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Basic Story Synopsis: Basira Nejem is of the Stormlock hunter-nomad elf tribe and is attempting to build a plane that runs not on magic but steam and steel so she can fight back against the dragonkin attacking her kind.
You can friend me on site here
Words In This Update - 2022
Total Words So Far - 2022
The way the rag dances through my fingers has always been a feeling I've enjoyed far too much in my time alive. How old and brittle it is, caked in grime and oil, reeking of my own salted sweat and musk, discolored from layers of soot and singe marks. Disgusting. By all means I should be grossed out by it and have thrown it out ages ago, but it's come this far without being torn. It stays. I don't care how much dirt it gets under my fingernails or how much the elders side-eye me for latching onto it like a child, you don't just toss friends like that to the wayside.
Besides, it's green. Green's a nice color and not one you see much of in the desert. Reminds me that there's actual life beyond these wastelands . Life worth seeking out and exploring.
Anyways, enough about my rag, lest someone find this entry someday and think I was sleeping with it or something with the way I'm waxing poetic like one of those whiner bards about it. I don't think there's enough grain alcohol on this planet to get me to talk like that consistently. I don't know how they ever put up filling the air with such useless gibberish, but that's neither here nor there.
I ran it over the barrel of The Marshal and grinned, baring my teeth and making my ears stretch out and wiggle a bit, keeping a look out for any more of them. Perhaps I could scare them off before having to waste any more ammo; that shit can be a bitch to make sometimes. What with my forge alerting their scaly asses to my position with its glowing and how much scrap I don't have to spare sometimes. If only they'd fight me face-to-face like real warriors, I'd plant my heated tongs up their tailpipes and use their horns to melt and pour into my bullet mold, pouring it back down their throat.
….This diary entry keeps getting away from me. It's been a rough day. Venting feels good, though. To anyone centuries later who may be perusing this, I would say I'm sorry, but honestly, I'm not. Perhaps it'd give you some insight as to what exactly it is the Stormlock tribe went through.
I'd had to waste three of those bullets to down one of their scouts and disable their wings enough to capture them, throwing my cape on them and wrestling with them viciously in the sand. Got dirt in my ears again. Dragged her stupid, inept leathery head back with me and threw her in the prisoner's wagon. I found some hauling rope in my heap and locked her to the side of it, making sure that she was just uncomfortable enough to hate my guts but not so much I couldn't hear her wonderful thoughts on the matter.
The Marshal got a complete cleaning, making sure it was locked back up on my back strap safely and disengaged before returning to my work I had been doing before I was so rudely interrupted. Those damnable flamesniffers don't have a lick of sense to them and wouldn't think twice about not asking permission first. At least us elves have manners and honor and all that. Then again, we're normal. The tailhumpers are the real abominations. Everyone knows the reason the mines are empty nowadays is their greed.
I went to go speak with the elders and let them know we'd be keeping an enemy captive for a while and that since I was the lucky one to bag them, I'd eventually go milk her for information. Even if the thought of milking them in any way makes me want to retch up my lemonade. I just made a fresh batch of that this morning, it doesn't need to be spoiled already! Perhaps I need some to rinse the foul taste of the scout's ambush out of my mouth with.
The kids who were near me at the time of attack were thankfully okay. Praise our Lady Laeshann they were okay, or the damnable winged serpents would have been lucky to have just been skinned and turned into my armor.
Note to self: maybe clip some of their wings for use as my own design's wings. Study them further, at least. Maybe sketch out the scout's and poke them a bit, see how they work. Note to self the sequel: maybe add a flamethrowing mechanism to the design to give 'em all a taste of their own medicine with. Also, note to self: Just don't make it smell like them.
Other than that incident, it was largely an uneventful day. I almost got a nail through my foot when a bird tried to nest in my frazzled hair and surprised me. I'm an elf, not a tree bedder. All those terrible things you here about elves hating steel and not wanting anything to do with fun ever? Fascist lies. The only time live birds are nice are when I can steal flight patterns off of them, otherwise, their only use is to be my dinner. Sweet, sweet roasted hawk cooked in sauce made from fresh pressed Razan wolf peppers and citrus. I think I'll have that to celebrate tonight. I hope I have enough peppers left from fuel making for it. Maybe I should attempt to wash my hair more than once a week so they don't mistake my hair for a nest anymore. You think the smell of singed strands would put them off. Stupid birds. Being stupid. Bah.
Note to self: Don't write bah out, you look stupid. Like a bird.
