Gone and Back Again: A Machinist's Tale (open?)

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

**Several Months Ago**

It was 10:30 pm, Academy Standard Time. Crimson and white lightning flashes through a stormy sky, and rain and wind pelt the floating city as if attempting to drive it back earth-side. Thousands of feet below, waves rise out of the ocean and slam into each other like angry sumo wrestlers fighting over ramen.

Torm is sitting at his sturdy oak desk. He stares through a window as if transfixed by the tumult raging outside, clearly lost in thought. There was something about the way things had been going recently that made Torm uneasy. It wasn't because of the storm outside. No, something about the atmosphere; the feel of things here had changed, and it tugged at his mind at all times. He knew there was no rational reason why he should feel this way, but the feeling persisted just the same. Something was stirring.

Torm is awoken from his reverie by a particularly bright flash of lightning that bathes the room in light for a split second. Now rather than staring blankly out, his true attention is on the weather for a moment. Suddenly, more lightning flashes off in the distance, lighting a particular cloud. The shape of it startles Torm slightly; it gives the impression of a looming dragon with earth-rending fangs.

Slowly, a new idea creeps into Tom's head. This feeling was clearly not going to go away, so there was nothing for it but to act on it. He had to do something to prepare. Anything; he didn't even know what he was preparing for, but he knew now that he would have no inner peace until he did something, and now, he knew what he was going to do.

As if struck by a sudden frenzy, he wrenches his drawer open and fishes out blueprint-drawing equipment. Straight edges, triangle, Bezier curve guide, paper, the works, and begins to scribble away at a furious pace.

An hour later, he jumps up and snatches his coat and hat from their stand and puts them on. The papers are swiftly folded up and tucked inside the coat. After putting together a travel bag with a few changes of clothes and some odds and ends, he hits the lights, grabs his ladder, and is gone. Destination: lower city workshop.

**Present**

It is 10:30 pm, Academy Standard Time. The sky is a clear dome of velvety blue, fading slowly to black as the last bit of sunlight refracted around the curvature of the earth by the upper atmosphere diminishes. A peace was upon the world.

Torm slowly opens his room's door. The pile of mail on the floor just inside prevents him from opening it all the way, so he squeezes through it half-opened and flips on the light while shrugging out of his coat. It is placed on the coat rack, and his hat soon joins it, and he flops his gauntlets on the bureau as well. All of it would need to be cleaned, and Torm as well for that matter: his hands are black with grease and soot and also covered with cuts and abrasions, and his beard, hair, and face are soiled in a similar manner.

Rather than attend to that now, he scoops up the mail and plops it on his desk, and takes to his chair with a tired grunt. You wouldn't have to look at him long to know that he had not been getting enough sleep for a while. He was barely halfway done with what he had gone to do, but he had figured that it was important to start attending the academy again; neglecting training and education would not do him any good.

Torm idly wipes his hands on his trouser legs in an attempt to make them a little cleaner, and only partially succeeds. Now for the task of going through that mail. I'll be lucky if there's not a notice of expulsion in there somewhere... he chuckles to himself half-seriously. And so he picks up the first envelope, immediately smudging the white paper, and thumbs it open.

[Tristan Knightrhode]

Tristan rubbed his head vigorously, coming a corner on his way back to his dorm. He'd just been in the battle grounds, fighting a boy who used water element, and had gotten entirely soaked. You gotta watch your back better...You could have flown over that wave ya know. Igneus pipped with his mind from a few feet behind his rider.

"Yea, yea. Basterd pulled that out of no where though...He summoned the water...He didn't pull it from somewhere, so I didn't see it coming." The hunter's deep voice rang in an annoyed tone. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, which, being dragonhide, didn't hold the water, and it had just rolled off. He then activated his fire punch spell, holding it to his hair to dry it quickly.

As Tristan moved his hands about his body, drying himself with the flame, the dragon behind him snorted. What's that stink? It's hurting my nose. He complained. Tristan took in the air, smelling past the evaporated water, to the heavy odor of grease and charcoal. "Oil genius...Though who the hell is using that much oil up here is beyond me."

Continuing down the hall, Tristan came across an open door. A door he'd not seen disturbed in many months. The Crusnik disengaged his mana to his hands, and the fire faded. A gauntleted hand rose to the crook of his nose, and pushed up the sunglasses as he peered in. "Hello?"

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

"Hello?"

Torm jolts out of a half-sleep abruptly at the sound of the voice at the door, and some of the mail cluttering his desk spills off onto the floor.

