Steel In
The Blood
One
Forging
Author's Notes: This is the character backstory for my Iron Kingdoms character, Kasmira Mekevich. She's an Arcane Mechanik/Bodger (works with mechanical and magical items). The Iron Kingdoms is a D&D / D20 supplement by Privateer Press, and is in the same world as the WarMachine / Hordes wargames. It's an absolutely kickass setting, commonly described as 'steam-punk': an Industrial Revolution with magic. Check out www(dot)privateerpress(dot)com.
I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: I don't own D&D, D20, Iron Kingdoms, or any of their associated trademarks. But I do love them to pieces.
A man, tall and dark, leans over the workbench, carefully turning a small spanner. As the tool spins, the prongs of the arcane condenser come together, cradling the accumulator that sits in the condenser's cradle. One final, careful pull on the spanner assures the mechanik of the fit, and he steps back, "There we are, ready. Have I missed anything, Kasmira?" The rolling vowels and consonants of the Khadoran language make his voice deep, rich, and comforting to the small girl who perches on the workbench.
The girl – Kasmira – shakes her dark head with all the solemnity that a seven-year-old can muster. "No, Father, I do not think you have." The man smiles, agreeing. "No, I do not think I have," he grins, then places his hands on the condenser. "Goggles."
The girl pulls down a miniature pair of mechanik's goggles from on top of her head, fitting them expertly and quickly. "Done," she smiles, and leans forward, watching with the intent curiosity that only children can have, as her father begins chanting carefully.
Magic builds up on his hands, the familiar red light of an Umbrean spellcaster's magic, and is sucked into the condenser. Golden lightning swirls up about the prongs of the condenser, dancing across the accumulator. The coils inside it begin to glow, blue-white light beginning to swirl inside. The glow grows brighter and brighter, until it is the familiar, intense, blue-rimmed white of a fully-charged accumulator.
The man ceases chanting as the accumulator goes to full charge, taking his hands off the condenser, extra charge arcing off his fingers as he gently unscrews the condenser's prongs and lifts out the accumulator. "All done!" the girl squeals, excitably, bouncing down off the bench, little boots hitting the ground with scarcely a thump. "Can I hold it, Father? Please?"
Ivdan smiles down at his daughter, "Gloves on first." The girl bounces off, coming back pulling on a pair of heavy gloves that are still a little too big for her. The father crouches, carefully placing the accumulator in Kasmira's outstretched hands. The little girl's eyes widen in wonder and in pride as the pulse of light from the arcane object flickers and synchronises with her heartbeat. "Father, look! It likes me!"
The man grins proudly down at her, "I told you that you would make a good mechanik. Do you want to show your mother?"
"Do you want to show your mother what?" The woman strolling around the corner is tall, slim, and blonde, and speaks the language of Khador with a slight, odd accent.
"Look, Mother!" the girl squeals, bouncing over to her mother, holding out the accumulator. "It likes me! And Father said that I'd make a great mechanik!" Unconsciously, the girl has switched to the tongue of Cygnar. "Excellent, Kasmira!" Ashla replies, smiling and picking her daughter up.
Ivdan scoops the accumulator out of the girl's hands. "Right, I will just put this away…" "And I'll wash up, then we can start supper. Right?" "You read my mind, love."
"Mother," says Kasmira, as Ashla carries her up the set of stairs to the small set of rooms above the garage that is their home, "I wanna be a mechanik."
"Of course you do." Ashla smiles. "We'll start lessons soon."
---
Kasmira grins smugly down at the accumulator nestled neatly in its cradle, pats it one last time, then swings the cover closed, and it engages with a neat click. She picks up the shield and places it on the bench face-down, displaying the neatly-welded cover and conduits arcing to the edges of the shield.
"Father! Come and look!" she yells up the stairs. A few minutes later, her father emerges in a rumpled and slightly oil-stained red overall, pulling on a voluminous brown coat, hair sleep-tousled. "Why are you up at this hour, Kasya? And why are you yelling so loud?"
The girl steps out of the way, revealing the item she'd been working on since the early hours of the morning. "You said you had to get it finished by today, Father. And I know that you have other things to do more urgently. So I thought…"
Ivdan's only comment is to frown down at his daughter, and the delighted, proud glow starts to fade. She begins explaining, gabbling fast and trying to get out of trouble. "I am sorry, Father, I followed all the plans, and I used the parts you were going to, and I was really careful with the rune plates, and I did not touch the condenser, just the accumulator, and…" her voice peters out and she waits with bated breath as her father steps forward, lifts the cover, and begins flicking through the components, twisting at welds, tapping at the conduits, testing the flow of arcane power through the device with small probes of magic.