We're also not terribly far off from the Tolin Oasis. There's a bazaar there this time of year and I could probably haggle for some much needed parts there without much trouble. The merchants there tend to like giving good deals to those that can actually talk to them more than just negotiating for worst price and lining their pockets. Maybe they're just lonely. Maybe they find richness in conversation.
...Maybe that sounds terrible and cheesy. Either way, they'll probably have something pitched in their tents and...
That sounds pornographic. Future historians know now, I'm not that kind of woman. That's what wrenches are for. Anyways. A shopping list might be smart to make.
-More fruit. Specifically citrus, but something that's harder to find out here like melons might be good.
-Bird skewers
-Earplugs
-Bread and honey
-Oil
-Screws and nails and a screwdriver
-Maybe something kind of tacky like a fake skull to use as a cup
-Sack of potatoes to make batteries with
-Engine chains
I can only hope I have enough ducats for it. If not, I'll trade some of the dwarven geo-cannon shells I've gotten bits of for it. Those still have a bit of charge in them, but fuck if my elf blood can't make sense of how to do it. Damn those beards, if anyone in this world's the nature freaks, it's them and their reclusive faces. I heard the gods gave them the mountains and at first they were round but became cragged and gnarled as they shaped them to look like the fur coats they proudly display on their chins. Our Lady Laeshann may be a good one, but damn if she's not odd at times.
Maybe I should pick up The Marshal a treat as well. He's been a good boy lately, so maybe I'll see what kind of paint job I can get for him. Restore that old world wooden look to his barrel and butt, make all the ladies swoon like the gentleman he is. Too bad guns can't wear hats, but then it'd be really unfair to everyone as no woman would be able to resist him ever. Our species would be doomed.
I should also finish working on the light plated helms and back plates for the large dune cats with us. I learned a lot about the structure of it making my own platecoat armor, and making sure that the damnable scaleshitters don't one-shot them while we take them out to help us hunt for our meals. Those stupid hair loving hawks won't kill themselves, you know. Diving into me and having me kill it in frustration doesn't quite count as suicide, but it's close enough at this rate. Only the cats understand my pain. Sometimes the wolves do but they're so slobbery they'd just rust any cool suits of armor I'd give them; they make better guards.
I'll need to sleep next to the campfire tonight, propped up against my heap, one ear and one eye open. Again. I'll wake up angry and groggy, but that's what delicious desert coffee is intended to fix, and just one of the reasons why Our Lady Laeshann is a good one. But damn if I'm going to let them catch me off guard and take my scrap for themselves; I worked hard for it, they can too, though I'm unsure if they have words for 'an honest day's work' in their gross, guttural vocabularies. It all sounds the same to me, angry and confused and stupid. I'll have to cover it in a tarp and wheel the wagon holding it over behind a dune and just hope for the best. Razan gets cold at night, too, so don't think I'm happy about this, having to give them a possible beacon with my fire. What else am I supposed to do, I can't use magic. It's all blood, sweat, and tears for this girl. But mostly it's the sweat.
I should probably start winding down and doing a double check of my notes and design. I'm almost certain this engine will work based on what I've seen barreling down on us from the drakes. Half of their own war machines are stolen and grafted on bits form the dwarves, and they're at least competent in their handiwork, so modifying the magic ore processor into a steam and fuel based one should be okay. I just wish I had a chance to test it all out once before having to fly it straight into battle, but there's no safe way of doing so. Once it's up, that's the end, they'll invade. I'll just have to trust my intuition on this as a machinist and pray for the best, really.
I'm tired. I'm rambling. Both go hand in hand. I need to rest up and make my ears clean and ready to be filled with the sweet song of a screaming leather-scout. Oh, the slurs and insults she'll yell, the hissing and spitting that shall be had from her gross little mouth. Good thing I can wait to shower until after I get all her secrets out of her, I'm going to be coated in lizard spittle. I wonder if they're ticklish, I could just torture her with it and get her to spread 'em so I can sketch 'em for my wing ideas. Maybe trick her into breathing flames to cook my lunch with and watch how it spreads the fire around.
This just occurred to me: You'd think they'd not need warplanes if they can already fly, but they're stupid, greedy bastards. They're just showing off is all. I'm literally surrounded by children! They don't have steam engines in their stomachs, do they? Too bad I'll never get the chance to gut one and find out. Even I'm not that low and angry. Besides, it'd just mess up my nice cape, and I quite happen to like my cape a lot. The bastard that ruins it will fill a grave nice and deep, I assure you.
I better sleep so I have enough energy to do this and go shopping. Should be a good, productive day ahead of me. For once. My dream is one step closer to becoming a beautiful reality!
The life of a genius inventor is hard. And smelly.
