Connor's goal wasn't as simple as he'd like. Xander wasn't in a hurry to get his own training, he could already find himself some jobs and get to it, smashing trees and monsters alike. Takeo... Well, that was another story. He really needed to get his training started, but... Connor could understand his current funk. Or not. In fact, no he couldn't. What the hell is wrong with that guy? He KNOWS he's going to die in like ten DAYS! And what does he do? He MOPES! He goes on WALK! Gurtav's blasted cretin!
Connor was getting frustrated. But, there was nothing he could really do to hurry the guy up. But he felt for him, and just doing nothing seemed like a betrayal of sorts. And so it was with a heavy heart and a busy mind that he wandered the pathways of the village, going from workshop to workshop, looking for a teacher. He didn't care what kind of teacher he would find. He was lacking in every aspect of his new profession. Scrap Extraction so far had provided him with wood, metal, bone and sinew, and cloth. His Scrap Analysis Ability gave him some information of course, but he couldn't quite relate that information to practical purpose. It was more like an instinctual thing and some were easier for him to get than others. For example, he still had two Igniters from the Seal Challenge. That was what he had called them, his Ability only buzzed him with the potential of fire and magic.
Hence his current endeavor. But it didn't quite go like he'd wanted. His first stop, at some Woodwhisper Works, hadn't started well. The Mistress of the establishment, Mistress Olena didn't see him. She stayed in her workshop and one of her finely chiseled creations, a magnificent wooden totem representing a stalking Chameleon Spotter of the Greckiss Tribe, he had no trouble recognizing, whispered softly to him her refusal. "I'm sorry." A pause, and like a faint breeze the rest of the reply came a second later, "I'm not taking any more apprentices."
Connor was a bit taken aback. He had expected to be refused, but not so bluntly. Still, he tried to be polite and pushed on, "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm not looking for an apprenticeship. I'm just looking for a teacher to get me started on this new Path."
"Ah, lad, I see the fire in your eyes, but crafting is a costly dance. And the forge demands a lot of tributes," replied Master Tarek from the neighboring Swinging Hammer between two resounding hammer blows. "You need to be ready to give it all, and then some." The fiery symphony of the forge barely hiccupped from the interruption continuing the ringing melodies of hammers dancing on metal.
Once again, he was refused. Once again, his Guiding Spirit had been thrilled to no end by the shop, and couldn't stop blabbering in his head. Not that he could understand any of what it said. But he couldn't let go, and so he tried once more. "I understand, but I can source the material required to teach me! I'm a Pather and I have some interesting Abilities that make gathering material almost trivial! I just need a teacher to get me started!"
The Spectral Timepieces Repository's owner, Madame Elara, had both creeped the hell out of him and fascinated him like none before. "I apologize, young man, but time flees like the wind, and my moments are but droplets in an hourglass. Time, alas, is a wily beast, I tamed it barely enough to do my own work." Her reply almost came before his own query was finished and like her shop's name suggested gave him the feeling of being out of time and had sent him a message.
And he was thrilled by the prospect of working there, timepieces were a strange thing, and there was so much he could learn from her. So he refused to be refused. "I can assist you in your work! And I don't need a lot of time, just a few minutes here and there to get me started!"
"Teaching the craft's like stitching a masterpiece, lad. But my workbenches are woven tight as a boot. No space for an apprentice's needle to thread." That reply came along with a heady aroma of tanned leather, mixed with the scent of rich dyes and oiled hides. Thankfully the Hidebound Haven was a bit more open than the other shops and had several vents ensuring a continuous flow of fresh air. But Master Roderick's reply was as firm as the leather he worked with.
Connor was getting frustrated. He had been refused by every shop he had visited so far, and rejection stung like a slap in the face. But, these weren't the only workshops in the Village. There were a dozen others. And he was going to visit them all if need be. But before that, he needed to plead his case. "That is not an issue, I can work outside, I'll have to rent a workspace anyway. I can work on my own, I just need a teacher to get me started."
