IC Contact Post [Hadriel]

[mismanagement]

This is Maketh Tua. State your business.

Comments

[mismanagement]

[Maketh covers her smile with her hand. Yes, this is a good birthday gift. A first encounter with chocolate. She can't remember hers. Likely a gift as well, something that her parents saved up for when the off-world traders came to market.] Chocolate. Your world doesn't have it?

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Not that I am aware of.

[He'll just help himself to more.]

There are places yet undiscovered, however.

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[One of Hadriel's smaller kindnesses is that chocolate - or at least something very much like chocolate - is easy enough to find. Maketh sips her coffee, smiling. It's easy to forget the small things.] True. The world is always larger than we think. And you only have the one planet, if I understand correctly?

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Yes. Just the one.

[He says it with wry humour, because though his horizons have broadened considerably in Hadriel -- for all that he knows it exists and that it is genuinely possible -- he still cannot quite imagine space travel, let alone normalised space travel.]

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[Maketh laughs gently.] You would find my world very strange. I'm not sure it would suit you.

[The Empire wouldn't, she's certain of that. But there are other places in the galaxy.]

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I could say the same.

[Henry dips his head, then tilts it as he shoots her a sideways glance, tapping his fingers against his mug.]

Nonetheless, were such travels to become possible, I would encourage it. Ever shall you be a welcome guest in my home.

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That's kind of you. I'll remember that. [The way that Henry smiles when he speaks of his family warms her. It makes his face soften in ways he's probably not even aware of. Maketh rubs her thumb along the edge of her mug. The caffeine has settled into her belly. She feels calmer now. At ease with herself.] I'd offer to show you my parents' farm, but I doubt it would impress you. And it's no longer in my possession.

[It was sold years ago. Her superiors had suggested it.

Maketh tips her head to the side.] Have you ever been to a desert, Henry?

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[Henry shakes his head.]

I have not.

[He is, traditionally, a warden of the marches -- aside from the war in France, his place will always be at England's borders. He therefore does not expect to ever see one.

Raising his mug to his lips, he drinks as he listens.]

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They're not as hot as people think. [Maketh leans back in her chair.] Sometimes it gets so cold that you see frost on the sand. Those are good nights. That means it could rain. Everything is sand and rocks. But you can see for miles. Sometimes the air shimmers with the heat. It can make you see things. But it's beautiful in its own way.

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[Henry is, in fact, one of those people, so her words are of great interest. He tries to imagine what she describes, the fondness in her voice in mind. He sets down his mug.]

It sounds to be.

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I hated it as a child. [Maketh shakes her head almost fondly at the memory.] Barely anything we grew ever survived, and we could go months without seeing anyone else. I read about all these planets that had oceans and green things, and each time I learned about a new one, I tried to convince my parents to go.

[They'd always humored her. Perhaps they'd regretted it she finally decided to leave without them.]

It's strange. I miss it sometimes. Not--all of it. But the sky at night. You could see the stars so clearly. I miss that.

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[Henry gives Maketh a surprised look.]

Your... whole planet had no oceans or green places? 'Tis a wonder that you did not starve.

[Yet he understands her sentiment about the stars. Light pollution is not an issue in his time. As he takes up both pairs of pliers again to resume removing rings, he idly asks:]

Seemed the stars different to you when you were in the firmament?

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[Maketh nods.] We nearly did, a few times. But the people were stubborn.

[It had made them strong, though in quiet ways. She tips her head to the side.] Firmament?

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[Henry briefly frowns at the thought of a young Maketh facing the very real peril of starvation because of nothing more than living on barren land. Yet she evidently survived it, so he says no more of it. What right has he, of noble birth and privilege? Instead, he answers her question.]

The farthest skies wherein reside the stars.

[Space is not yet a fully-rounded concept in his time, nor is it named such for another few hundred years. The views of the universe in his time are quite something.

Henry removes the last of the cut rings, and repositions his haubergeon so that the hole in the back shoulder is flat before him, ready to be fixed.]

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Oh. We call it space. [Maketh leans back in her chair. it's hard for her to imagine someone living only on a single planet, never once going up in the sky. How strange her world must seem to him.] It's beautiful. Things look so different up close. I wish I could show you what the stars look like.

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'Tis a pity that you cannot.

[Henry, wielding the pliers, picks up an open ring and slips it into place on his haubergeon, making sure that it leans in the correct direction. He then closes the opening, and keeps hold of it with one set of pliers.]

This may work best if you seal the rings as I weave them in.

[mismanagement]

[If only she had her data pad. It's burnt beyond recognition now, tucked into one of her drawers in case its parts might prove useful later on. Maketh nods, leaning in closer.] All right. Show me first?

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[Henry nods, then pauses, narrowing his eyes critically. He is, regretfully, no blacksmith.]

On second thought.

[He opens up the ring again and frees it.]

If you heat the ring here where the ends are open, then I shall weave it in and close it.

[That likely makes the most sense, given the present limitations. It's hardly as though they have the supplies, tools or skill to wedge rivet mail. So, welded.]

These must be done one at a time, I fear.

[This would be a horribly dull task without the company.]

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All right. [It seems a simple enough procedure, though regrettably tedious. Nonetheless, it must be done. She will not see Henry without proper armor.

She tugs on a pair of gloves and activates the iron, waiting until it steams.] Ready now?

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[Henry nods, holding the ring aloft with the pliers and eyeing the tool with mild interest.]

Ready.

[He confirms.]

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[There's no point in stalling, so Maketh presses the iron against the ring. It's less dangerous than a blow torch, but requires a steady hand. It doesn't take long for the metal to begin to change colors.] There.