-Basira Nejam
Dated first day of the third week of spring in the year 367 since Saint Alicia martyred herself, praise be to her
You can friend me on site here
Words In This Update - 2022
Total Words So Far - 2022
The way the rag dances through my fingers has always been a feeling I've enjoyed far too much in my time alive. How old and brittle it is, caked in grime and oil, reeking of my own salted sweat and musk, discolored from layers of soot and singe marks. Disgusting. By all means I should be grossed out by it and have thrown it out ages ago, but it's come this far without being torn. It stays. I don't care how much dirt it gets under my fingernails or how much the elders side-eye me for latching onto it like a child, you don't just toss friends like that to the wayside.
Besides, it's green. Green's a nice color and not one you see much of in the desert. Reminds me that there's actual life beyond these wastelands . Life worth seeking out and exploring.
Anyways, enough about my rag, lest someone find this entry someday and think I was sleeping with it or something with the way I'm waxing poetic like one of those whiner bards about it. I don't think there's enough grain alcohol on this planet to get me to talk like that consistently. I don't know how they ever put up filling the air with such useless gibberish, but that's neither here nor there.
I ran it over the barrel of The Marshal and grinned, baring my teeth and making my ears stretch out and wiggle a bit, keeping a look out for any more of them. Perhaps I could scare them off before having to waste any more ammo; that shit can be a bitch to make sometimes. What with my forge alerting their scaly asses to my position with its glowing and how much scrap I don't have to spare sometimes. If only they'd fight me face-to-face like real warriors, I'd plant my heated tongs up their tailpipes and use their horns to melt and pour into my bullet mold, pouring it back down their throat.
….This diary entry keeps getting away from me. It's been a rough day. Venting feels good, though. To anyone centuries later who may be perusing this, I would say I'm sorry, but honestly, I'm not. Perhaps it'd give you some insight as to what exactly it is the Stormlock tribe went through.
I'd had to waste three of those bullets to down one of their scouts and disable their wings enough to capture them, throwing my cape on them and wrestling with them viciously in the sand. Got dirt in my ears again. Dragged her stupid, inept leathery head back with me and threw her in the prisoner's wagon. I found some hauling rope in my heap and locked her to the side of it, making sure that she was just uncomfortable enough to hate my guts but not so much I couldn't hear her wonderful thoughts on the matter.
The Marshal got a complete cleaning, making sure it was locked back up on my back strap safely and disengaged before returning to my work I had been doing before I was so rudely interrupted. Those damnable flamesniffers don't have a lick of sense to them and wouldn't think twice about not asking permission first. At least us elves have manners and honor and all that. Then again, we're normal. The tailhumpers are the real abominations. Everyone knows the reason the mines are empty nowadays is their greed.
I went to go speak with the elders and let them know we'd be keeping an enemy captive for a while and that since I was the lucky one to bag them, I'd eventually go milk her for information. Even if the thought of milking them in any way makes me want to retch up my lemonade. I just made a fresh batch of that this morning, it doesn't need to be spoiled already! Perhaps I need some to rinse the foul taste of the scout's ambush out of my mouth with.
The kids who were near me at the time of attack were thankfully okay. Praise our Lady Laeshann they were okay, or the damnable winged serpents would have been lucky to have just been skinned and turned into my armor.
Note to self: maybe clip some of their wings for use as my own design's wings. Study them further, at least. Maybe sketch out the scout's and poke them a bit, see how they work. Note to self the sequel: maybe add a flamethrowing mechanism to the design to give 'em all a taste of their own medicine with. Also, note to self: Just don't make it smell like them.
Other than that incident, it was largely an uneventful day. I almost got a nail through my foot when a bird tried to nest in my frazzled hair and surprised me. I'm an elf, not a tree bedder. All those terrible things you here about elves hating steel and not wanting anything to do with fun ever? Fascist lies. The only time live birds are nice are when I can steal flight patterns off of them, otherwise, their only use is to be my dinner. Sweet, sweet roasted hawk cooked in sauce made from fresh pressed Razan wolf peppers and citrus. I think I'll have that to celebrate tonight. I hope I have enough peppers left from fuel making for it. Maybe I should attempt to wash my hair more than once a week so they don't mistake my hair for a nest anymore. You think the smell of singed strands would put them off. Stupid birds. Being stupid. Bah.
Note to self: Don't write bah out, you look stupid. Like a bird.
We're also not terribly far off from the Tolin Oasis. There's a bazaar there this time of year and I could probably haggle for some much needed parts there without much trouble. The merchants there tend to like giving good deals to those that can actually talk to them more than just negotiating for worst price and lining their pockets. Maybe they're just lonely. Maybe they find richness in conversation.