The last shop on this walkway was Master Thorne's simple Bowyery. It stood right by the massive waterfall that powered the Inn's elevator. The shop itself was a sanctuary of simplicity, where the sound of taut strings and the scent of fresh wood shaving reigned as masters. The rugged and sturdy figure of Master Thorne denoted in the plain ensemble that was this workshop. At Connor's plea, he simply nodded and waved him away. "Too complicated."
Dismayed, Connor left the workshop and walked back to the plaza. He would of course try again, but he needed to refocus. A change of pace was in order. Getting frustrated anymore would not help him.
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Connor had found himself at a table at a café overlooking the lake on the second level. He had ordered a simple meal and a drink to mull over his findings, watching the farmers and fishermen toiling in the distance. In a way, he was discovering a new world. He had never been interested in this side of the undercity, but he believed things weren't different there. There were plenty he didn't know, and the outsider perspective he had on a crafter's life was probably skewed. But he was learning, and he could see that it was a battle for them, just like it was for Xander. Where one was fighting for his life risking bodily harm to earn his pittance, the other was battling the competition and the market to earn his own, because there were only so many orders around and so many customers to satisfy. Thus adding a new contender to the market was a risk, and a gamble.
His morning hadn't been spent in vain, though. He had learned a lot about the village and its administrative work. Workstations, even full workshops were up for rent. Of course, the bigger, the more expensive. But just a single, locked room with a workbench was at a steep but probably manageable cost, at around two hundred credits a day, so two thousand a week. The village could even arrange for tools and materials to be delivered to the workshop, at another pretty penny. Heavier machinery, like a forge, or a sawmill was negotiable and locked behind a quota. The village didn't want one to monopolize the resources or to unbalance the local economy too much.
Selling his products was also agreeable, so long as he paid the village a small fee for the privilege of having a stall, and then he would be responsible for tax collecting and reporting. And of course, as a non-resident, he would get taxed as well. Meaning that out of any sale, he would get only forty percent of the total, or ninety percent if he was dealing with a resident. This explained also why most merchants and passing peddlers were so eager to have resident customers, tailoring their wares to their needs and wants.
Besides those administrative details, there wasn't much to be wary about. He didn't have to declare his prices for example, nor display them on his ware. He could even haggle with his customers, but he had to be careful. The village wouldn't tolerate any abuse of its residents, Travelers, another word for the non-residents, were fair game though, at your own risk. Scam a Pather and you might find yourself on the wrong end of a sword.
Also, there was a separate Job Board maintained by the village. It wasn't as big as the one in the Inn, but it was focused on the village's material needs. It included a lot of odd jobs, like providing specific food products or crafting very specific items. But there were several orders for more common stuff, like furniture, tools, and weapons, in bulk or not. And raw material, in hefty quantities. The Board itself was located for all to see on the second-level little plaza, next to booths where anyone could register a job request or plan a delivery. It wasn't as lively as the Inn's, and few other people were looking for their next order.
Connor had been surprised to see that the village had a lot of needs. As it still stood, it must have meant it was self-sufficient, but this sufficiency didn't make a comfortable living. Even the bare necessities of living were listed on that board. Two tons of grain were to be delivered daily, along with one ton of meat and vegetables, and several hundred liters of milk, or other dairy products. Ales, beers, wines, and spirits were also listed, but in smaller quantities. And then were the spices, herbs, and other condiments. All these were listed as daily deliveries, and the village was willing to pay for them. The prices were good, but the quantities were staggering. Xander had told them the village was the home of approximately two thousand people, and he hadn't figured out the necessities such a population would require.
As he read through the requests, he realized that half of them were destined for caravans for the next Havens. He didn't know if the village itself had standing orders, or if those were bundle preorganized by the village's administration and sold to the next peddler in town. But seeing the work that was required, the raw cost of the caravan must be staggering as well. But in a way, it sort of made sense... Caravanners were Pathers just like any other. They would hop from Haven to Haven, and like everyone else, they could never return. And given the village rules, they could only stay for a year and a day. Would that delay be sufficient for them to restock, he didn't know. But he guessed that if the village did these preparations in advance, it must mean that it was a good deal for them. Furthermore, they had their own youth that would be leaving the village anyway, so there would be no loss. One overenthusiastic parent could probably buy a caravan's worth of goods for their child and set them on this strange life.
