[Solo] A Broken Glass Boy

by **Montaine** on April 9th, 2012, 10:32 pm

A Broken Glass Boy
Spring 31 512 AV

Ten damn years, it had been ten damn years and this was what it all led to - a deformed monstrosity, a pooled splotch. Still half aglow it sat on the cold, stone floor of the workshop, slowly spreading outwards. He wouldn’t cry. Montaine sat slumped against the bench where he had fallen, wheezing loudly. The heat of the ovens baked him as he tried to recover his composure. A bead of sweat trailed down his face and hung on the tip of his nose but he didn’t have the strength to raise his arm and wipe it off. He closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the welling of tears.

He wouldn’t cry. Mother wouldn’t have cried! She wouldn’t have, she would have gotten angry, she would have gotten up, thrown that foetid piece of shyking petch in the bucket and start over! Montaine exhaled sharply through his nose, wiped the sweat from his brow and placed his hands on either side, flat against the stone. With newfound determination he heaved himself upwards – and immediately fell coughing forwards. He maintained his balance with a hand to the bench and rapped the other against his chest before attempting the move once more. Rather more successfully he managed to get himself on his feet, but the vigour he had found had waned and he no longer wished to refine his work. After all, if he was caught working unsupervised on his boss’s equipment at night he would certainly lose his pay, coal wasn’t cheap. More than that though, he didn’t want his father to be notified of his misdemeanour, and certainly not the condition of his health.

The young glassworker eased his way across the workshop and extinguished the coals. The resulting plume of steam released with a hiss and bathed his face in sweat anew. He turned then to the mess on the floor. The pipe lay where it had fallen – where he had dropped it – and the ruined glass sat taunting him from the stones. He sighed and made his way to his masterpiece, finding it somewhat easier to walk now that he had calmed down. He bent over and grasped the pipe, breaking the tool from the glass and setting it down upon the marver.

He spluttered again. His condition had worsened in recent days, but he knew that it would recover. It had happened before; it would happen again he was sure. The only worry was that every time it did, every time he recovered, he found himself a little weaker. That’s not to say he was a feeble little thing when he was well, far from it! His father may paint him as a tired, sickly waif, but he had a good few years in him. Normally his work helped...not tonight.

Instead of returning to his modest apartment across the way, Montaine elected to take a short walk further into town. The night air would be good for him, he reasoned, the drinks at the pub would be better.

by **Montaine** on April 10th, 2012, 12:17 am

‘Ale,’

The barkeep scowled and remained still until Montaine placed his Mizas on the counter. The man was a brute of a fellow by any estimation, but he positively towered over Montaine. But the young glassworker gave as good as he got and glared right back, his father’s dull eyes edged with the ferocity of his mother. The drink poured and passed across he turned to view the establishment’s clientele for the evening; alas he turned too swiftly and found he had not yet quite recovered from the stresses earlier that night. Almost keeling over, but managing to retain his balance at the cost of a good third of his beverage.

A brief look of worry flittered across the features of the man behind the bar. No doubt he wished to avoid the stain that an illness, or death seeming just as likely by the look of the boy, would have on his business. The other patrons barely recognised the stumble. Such things were not uncommon in a place of alcoholic indulgence, where half of them were likewise affected in their drunken states. A young woman who had seen Montaine enter but a minute or two before his falter, and therefore aware of his likely sobriety, did approach to help, but he waved her away with assurances of his forthcoming recovery.

The place was busy despite the hard times. A stiff drink was often all the comfort one could find when most news was bad news. What good news there was to be had grown more and more fleeting as the days went by. Food was scarce, panic was high, and, most importantly of all, glass sales were at their lowest. Oh sure, the University needed all the glass they could get, they were hit pretty bad when the storm struck, losing supplies, losing equipment. But after the escapes – well, more specifically after the deaths – and those damnable spires, obelisks, whatever they were, it was safe to say that the scholars had other things on their mind than restocking their vials.

Montaine snorted quietly and derisively. He took a swig and spluttered. He couldn’t stand the taste of the stuff, vile and odious. The smell of it turned his stomach, olfactory nightmare. It rose up his nostrils and singed his senses, wholly offensive. The disgusting brown of the swill in his cup so utterly revolted. If it had any notable sound to it, he assured himself he would have been equally distasteful of it. Yet he would force himself to suffer it for one, very good reason.

It got you drunk. Growing up his father had often said to him – warned him – you stay away from alcohol, boy, you’ve got no stomach for it, hear? But as he drank and drank, and as the evening turned inexorably onwards towards the day the line between what faults in his faculties were down to his own weak, sickly body and what was down to the drink faded. For those brief, blurry hours he could convince himself that there was nothing wrong with him.

He was just, quite simply, plastered.

by **Montaine** on April 10th, 2012, 4:01 pm

‘And then he says to me, Monty, he says, you better clean up that mess ‘cause the boss’ll not appreciate the stench of monkey shyke in his shop!’

