Hear one hear all!
The repairs of the walls of the Fort are underway. We require donations from all men of the crafts to gather the resources required to fix up the walls that protect us from attack. There is a chest near where the wall has crumbled that is used to gather all resources for the repairs. We welcome any and all donations as well as volunteers to help in the repairs.
Thank you, Marcus Delavious.
Fixing the wall
Fixing the wall
*Posters are placed up around the Fort*
Re: Fixing the wall
The old man wiped the sweat from his brow, the pangs of hunger and thirst finally setting in with the job complete. He looked over to foreman and gave a slight nod signaling completion before unfurling a heap of blueprints.
The foreman eyed the man curiously before wandering over. "Somethin' the matter?"
Black nodded. "Your crane is underweighted for the stone, your mortar is lacking proper ratios, and your line is a few degrees off center."
The foreman took a step back as the man in black began sorting supervising the rest of the workers pausing with each to ensure the lesson was fully understood before returning to the foreman.
"I'll be back to oversee the remainder of this project. Don't worry lad, we all start somewhere and we'll make a proper engineer of you yet."
Re: Fixing the wall
The foreman gave Albus a skeptical eye. "Yeah, yeah, we're on the Fort's time if you want to help join the crew...besides it's quittin' time for the day. I'll be in the tavern with the boys."
Albus stared at him with his one watery blue eye, a gaze beset with disappointment, disapproval, and a weight of experience in war and the craft. The foreman went to open his mouth, thought better and cleared the crew. Albus remained. He looked over the empty site once more as the sun began its initial descent and introduced the orange-red glow signaling the end of the day. His work would need to be swift if he was to save the crew time, effort, and resources.
He tied the old packhorse to the lamp post and quickly set about his work. With an effortless grace of a man who had spent a lifetime overseeing siegeworks he began. He pulled himself up onto the cross beams and looked at the lay of the wall. He had been wrong about this, the wall seemed to be set with a decent enough line...it could have been better, but he could not fix the deviations.
Next, he swung down from the rafters with the grace of a cat drawing the attention of a nearby guard surprised by the old man's speed. There was something to be said for laboring with love; it had returned the vigor to his muscles if only for a dusk. He looked over the crane. It hadn't been properly set and the right leg was improperly supported.
Recipe for disaster this, he thought to himself. He had seen the chaos that happened when a crane fouled and took half a wall and a few of the crew with it. Not this time.
He prepared a slab of rock and shifted the crane feeling a few of the sexagenarian vertebrae in his back crinkle under the weight. Hells, it's going to crush me, Albus thought. The crane teetered and creaked. His muscles screamed as he braced his back against it and pushed while slipping the slab beneath.
The crane leg came down and struck the slab. Pregnant seconds seemed to turn to weeks, but the crane held. It was stable. Far better than its previous state.
Next was the mortar. It was chalky at best, the consistency of overcooked cornmeal. Amateurs. This must be what passes for masonry in these lands. How I miss Redholme, Albus mumbled to himself. He grabbed a cart and transferred the next batch into it before adding a little more water.
Glancing over the site once more Albus saw some of the earlier nails collected were of inferior quality. He shook his head before replacing and fixing them and replacing some of the inferior tools.
His hands worked their magic, imbued with the deftness of skill and what could almost be called divine inspiration or luck he straightened the nails, replaced the tools, and had the time to look awe-inspiring doing so. He felt the strain of the labor creeping on him, his joints slowing and his muscles begging for relief. Soon. Soon he would be able to rest.
With one last check, he pulled the plumb line from his pocket. The old lead weight had been with him since his early days, since he had first donned the black and marched against the dark. He let it hang from each of the crossbeams checking to see how far off horizontal they were. Most were good, a few were lacking. He presses up and straightened the beams.
Relief at last. The work was done. He turned to the guard. "Let the foreman know what I've done and tell him to come see me if he takes any issue."
The guard grinned. It had been a pleasure to see the old man work, but he was still a guard. "Do you really think I'll let him know I let you work while he was gone?"
"Fair point."
Good work was its own reward. The old man pulled up his hood and trudged back to his duties.
Albus stared at him with his one watery blue eye, a gaze beset with disappointment, disapproval, and a weight of experience in war and the craft. The foreman went to open his mouth, thought better and cleared the crew. Albus remained. He looked over the empty site once more as the sun began its initial descent and introduced the orange-red glow signaling the end of the day. His work would need to be swift if he was to save the crew time, effort, and resources.
He tied the old packhorse to the lamp post and quickly set about his work. With an effortless grace of a man who had spent a lifetime overseeing siegeworks he began. He pulled himself up onto the cross beams and looked at the lay of the wall. He had been wrong about this, the wall seemed to be set with a decent enough line...it could have been better, but he could not fix the deviations.
Next, he swung down from the rafters with the grace of a cat drawing the attention of a nearby guard surprised by the old man's speed. There was something to be said for laboring with love; it had returned the vigor to his muscles if only for a dusk. He looked over the crane. It hadn't been properly set and the right leg was improperly supported.
Recipe for disaster this, he thought to himself. He had seen the chaos that happened when a crane fouled and took half a wall and a few of the crew with it. Not this time.
He prepared a slab of rock and shifted the crane feeling a few of the sexagenarian vertebrae in his back crinkle under the weight. Hells, it's going to crush me, Albus thought. The crane teetered and creaked. His muscles screamed as he braced his back against it and pushed while slipping the slab beneath.
The crane leg came down and struck the slab. Pregnant seconds seemed to turn to weeks, but the crane held. It was stable. Far better than its previous state.
Next was the mortar. It was chalky at best, the consistency of overcooked cornmeal. Amateurs. This must be what passes for masonry in these lands. How I miss Redholme, Albus mumbled to himself. He grabbed a cart and transferred the next batch into it before adding a little more water.
Glancing over the site once more Albus saw some of the earlier nails collected were of inferior quality. He shook his head before replacing and fixing them and replacing some of the inferior tools.
His hands worked their magic, imbued with the deftness of skill and what could almost be called divine inspiration or luck he straightened the nails, replaced the tools, and had the time to look awe-inspiring doing so. He felt the strain of the labor creeping on him, his joints slowing and his muscles begging for relief. Soon. Soon he would be able to rest.
With one last check, he pulled the plumb line from his pocket. The old lead weight had been with him since his early days, since he had first donned the black and marched against the dark. He let it hang from each of the crossbeams checking to see how far off horizontal they were. Most were good, a few were lacking. He presses up and straightened the beams.
Relief at last. The work was done. He turned to the guard. "Let the foreman know what I've done and tell him to come see me if he takes any issue."
The guard grinned. It had been a pleasure to see the old man work, but he was still a guard. "Do you really think I'll let him know I let you work while he was gone?"
"Fair point."
Good work was its own reward. The old man pulled up his hood and trudged back to his duties.