He sipped at the unfamiliar beverage, while the served meal had been in the form of a common sandwich, this cup was something else. A heady aroma rose from along swirls of steam that hid strange luminous hues from the liquid's depth. The mystery of the glow's origin peeved his adventuring side and he finished the cup in one gulp and marveled at the absence of any shine remaining in the cup. There are people in there that can do very intriguing wares... He wondered how many Travelers were actually Crafter on the move. There must be some because just like everyone else, they had to get started on their Path. And if residency here was limited, he guessed it was the same in other Haven, so it stood to reason there would be Crafter on the Path. Maybe he could find their lair and get some training there. If the Inn's tavern was the refuge of the stabby types, then the Crafters' lair must be around there somewhere, or the level below.
He paid his due and went on the hunt. He guessed that like most people they would end their work day around the evening, so he had a few hours to track all bars in these levels.
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Finding pubs, dives and other beer-dispensing establishments hadn't been difficult. Getting into them once the sun had disappeared behind the northern ridge on the other hand had proved to be an unexpected challenge. Terry's own was the first he had tried. It sported a simple sign, a mug of beer, and a simple name, and Connor had consequently thought that it would be a simple matter to connect with people within. But there was nothing simple with that establishment.
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From the exterior, it didn't look anything different from the hundred cubic houses that made up that layer of the village. Most were workshops, some had living quarters on the second floor, and very occasionally, a developed roof area turned into a garden or a terrace. This fine establishment was no exception. It used the same building techniques, and materials and had the same layout. But then there was the matter of the inside. It stood to reason that Pather would be a bit more... creative with their living space, and a bored Pather, a Crafter especially could get remarkably audacious.
What Connor had expected was a simple bar, with a few tables and chairs, and a counter. A tuned-down version of the Inn's tavern. Maybe, at some point, it had been true. He could see all the aforementioned elements. But each was unique in its own way. Tabletops with wooden inlay of intricate design, chairs with mystical carvings that turned them into almost living beings, walls chiseled with scenes of the village's life, and Connor couldn't help to stand in utter amazement before the counter. The bronze had been turned into a living scene of a battle between a wyrm and a knight. The knight was on the ground, his sword broken, his shield shattered, and his armor in tatters. The wyrm was standing over him, its maw open, ready to swallow the knight whole. The alternate between the golden bronze and the blackwood gave the piece a sense of depth and movement that was almost alive. The whole piece was encased in an amber-like resin, tailored in a way that allowed the marvel to keep its original function.
"You lost, little wrecker?" asked a gruff voice from the bar. There weren't that many people when he entered the place. He had been so captivated by the whole scene, that he hadn't noticed that he had become the center of attention of the few patrons.
"I beg your pardon, what did you say?" he asked, unsure that he had heard correctly. Wrecker?
The man in question was tall, broad with a fuzzy blue beard and a balding head. He was wearing a simple tunic and a pair of pants, nothing ostentatious. Moreover, he denoted the setting as being quite dirty. He hadn't completely turned toward him and just gave him a look from the corner of his eyes. "You're one of the new wreckers in the village, aren't you? I can smell it on you," he sneered. "You're not welcome here, little wrecker. Go back to your Inn, and leave us alone." He turned back to his drink and ignored him.
His sentiment seemed shared with everyone in the establishment, even the barkeep. Connor was a bit taken aback by the hostility. He wasn't any different from them. He wasn't richly dressed, if anything he was probably the cleanest of them. He looked around, and some people made a point not to look at him. Seeing that he wouldn't get anything out of these people, he left.
He had tried a few other places, but the result was remarkably the same. Each establishment sported an incredible degree of attention to detail, and each was unique in its way. But the people quickly pegged him as a Wrecker, whatever that meant. He had tried to ask, but no one would answer him. He had tried to explain that he was a Pather, but they didn't care. He went down to the fourth level, where massive waterwheels were turning, and huge storage had been raised almost to the ceiling. This was the industrious level of the village so to say. In some way, the higher the level the more refined the stuff you would find. The fourth, out of five, was there to deal with voluminous endeavors, factories, and storage. The fifth dealt with the village fishery and other odorous activities.