"What..." he mutters blearily, and becomes aware of a man's arrival. As animatedly as he can manage, he grins and says in his natural brogue, "Ahh, forgive my rudeness, I've just been a little short on sleep recently..." He looks down at his hands for a second, and then adds, "short on cleanliness too, It'd seem."

Torm hadn't expected anyone to stop by so soon after he had returned (unless the staff was to come and throw him out or something), but he was not bothered by it. He did not recall meeting this particular gentleman previously, but it had been a while since Torm left, after all. Unlike a lot of the pasty-faced teenagers that seemed to make up most of the student body here, this man seemed to have a few more years of experience behind him. Sunglasses indoors would seem strange on most people, but it seems oddly natural in this case.

"Won't you come on in?" Torm asks in a jolly tone. "You've caught me in a rather un-host-like state, but I know I've got a bit of something to drink around here someplace..." As he looks about for something of that nature, he pulls a cloth from his pocket and rubs furiously at his soiled hands, doing a fairly good job of getting them clean.

[Tristan Knightrhode]

The hunter nodded to the man he found and stepped in. Igneus flew in and hovered by the door as Tristan closed it to the state he'd found it in. "It's no problem," He said at the comment about the sleep deprivation, "People tend not to get enough sleep around here." He walked over lightly, and held out a gauntleted hand to the obviously younger man.

"Tristan Knightrhode." He said in a normal tone. The elemental dragon then buzzed over Tristan's shoulder, mentally demanding an introduction. "And Igneus." Tristan had been around when this dorm had stopped being used. Though it wasn't for a very long time as yet. So who's this?

[Don't know...Haven't seen him before...But you could see the light on in here under the door up until a few months ago.] Small, momentary conversation between the partners before the man had a chance to return the introduction.

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

Torm straightens from digging around and puts the glasses and bottle of brandy he had found on the desk. He takes the man's proffered hand and shakes firmly, twice. "Tormaigh MacRagallach, at your service, Tristan. Torm works too: less syllables."

He shifts his attention to the small dragon and grins widely. "And you, sir, I would tip my hat to you if I was wearing one. Igneus, was it? Incredible!" Torm had been taken aback by the dragon's appearance, indeed. His first conclusion was that he had missed so much sleep on account of his project that he was having hallucinations of his work! A silly notion, of course. Torm has little first-hand experience with dragons himself, so he is forced to work with what he can glean from books and heresay. Seeing the way a real one moves is fascinating, and he mentally notes several characteristics that might make his own designs more efficient and lifelike. Of course he would now have to retool the lateral joint orientation and---no no no, I have guests now! Work later! he thinks.

Torm gestures at a chair, and sits in his own. "Will either of you take a glass of something?"

[Tristan Knightrhode]

Tristan shook the hand with the same vigor. "There's a sort of name you don't hear often. Irish isn't it?" Igneus took the commendation with pride. He could see the gleam of interest in this Torm's eyes and showed off his form: A flex of the muscles, a hard beat of the wings then a steady hover for a few moments, swish of the tail.

The dragon's tinted spikes shimmered a slight gold hue in the dull lighting. That discovered lightning element also flickered in the gold flecks of his eyes, though they were small currently so it would be hard to spot. I'm starting to like this guy.

[You would, ya vain basterd.] Tristan replied jokingly with a small smirk. "Don't mind if I do, though I don't think dragon's drink." Was the answer to that final question as the hunter removed his blade, in its holster, and rested it against the wall. He then sat down with a small grunt of fatigue. His slight elemental weakness to water had given him a bit of damage against that wave. Otherwise he was untouched...the boy was knocked out with a single blow.

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

Torm's eyes look ceilingward, and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. "Ahh yes, I didn't think of that. A dragon drinking a flammable liquid might not turn out so well," Torm says. After a moment, he adds, "Begging your pardon, Igneus, of course."

While saying this, he pours out some of the liquor into two glasses and offers one to Tristan. He then takes his own and raises it in salute before throwing back about a third of it. It's not the strongest drink out there, but there is a pleasant burning sensation on the way down.

Torm's weariness is forgotten for the moment. Of course it will be back later in greater force, but that can't really be helped. Conversationally, he asks, "So, have you been here long? How's Academy life treatin' ya?" Torm takes another sip of his drink and settles back in his chair.

(OOC: Sorry it's a little short >,<)

[Tristan Knightrhode]

OOC: no problem ^_^

Tristan took hold of the drink, wrapping his little finger underneath so as to have better grip. When you used gauntlets, you became accustomed to such differences in your posture and physical behavior. He raised it in time with Tormaigh, and took a sip. "Ahh. Haven't had brandy in a while." He commented quietly. "You do well to talk directly to Igneus like that. He can't stand it when people talk to him through me." Another small sip.