The weighty friend Montaine had found roared with laughter and collapsed over backwards. The hours had passed and a couple more rounds had been ordered, paid for and imbibed, with much cheer and holding of the nose. Perhaps this was what life had in store for him, perhaps he was fated to become a drunk like these sots. He could do that, he could definitely do that! Petch, his shyking heart and shyking lungs were perfect! After all, wasn’t that what these wretched vagiks were trying to do? End their sorry existences in the bottom of a mug?

Montaine shook off his reverie and looked over at his drinking companion. The man was still on the floor, but not as conscious as he was before. There was also a growing wet patch across the fellow’s crotch that bore no thinking about. Yet the man looked happy, serene even, as he let loose, freed of the urinary etiquette of sobriety. Montaine took what remained of his drink and relocated to another table.

Half aware that the time must have passed the middle of the night long ago, and that his dear master would be expecting him in the following morning, Montaine looked to the window and groaned. A tinge of light was beginning to blossom in the sky, gone was the comforting blanket of night-time and the horribly revealing glow of a new dawn fast approached. He swiftly downed the remainder of his drink and dragged himself towards the door.

He was unprepared for the fresh air after so many hours in that fusty, old room and took a few seconds to catch his breath. He sniffed at the air, hoping to catch the fishy scent of the markets and docks, just eastwards, but could detect nothing. He had grown up in this city and though he had often heard visitors deplore the aroma it felt odd without it. Wrong, somehow. The whole city had been disrupted by the storm, anyone could tell you that, you could see it walking down the streets during the day, you could see it in people’s eyes at the ration stations, but it was in the smell, that distinctive smell, that the change was most unnerving to him.

Montaine sighed and stumbled off towards his makeshift home in the building across from the glassworks. He’d claim sickness, get off from work in the morning. Not that anyone would disbelieve him, not that it wouldn’t be true given the current state of his stomach. The shuffling, haphazard movements he made served only to exacerbate his condition. He stopped and clutched at his gut, the other hand supporting him against the wall. He had experienced it enough that he knew for sure that this was not going to feel good. He felt the bile rise in his throat and vainly tried to keep it down. No such luck.

He promptly vomited.

by **Montaine** on April 10th, 2012, 7:42 pm

Montaine’s sleep was interrupted twice. Once, the young man flitted momentarily into semi-consciousness in order to wetly retch over the edge of his bunk. The flagging, broken memories of a particularly disturbing dream rested at the edges of his mind, only to swamp him as he shut his eyes again. The second time he awoke was due to his master knocking at the door so as to bring him to work. He mustered the strength to call out ‘Sick!’ and flop back over, pulling the sheet over his head in a feeble attempt to block out the morning sun.

When he finally truly awoke the sun was high in the sky and it looked to be past noon. His head thumped, but he was no longer filled with a desire to display the contents of his stomach, what little remained. He sat up and swung his legs over onto the floor. His apartment had one window that faced out towards the workshop, the plume of smoke suggesting the ovens were in full force. Montaine rubbed his eyes, fighting off the urge to crawl back into his bed and yawned. It was odd, though, as they hadn’t received a large requisition in weeks, yet the bustle down below implied the contrary.

He looked at the mess he had made in the night but couldn’t bring himself to fix it just yet. He hadn’t changed out of his clothes when he had finally fallen into sleep either, a quick sniff under the armpit resulting in a surprised cough. His eyes were drawn back to the workshop outside. He shrugged, given the sheer heat of the place the stench of sweat and labour would no doubt swiftly cover up any meagre stink he could produce alone.

Making his way across the street, Montaine’s eyes widened, his mouth splitting into a huge grin. The blast of heat from the ovens threatened to burn his skin in the most wondrous way. The shovelling of coals, and the clang of tools and moulds and workers and glass. A beautiful, harmonious cacophony to the young glassmaker’s ears.

He laughed. It was a chuckle at first that grew louder and longer until he was forced to wipe a tear from his eye. The business was back.

‘Thought you were sick, boy,’

Montaine recovered his composure, suppressing the beginning of another wave, as he turned to his dear employer. Johann Calbert was an abrasive fellow at the best of times yet even he appeared reinvigorated as the work began anew. The man had been in Zeltiva for fifty or so years, born and raised, and to see his beloved home so fractured of late had taken its toll. Yet he stood positively beaming today.

‘Got better sir, there work needs doing?’

‘Always, my boy, always! Windows up at the Lord’s Residence got blown in, her ladyship’s finally getting them repaired. Money better spent elsewhere no doubt, but petch it by Wyn, business is business and Mizas are Mizas, go help out at the batch, my boy,’

Montaine nodded and scurried off to assist in the day’s work, relishing the feeling of hot air on his skin. It would be a good day. Tonight he would succeed.

by **Montaine** on April 10th, 2012, 10:23 pm

‘Good! Good! Keep it up! When did you get so slow? No glass, no order, no order, no pay!’

Calbert almost jumped around the workshop, surprisingly nimble for such a stocky man. His workers, numbering no more than four, including Montaine, proceeded with their work at an increased pace. One lad would ease the pipe into the furnace and collect the molten glass, blowing it out into a cylinder. He would then sit it on the bench where a second boy would set about shearing the end to an even finish. The glass would then be moved to a second oven to slowly cool.