He'd found the last seedy pub in between two such waterwheels. They powered the many elevators that were common in this village. Other he'd seen powered forges, mills and sawmills, and probably other things he hadn't yet discovered. This pub was a bit different from the others because for one he didn't follow the same architectural style. Where its brethren were cubic as possible, this one was misshaped. It seemed to have been assembled using remains of broken wheels, as its name seemed to imply. The Broken Wheel insides were as unique as the other pubs, but it was a bit more subdued. Metallic tubes ran discreetly along the walls beneath a grating metal floor, punctuated by visible valves. Dim lights flickered in strange glass tubes, casting an industrial aura. The air hummed with a low buzz, carrying the heavy scent of oil and grease throughout the space. Things were made to be used and it showed in the practical aspect of the metallic and worn furniture. In the overall darkness, there were more than two or three dozen individuals, most of them displayed spots of greases on themselves as if they were tribal markings. Unlike the rest of the room, the counter was well-lit with bright yellow lanterns, adding to the ambiance of the place.
Once again, Connor was hailed. "What's got you down here, boy?" asked a voice from a shadowed corner. At least, there wasn't mention of this Wrecker thing, this time.
By the time he had reached this pub, the evening had faded in favor of the night. The establishment wasn't full to the point of being difficult to move around, but the air was getting musky. Connor moved toward the voice's origin. Around a bolted metallic table, four people had been talking softly, the fifth figure had kept an eye on him as he approached. She was a matronly woman of undeterminable age, her broad worn face was framed by a short and curly dark-colored hair. Despite her obvious fatigue from the day's work, her eyes shone with life. She was still wearing a simple, but well-used apron, and her hands were covered in ill-cleaned grease. She was the one who had spoken to him.
"What brings you here, boy?" she asked again, her voice was soft, but firm. She was used to being heard and obeyed.
Hey, this time I'm even listened to, that's a good start. Hopeful, he replied, "I'm looking for a teacher, someone to get me started on my unexpected new career."
"Unexpected...," she repeated, her eyes narrowing. "You've drawn the wrong gear at the Seal's Lottery?"
Connor was taken aback. "How did you know?"
She sighed, "I've seen your kind before, boy. I've been in your shoes as well." She waved him to sit down. "I get it that those above just told you to get lost, right?"
"Called me Wrecker and gave me the boot," he replied dejectedly. The day's events were catching up to him. He was tired and frustrated. And yet, he'd found someone who could understand him. "I've been everywhere, knocking on half the doors in the village, and I've been refused again and again. I don't know what to do anymore."
The matronly woman leaned back in her chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "They're still grumbling about that, ain't they? They are hypocrites, that's what they are." She tossed a quick glance around the table, her eyes lingering on each person, silently daring them to object. She sat forward, the light glinting off the grease smudged on her forearms. "We're all engineers here," she declared, her voice carrying a tinge of pride. "We're the ones that keep the cogs turning, the pipes flowing. Without us, their precious little domains would fall apart like a house of cards." Pointing a finger punctuated with oil smudges, she exclaimed, "What's a smith to do without a running forge, or a carpenter without a sawmill?" She barked a derisive laugh, "And where do you think they go barking when their precious little toys break down? They come to us, and we fix it. And we do it gladly because, well, that's our calling." She leaned in closer, her eyes scanning Connor with an understanding nod. "They call you Wrecker because, as the adventuring types, you get their precious production worn, or worse, broken." She shook her head in mock disapproval. "And they don't like that, they feel like their creation should stay always in the most pristine condition. Probably never worn and just exposed for art! Pah!" She spat. A sardonic smile formed on her lips. "As for the Master up there, they'd have refused you had you been a Saint. The Elder's got to wrestle their arms just to take an apprentice now and then. They've all got their head too far down their asses to see the world around them, too focused on their little creations." She leaned back, her expression softening. "You're welcome here, lad," she said warmly, reaching out to give Connor's shoulder a reassuring pat. "Don't fret over their closed doors. You'll find open arms and willing minds here."
That woman was a vibrant soul. She was a bit rough around the edges, but she was a breath of fresh air. Connor felt like he could breathe again. "Thank you, ma'am," he said, his voice a bit shaky. She took a heavy draw on whatever she was drinking. Connor felt so relieved that he didn't even care to ask what it was. "So, you're a Crafter as well?" he asked.