Brandy wasn't as strong as some liquors, but it had a pleasant enough sensation. When the conversational questions came, "Not long...Not as long as some any way. We've been here almost a year now. I'm actually going to go for my rank exams soon. Shouldn't be hard getting to mage...Strong as I've gotten in recent times." One more sip. Tristan enjoyed the drink slowly, not at all like his Irish friend over there. There was nothing wrong with downing a drink quickly, but taking it slow was always a good thing, especially when you were winding down after a training session.

Igneus had taken his seat on Tristan's shoulder once again. He was ready to lay down for the night, but could converse for a while. "So where have you been? This dorm hasn't had its lights on for quite some time." He asked of the red headed man.

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

While Tristan answers, Torm sips at his drink again, taking it down more slowly after the priming effect of the larger first swig. Mage in a year was nothing to shake a stick at. Torm is working his way towards that rank himself, but at a slightly slower pace. Tristan was either particularly driven, particularly talented, or both, it would appear. This really was quite a place.

At Tristan's question, Torm's glass freezes on its way to another sip. "I...decided to take a short break from Academy classes to pursue..." Torm takes a long draw on the amber liquid mid sentence, and sighs contentedly and sets the empty glass down before continuing. "...other goals. Possibly quite urgent ones; it's too soon to know."

Torm leans back in his chair and suppresses a yawn. "Please, forgive me for being cryptic. I'd be happy to show you sometime; it's only a short walk into the lower city away. Not right now though, if it's all right." After all, he had just gotten back from there, and had no particular desire to returning again before a meal and a nap, at the least.

Rather than wait for further questions on that matter, asks one of his own. "So, have the two of you always worked together?" Indeed, one thing here at the Academy that he had never encountered before attending it is the concept of familiars and the bonds involved therein.

[Tristan Knightrhode]

Tristan listened to the response, nodding. "Ah, it's no problem. I mean if you were down there this whole time whats the sense of going back so soon, hmm?" Another sip. A slow swallow as the question of the pair was spoken. He thought about how to answer. Simple 'couple of years' or 'since he was born' couple of different answers before he settled on one. Yes, Tristan was very odd at times.

"I found him as an egg, actually. So as long as he's been alive." He said, lowering the drink to rest his arm on his knee. "A little over two years now." He added, leaning in slightly to put the rest of his upper weight on his legs. "What about you? Any pets...or partners?" Hopefully that wasn't invasive, but then again, while they were on the topic of partner/pet/familiars, it seemed apropos.

OOC: short >.>;;

[Tormaigh MacRagallach]

(OOC: Delayed, short. I should be taken out back and shot for that, but then the posts definitely wouldn't come in)

Torm sets his glass down slowly and thinks for a moment about the question. 'Pets are a hassle' or 'I'm not dating anyone at the moment' are two possible answers that flick through his mind before he settles on an answer.

"Well, pets are a hassle, and I'm not dating anyone right now," Torm says with a small chuckle. He takes another sip from the now mostly empty glass. It's just as well; he thinks. I wouldn't have time for either with all that's going on these days. I'm sure some would call that a priority problem, though...

"Seriously speaking though, I've never really thought about it before, but I guess my only partners right now are the mechanical ones I make. And people I've met here, of course." At that, Torm raises his glass salute-like and drains the rest of it.
And damn good people they were, for the most part.

[Tristan Knightrhode]

OOC: no prob.

Tristan listens to the response and chuckles slightly. "Dating isn't what I meant. Igneus is smarter than half the people I know, so I don't call him my pet, he's my partner. Fellow warrior and hunter." He grinned, then heard the comment about the mechanical partners, and nodded, sipping. He shifted his weight slightly between motions, trying not to shift his leaning position all that much.

In turn with Torm, Tristan raises his glass and drains it, staring at the rocks glass thoughtfully. "I've gotten many a friend here. Good matches, training partners." He said thoughtfully, recalling the several friends he'd attained. Roy, Leon, Sebastian, Raiden. Demons, elves, lightning mages, and who the hell knows what els. Werewolves, humans. The race didn't really matter to Tristan unless they were of the Hominus Nocturna. Tristan never liked vampires all that much, but a good person was a good person and if one happened to be a vampire, Tristan would be a friend to him.

"I've only had two true enemies...Twins. One killed someone in the training grounds and his brother came to his aid when me and some gun mage aimed to decimate the basterd." He reminiced slightly. It was an unimportant time from way back when, and was nothing that needed to be brought up more than slight recolection.