wealth and goods into town. He and Bork are ambivalent about one another, but are currently willing to set aside differences to develop the harbor.

Character goal: Become successful and wealthy in his business. Reconcile with his wife.

Goals you would like for Pigeon Spit: Bigger and better-run mines (by himself, of course). Bigger and better run-port facilities (ditto).