...Maybe that sounds terrible and cheesy. Either way, they'll probably have something pitched in their tents and...
That sounds pornographic. Future historians know now, I'm not that kind of woman. That's what wrenches are for. Anyways. A shopping list might be smart to make.
-More fruit. Specifically citrus, but something that's harder to find out here like melons might be good.
-Bird skewers
-Earplugs
-Bread and honey
-Oil
-Screws and nails and a screwdriver
-Maybe something kind of tacky like a fake skull to use as a cup
-Sack of potatoes to make batteries with
-Engine chains
I can only hope I have enough ducats for it. If not, I'll trade some of the dwarven geo-cannon shells I've gotten bits of for it. Those still have a bit of charge in them, but fuck if my elf blood can't make sense of how to do it. Damn those beards, if anyone in this world's the nature freaks, it's them and their reclusive faces. I heard the gods gave them the mountains and at first they were round but became cragged and gnarled as they shaped them to look like the fur coats they proudly display on their chins. Our Lady Laeshann may be a good one, but damn if she's not odd at times.
Maybe I should pick up The Marshal a treat as well. He's been a good boy lately, so maybe I'll see what kind of paint job I can get for him. Restore that old world wooden look to his barrel and butt, make all the ladies swoon like the gentleman he is. Too bad guns can't wear hats, but then it'd be really unfair to everyone as no woman would be able to resist him ever. Our species would be doomed.
I should also finish working on the light plated helms and back plates for the large dune cats with us. I learned a lot about the structure of it making my own platecoat armor, and making sure that the damnable scaleshitters don't one-shot them while we take them out to help us hunt for our meals. Those stupid hair loving hawks won't kill themselves, you know. Diving into me and having me kill it in frustration doesn't quite count as suicide, but it's close enough at this rate. Only the cats understand my pain. Sometimes the wolves do but they're so slobbery they'd just rust any cool suits of armor I'd give them; they make better guards.
I'll need to sleep next to the campfire tonight, propped up against my heap, one ear and one eye open. Again. I'll wake up angry and groggy, but that's what delicious desert coffee is intended to fix, and just one of the reasons why Our Lady Laeshann is a good one. But damn if I'm going to let them catch me off guard and take my scrap for themselves; I worked hard for it, they can too, though I'm unsure if they have words for 'an honest day's work' in their gross, guttural vocabularies. It all sounds the same to me, angry and confused and stupid. I'll have to cover it in a tarp and wheel the wagon holding it over behind a dune and just hope for the best. Razan gets cold at night, too, so don't think I'm happy about this, having to give them a possible beacon with my fire. What else am I supposed to do, I can't use magic. It's all blood, sweat, and tears for this girl. But mostly it's the sweat.
I should probably start winding down and doing a double check of my notes and design. I'm almost certain this engine will work based on what I've seen barreling down on us from the drakes. Half of their own war machines are stolen and grafted on bits form the dwarves, and they're at least competent in their handiwork, so modifying the magic ore processor into a steam and fuel based one should be okay. I just wish I had a chance to test it all out once before having to fly it straight into battle, but there's no safe way of doing so. Once it's up, that's the end, they'll invade. I'll just have to trust my intuition on this as a machinist and pray for the best, really.
I'm tired. I'm rambling. Both go hand in hand. I need to rest up and make my ears clean and ready to be filled with the sweet song of a screaming leather-scout. Oh, the slurs and insults she'll yell, the hissing and spitting that shall be had from her gross little mouth. Good thing I can wait to shower until after I get all her secrets out of her, I'm going to be coated in lizard spittle. I wonder if they're ticklish, I could just torture her with it and get her to spread 'em so I can sketch 'em for my wing ideas. Maybe trick her into breathing flames to cook my lunch with and watch how it spreads the fire around.
This just occurred to me: You'd think they'd not need warplanes if they can already fly, but they're stupid, greedy bastards. They're just showing off is all. I'm literally surrounded by children! They don't have steam engines in their stomachs, do they? Too bad I'll never get the chance to gut one and find out. Even I'm not that low and angry. Besides, it'd just mess up my nice cape, and I quite happen to like my cape a lot. The bastard that ruins it will fill a grave nice and deep, I assure you.
I better sleep so I have enough energy to do this and go shopping. Should be a good, productive day ahead of me. For once. My dream is one step closer to becoming a beautiful reality!
The life of a genius inventor is hard. And smelly.
-Basira Nejam
Dated first day of the third week of spring in the year 367 since Saint Alicia martyred herself, praise be to her