Eventually, he replaces the components, flicks the cover closed, and steps back. His face is still forbidding, and Kasmira bows her head, waiting for the lecture that is sure to descend on her head. "The workmanship is good. The placement of components is passable. The flow of power is good." The girl looks up, and her expression is disbelieving.
Her father gives her a tight smile. "You did well here, Kasmira. But despite your talent and the lessons we have been giving you, you are only fifteen. This time you were lucky – if you had placed that single-charge enhancement plate a finger's width to the left, you would have broken the flow between it and the accumulator, and that would have required an entire reworking of both the plate and its conduits. You've never worked with four rune plates before, and I wanted to supervise you. Also… had this gone wrong, I would have been blamed. And I get few enough commissions, as you know."
Kasmira is nodding, her expression shamefaced. She stands, alternately looking down at the open shield and her feet for a long, awkward minute. Then she ventures a question, tentatively. "If I had placed the second conduit from the single-charge plate to the accumulator through here," she points out an unused section between the accumulator and the second rune plate, "would it have had enough space to add a hybrid socket instead of a trickle socket?"
Her father smiles down at her, a real smile, which she doesn't notice because she is once again concentrating on the mechanika before her. It is nearly half an hour before Ashla comes down the stairs, and finds the two of them intensely engaged in picking apart an ancient shock shield, comparing it to the new one, and drawing new plans for innovations. The lanterns have been extinguished, and the chill winter's morning light now pours in through the open garage door. Snow sparkles outside the garage, contrasting to the magical warmth of the garage. Even with the slight chill breeze that slides through even that protection – for magic has yet to be developed that fully combats Khadoran winter – the garage is still filled with gentle warmth.
"Talking about mechanika without me?" she inquires, coughing hoarsely once and pulling her thick coat about her tighter. The other two look up, seeing her coming across the floor. Her face is tight with cold, and her face is far paler than the ruddy tan that they are familiar with.
"Oh, sorry, love, I did not mean to wake you…" Ivdan begins apologising, but Ashla smiles, and replies, "Do not worry. I merely came to tell you both that breakfast is ready. After that, we can all speak of mechanika." The odd accent is still there in her Khadoran, but after fifteen years, it is as fluent as her husband's.
Kasmira grins, and replies, "Great, Mother, I'll be ready in a bit, gotta finish a connection here."
Ashla smiles at her daughter's fluency in her own native tongue. "Then I'll see you shortly," she replies, in the same language, and turns, returning back up the stairs.
Ivdan smiles wryly, oddly proud that her wife has retained her ability in her native tongue, and taught her daughter the same fluency. Then he hears her try to conceal another cough as she enters the rooms, and the smile fades. "Kasya, close the garage door, please. We need all the warmth we can get – your mother's cough is getting worse."
---
The spring thaw is just coming, as the slick shimmer of water over the river ice tells. But the only liquid Kasmira can pay any attention to are the salty tears that drip slowly over her eyelashes.
Her father stands at her side, staring down into the grave as the pallbearers lower the casket gently. Father Vassily speaks the litany, his voice a gentle buzz – and in the back of her mind, Kasmira registers that the man really means it when he prays that Ashla Mekevich find a place at the feet of Menoth. The old man flicks over the next page of the book, and his white tabard snaps and cracks in the icy spring wind.
They'd been half-expecting, half-dreading this since Ashla had collapsed in the garage while working on a workhorse 'jack. Ivdan had confined her to bed then, pampering her with fur blankets, tasty hot meals, and roaring fires.
But it had been too late – the illness had settled in her chest, and even the meagre healing that Father Vassily could bestow had not been enough.
The other mourners are long gone when Ivdan finally turns from the graveside, and stumps back down to the garage. Kasmira follows, feeling lost and forgotten. When her father immediately begins to work on the workhorse's arm, she creeps up the stairs and hides under the covers of her bed.
It is late, very late, before Ivdan wrenches himself away from the mind-numbing work. Turning off the valves of the garage lanterns, he mounts the stairs, trying his best to be quiet. He steps to the door of Kasmira's room, and sees the lantern still flickering dully. He steps over to the small table where it sits, looking down at his daughter as he does so. Her pillow is damp, and her expression in sleep is not peaceful but troubled. He sighs once, pulls the blankets over her, and turns off the lantern, going to the mound of blankets he has piled on the bench in the kitchen.
Author's Notes: I hope you enjoyed it... any criticisms, feel free to send via review or email.
I'll post more on request.