"Sure am, sure am." She nodded. "I'm a Mechanist, and I'm proud of it," she answered showing her stains as proof of her profession. "So tell me, boy, what's your calling?"
Ain't that the question? He shrugged, a bit uneasy. "That's one of the problems I guess." He sighed, there was nothing to be ashamed of in the end. He had come to terms with it, mostly. A little bit. "I don't know. I've got a Seal entirely related to crafting... things, with no specific focus." He still couldn't say the A-word.
"Oooh, isn't that interesting? Do you mind sharing a bit more?" she asked, her eyes shining with curiosity.
What to disclose, what not to disclose? He had been wondering that all day long. Announcing himself as an Ascender could fire both ways. He could be seen as a threat, or as a potential ally. But as he had been rejected all day long, he didn't have much to lose. "I'm an Ascender," he said, watching her reaction. "A Soul one."
"Clinky!" she barked, "So not so much a bad turn on the wheel, but a strange one. Clinky indeed." She threw her arm around, splashing some of her drink on the table. She looked back at him expectantly.
Connor was a bit taken aback. Clinky? What the hell is that? Seems like a good thing anyway, I'll sort this out later. He took a deep breath, "I've got a specialized Analysis, Looting, and a weird ability and the extra weird Purple one." He paused, "I can..." he hesitated. It's kind of difficult to explain what his Scrap composition did. He mused a second and summoned some piece of metal and a bit of wood from his Spatial Storage. Using his Ability instead of the Ring was a tad different, but not significantly so. "Just watch, that'll be easier." The piece of metal was a worn goblin dagger, one of the last he'd got. He activated his Scrap Composition ability, and modeled the dagger, elongating it into a poker. He took the piece of wood, flattened it as if it was dough, and used it to wrap the poker's handle and fused them. His Mana was nearing the red zone by doing that, but that was okay, he didn't intend to use more Mana than that. With two fingers, he filed the poker's point and tried to keep the rest of it smooth and straight.
A bit tired, he presented his rough creation to the still-unnamed woman. She had been silently observing him during his demonstration, showing no reaction. "So, what do you think?"
She took the poker and turned it around, inspecting it. "It's rough, with no respect to the metal at all. The wood well... let's not talk about the wood. You're a Gurtav damned butcher, you know?" she said, almost poking HIM with his creation.
He felt a bit antsy under her scrutiny. "I know," he replied defensively. "But that's why I need a teacher. I don't know what I'm doing."
"That last one at least is true," she barked a laugh. "So, that's your weird ability? You can butcher metal and wood?"
He had to calm himself a bit before answering that. "My whole Seal turn around Scrap and Scrapping things together. It's all in the name. Scrap Artist." Good Lord, I've said it, he whined mentally.
Her eyes got round and rounder. "So... Your looting Ability got you only scraps?" she asked, her voice a bit higher than before. Then she burst into complete hilarity. "Oh, that's rich! That's rich!" She laughed so hard that she had to hold her belly. "You're a Gurtav damned Scrapist! Oh, that's so good!" She laughed some more, and the others at the table joined her.
Connor melted in shame. Why did I tell her that? Maybe, he should just end it right now and kill himself, that would probably be easier to handle.
"Now, now, don't hang yourself over that, boy!" she said, still laughing. "It's not that bad, you know? You're just a bit out of your depth, that's all." She took the last remaining sip on her tankard and clanked it on the table to call for a refilling. "Tell you what, you're probably the answer to our prayers in a fucked up way. Our job, all day long is scraping things along, so that everything keeps on working. So working with odds and ends is our bread and butter, ain't that true guys?" A round of "Aye" rang around, even from several tables away.
She clutched his shoulder tightly. "Let me tell you. You've knocked at the right door, boy," she said, her eyes gleaming with an unusual intensity. "You've found yourself a host of teachers. But don't just scrape by, or you might find yourself scraping the bottom of the lake, you catch my drift?" Her laughter rang out, slightly discordant. "Come back tomorrow when the sun peeks from hiding. I'll make the introductions."