The beautiful behemoth made up of iron and steel, forged by the laborers much like his father, rumbles underfoot. Jayce watched for months and months as the carrier was built tedious bolt after tedious bolt, all the while his patron constantly reminded him to keep his eyes on the Medarda Clan's interests, and not those of the Capitol. The look on Lady Kiramman's face when Ambessa Medarda herself asked for an audience over high noon tea and expressed her direct interest in Jayce himself joining her family aboard the world's newest and grandest venture yet still burns bright in the back of his mind.
He should be with Madame Medarda now, tucked carefully at Mel's side to receive audience in the grand hall, but he's managed to slip away in the cover of the commotion. With the ship at sea, rumbling its way toward Cherbourg, each deck and corridor buzz with people of all classes. Even he feels somewhat out of place in his Piltover regalia, not quite made of the same stuff as the Medardas, and not quite the same as those in the underbelly of the ship. His mother had waved him on proudly from the shore, tears in her eyes, and he canβt help but wonder if thatβs exactly where he should be: on solid ground with her. But she had always known he would be made for bigger, better things.
He's not so sure.
The smell of salt and sea burns his nose as he steps out of the first class lounge and out onto the main deck, the sun bright and warming his skin. The waves lap hungrily at the belly of the beast and he spends a long time staring out over the rail, a leather-bound journal tucked under his arm, as though protecting it from falling into the spinning propellers below. He half expects for Lady Kiramman herself to slip out and tug him by the elbow, sternly beckoning him back inside to meet those important to the Council, to speak on the innovations and ideas he has for building bigger, better things than the Titanic itself.
How he could ever stand up to this? He doesn't know. Heβs not sure he wants to.
Instead of waiting for the inevitable trap, he wanders the decks, weaves his way into second class, then third, covertly slipping through doors left ajar by staff and crew, letting conduit and piping and circuitry guide him through the ship like each piece of brass and iron pointed straight into the heart of the ship itself.
Jayce knows that the moment he steps into the engine room, he's come too far. The turbine groans, the engines hiss as the pressure gauge rises and falls, rhythmically pushing the ship through the unruly waves, but he's completely enamored by every turnbuckle, every winch, every piston. So caught up is he that he barely registers someone else might be in the room with him, and that he, Jayce Talis, esteemed invited company of the Medarda and Kiramman Clan, should not at all be in the engine room.
The groan of the door, the sound of shuffled feet on the floor sends him reeling. He turns around and drops the bound journal on the ground, the covers fluttering open, revealing a smattering of sketches and scribbled notes- some mechanical, some of the tides, some of the patrons on the ship. ]
Sorry, I... well, I think I'm lost.
[ He's a bad liar, he doesn't sound at all like he even believes himself, and he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, smearing grease at his nape. ]
Just, ah, these are the engines, right? Triple expansion, steam powered? Single turbine, coal fueled? [ His white suit bears smudges of grease and oil, coal soot dusting his sleeves. He's not only been to the engine room, but all over the belly of the ship unsupervised. Jayce offers a weak, half-encouraging smile before scrambling for his journal and the pages askew on the filthy floor. ]
πππππ ππππ;
The beautiful behemoth made up of iron and steel, forged by the laborers much like his father, rumbles underfoot. Jayce watched for months and months as the carrier was built tedious bolt after tedious bolt, all the while his patron constantly reminded him to keep his eyes on the Medarda Clan's interests, and not those of the Capitol. The look on Lady Kiramman's face when Ambessa Medarda herself asked for an audience over high noon tea and expressed her direct interest in Jayce himself joining her family aboard the world's newest and grandest venture yet still burns bright in the back of his mind.
He should be with Madame Medarda now, tucked carefully at Mel's side to receive audience in the grand hall, but he's managed to slip away in the cover of the commotion. With the ship at sea, rumbling its way toward Cherbourg, each deck and corridor buzz with people of all classes. Even he feels somewhat out of place in his Piltover regalia, not quite made of the same stuff as the Medardas, and not quite the same as those in the underbelly of the ship. His mother had waved him on proudly from the shore, tears in her eyes, and he canβt help but wonder if thatβs exactly where he should be: on solid ground with her. But she had always known he would be made for bigger, better things.
He's not so sure.
The smell of salt and sea burns his nose as he steps out of the first class lounge and out onto the main deck, the sun bright and warming his skin. The waves lap hungrily at the belly of the beast and he spends a long time staring out over the rail, a leather-bound journal tucked under his arm, as though protecting it from falling into the spinning propellers below. He half expects for Lady Kiramman herself to slip out and tug him by the elbow, sternly beckoning him back inside to meet those important to the Council, to speak on the innovations and ideas he has for building bigger, better things than the Titanic itself.
How he could ever stand up to this? He doesn't know. Heβs not sure he wants to.
Instead of waiting for the inevitable trap, he wanders the decks, weaves his way into second class, then third, covertly slipping through doors left ajar by staff and crew, letting conduit and piping and circuitry guide him through the ship like each piece of brass and iron pointed straight into the heart of the ship itself.
Jayce knows that the moment he steps into the engine room, he's come too far. The turbine groans, the engines hiss as the pressure gauge rises and falls, rhythmically pushing the ship through the unruly waves, but he's completely enamored by every turnbuckle, every winch, every piston. So caught up is he that he barely registers someone else might be in the room with him, and that he, Jayce Talis, esteemed invited company of the Medarda and Kiramman Clan, should not at all be in the engine room.
The groan of the door, the sound of shuffled feet on the floor sends him reeling. He turns around and drops the bound journal on the ground, the covers fluttering open, revealing a smattering of sketches and scribbled notes- some mechanical, some of the tides, some of the patrons on the ship. ]
Sorry, I... well, I think I'm lost.
[ He's a bad liar, he doesn't sound at all like he even believes himself, and he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, smearing grease at his nape. ]
Just, ah, these are the engines, right? Triple expansion, steam powered? Single turbine, coal fueled? [ His white suit bears smudges of grease and oil, coal soot dusting his sleeves. He's not only been to the engine room, but all over the belly of the ship unsupervised. Jayce offers a weak, half-encouraging smile before scrambling for his journal and the pages askew on the filthy floor. ]
Right. I'm... definitely lost.