Once accomplished, a third craftsman would take the glass and cut it down one side. Carefully. A while in there was a resounding crash and scream as one of the younger novices managed to shatter the pane he was working on, slicing his hand quite badly. Calbert was there in an instant and slapped the boy round the back of his head.

‘Idiot! We’re on a tight schedule, man!’ He shook his head and sighed, turning to the rest of his staff who had stopped to gawp he yelled, ‘Back to work, blast you!’

He grabbed the now weeping boy’s cut hand and inspected it casually. He beckoned to the lad minding the bench, ‘Get him seen to, would you? Then crush this,’ he sniffed at the ruined glass. It needn’t be wasted, and it was easy enough to recycle. The glassmaker clapped his hands to hurry them along and then took up the injured boy’s post.

After being cut, the cylinder was returned to the oven to reheat, where it would split along the seam and flatten out into a pane. Once cooled further it could be cut into appropriate sizes and finally stuck in the annealer overnight. Due to the sheer volume of work ahead of them the workshop began to form a routine where every member had something to do at all times. It was exhausting, but Montaine loved it.

Though he tended to find such restricted, routine work somewhat tedious he was simply glad of the opportunity to work again. As interesting as he found his occasional night-time forays into the mysteries of glass, it was here in the workshop, under the guidance of Master Calbert, where he was truly educated in the art. He was, at that moment, collecting the glass at the batch oven, first man, at the head of the line. He slowly inserted the pipe into the heart of the furnace and watched for the reflection of the tool on the surface of the molten glass. He rolled it in his hands and collected up as much as he would need before easing it back out.

But then he made a mistake. He could feel it slip in his hands and in a moment of insanity thought he could catch it before it fell. He reached out and grabbed the burning hot pipe too far down in an attempt to steady it. He felt the metal blister his skin, and tore it away in a second. It fell to the ground with a clang.

‘Petch!’ He yelled, clutching his raw hand to his chest, ‘Petching whore of a damned piece of shyke!’

Again the workshop ground to a halt, but a quick shout from Calbert set them resolutely once more to their work.

by **Montaine** on April 10th, 2012, 11:52 pm

Montaine bandaged himself up and returned to work. It was rookie mistake, made in panic. He could tell that his master was annoyed, yet the old man never raised his voice to him. He knew why, of course, he didn’t want to provoke the sickness. He couldn’t afford to lose a single worker, certainly not the most competent of his novices. He also wished wholeheartedly to avoid having to notify the boy’s father, almost as much as the boy hoped to avoid the same thing. An imposing man, Tiffan Redsun had lost none of the hardiness he had built up on the grasslands of Cyphrus during his long stay in Zeltiva.

The mild setback irritated Montaine, but not half as much as how differently, how delicately, he was treated in comparison to the other apprentices - not least because it did nothing to warm them to him. Fortunately he managed to regain some ground on that score by offering to watch over the panes as they cooled overnight, in place of the other injured lad. Though he asked for nothing, his motivations being naught more than to have the place to himself for the night, the lad had promised him a drink next time they went down to the bar. Calbert was the last to depart, taking care to extinguish the drum and garage before nodding farewell to Montaine, and leaving him to his vigil. Bathed in the warm glow of the batch oven, still alit to keep the molten glass pure and ready for tomorrow’s work, and the annealer, Montaine sighed. This time, tonight, he would accomplish what he had failed before.

He listened out for his signal to begin. There. Softly, and ever so quietly, the muted music of a flautist began to drift down to him, sitting alone in the glassworks. He closed his eyes and let the gentle melody mix with the low thrum of the furnaces.

He couldn’t remember the first night he had heard the flautist play his music. It held a fascination for him that he hadn’t felt since he had first encountered Calbert’s stall so many years ago. As the faceless flautist played on, Montaine gathered up his tools and set to work.

He pulled a chair to the bench and eased his pipe into the batch oven, gathering up his glass. He swayed lightly to the tune as he rested it against the metal of the bench and sat himself down. He took his jacks and pinched carefully at the malleable material, drawing it in swift motions, the heat of it threatening to burn his hands again. The beautiful music continued on the air as he worked, teasing the glass into shape. He formed a delicate head and mane and pulled forth two forelegs. He span his work to keep it from sagging, to keep its shape.

The flautist played on. He coaxed the glass with his jacks and let gravity bend the legs into position. Happy, he took his shears and began to separate the piece from the pipe, leaving just enough glass to form the tail. He placed it down on the marver and carefully, cautiously shaped the remaining material. Satisfied, he downed tools and set his tiny, glass horse to cool, and returned to his watch.

The flautist played on.

Completed

by **Echelon** on April 11th, 2012, 4:11 pm

Adventurer's Loot

A Gift
Experience is it's own reward.

Montaine's Loot :

(I loved reading this I really did. I hope you keep interest in Montaine up. He belongs in Zeltiva, and you are officially my new baby. Keep active, and have fun. Please, do a write up on Johann Calbert so we can enter him in the NPC Database for the future Zeltiva players to see.) - if you have ANY questions or concerns about this grading, don't hesitate to PM me.

Completed [Solo] A Broken Glass Boy