Author Note: Honesty; this story is actually a reboot of another, long-abandoned project as part of a wider clean-up/resurrection of my Fanfiction writing. I hope this doesn't unduly turn anybody away.

Chp. I: A Son of Sechs

Far into the mainland, far from the sound of crashing waves, the elegant canals of Water city, and pleasant wilderness of Trampoli, lies a city nature forgot.

Tales are told of it about the fire of small villages, yes; tales which grown wilder and more fantastic the farther out into the wilderness one goes. Tales of glittering towers of stone, the hustle and bustle of tens of thousands of people, and the wondrous contraptions constructed there, things the local blacksmith could only dream of building. Lights which burned brightly throughout the night, and the vastness of the riches that could be found there. A place of great magicians, tinkerers, and nobility, many children would take it into their dreams at night, hoping one day they could scrape together the money to view its majesty. To them, nowhere on earth could possibly be better.

Of course, like all other bedtime stories, the luster of these dreams quickly faded when the truth was known. In truth, the city was less of a glittering gemstone and more a heart of beating iron, its lights not gold but the ruddy red of ash and smelted iron. Its great towers of stone spewed smoke into the air to blanket the streets in a perpetual cloud and the people in a black coat. Its wheels never ceased to turn: foundries ringing and furnaces blazing for endless years, seeing many faces come and go, to turn out the wonders of metalwork and electricity; all the appliances and equipment that bettered the lives of man the continent over. The people went about in thankless obscurity, living their lives as best they could among the squalor and stink. It was the ultimate sacrifice; a place where man has condemned himself to never see the sky for the advancement of his people.

The name of that city is Ceolbald. Its people had no name. After all, how could the monolith to the Sechs way of life be built of anything but the faceless, soul-dead drones Noradians imagined them as? They were little more than parts in that vast clockwork contraption, pieces to be used, worn, and replaced. A cog needs no name, nor a piston. They possessed a purpose, assigned by the faceless lords of hunger and gold, which most dejectedly accepted: never knowing what lay beyond the smog that coated their city.

And, to those who did not accept, all they could do was dream.

One of these cog's name was Calab.

In the western districts of Ceolbald, where the air was scalding to the skin and a tone of watery grey, there was a small factory. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other factory in the area: the same lifeless and rough concrete walls, same boxy shape, and precisely four stories in height with a pair of blackened smokestacks. At exactly 7:00 every morning, just like in every other district, the shrill shriek of the work whistles could be heard at each of their doors, where the downtrodden men, with their stained overalls and lunch pails, waited sleepily for that call. Great gates, wrought in curved design from black iron, would swing open, another group of men, backs and eyes slouching from their labor, marching out and past them, the two groups hardly acknowledging the other's existence. The men would report to their little two by two foot tile, beige underneath the iron dust and ash, and set about cutting this part, or attaching that part, to whatever was coming down the line, the next 12 hours repeating that precise action, numbing the brain until their brief, 15 minute lunch break at precisely noon. Then, when the clock hit exactly 7:00 at night, they would leave their two foot square, march off to the gate, and pass the same men who had left them that morning, again never looking their way.

Some would drink the pain away. They never seemed to run out of cheap alcohol, anywhere, and like as not any family would have one member who got piped every night. Others gambled with anything they could get their hands on; cloths, scrap, even free labor from their children or wives. Sporting, fighting, magicians, and every lowly pleasure one could imagine was open to them, should they still have the energy to enjoy it. Of course, no matter how well their escape worked, at 7:00 AM they would once again be there at the twisted gates, awaiting their place and their task.

Calab was 20, and he built Steamers.

Each day, he awoke at exactly 5:50 AM, as a force of habit. Pulling himself out of his torn, common as dirt pine green cot, he would stretch out the stiffness from his muscles, lean as they were. He would pass the four other cots in the same room, two of which would still be full, and head to the wash basin, where he would thick water and rinse as much of the grim out of his matted, dirty blond hair. He would then throw on an off-brown pair of overalls, apply his tooth powder, and settle down for a brief moment. His breakfast consisted of pickled turnip, boiled spinach, or corn meal, depending on the season, and he'd fill up his lunch pail before, like everybody else, he hustled to the factory, waiting among the faceless mass for his place.

However, if you had seen him there, there would have been something just a little different about him. It was is posture, not quite as slouched over as the rest. Or his eyes, the emerald green crisp and clear beside the clouded look of others. He went in with the rest, took his spot, and preformed is function; managing a mold which made Steamer tops. He ate with everybody else, worked just as long, and left at the same time. But he was not hopeless.

Calab was opening up the lead mold for what must have been the thousandth time that day, fingers deftly flipping open the latches and removing yet another rounded, iron dome that would top somebody's steamer. He placed it onto the conveyer belt, the metal still slightly hot to the touch, his other hand twisting the faucet for another bath of ice water, the cold liquid flooding out of the piping and filling the area around the mold, as a stream of molten metal dripped down from above, filling in the vessel again. It was a constant cycle; the metal came down hot, the water cold, only to make the metal cool and solid and the water hot steam. He'd grown used to the feeling over the past few years, however, so it was only a dull burning, the leather coverings he wore keeping his skin well protected. In half a minute, he knew the top would be ready again, but until then, he was free.

However, even as he waited, the sound he'd been hoping for came. Strong and sharp, the whistle rang through the complex, a song to everybody's ears. The metal stopped dripping, the water running, and after emptying it one final time, the mold stood empty, for a time.

His spirit bolstered, Calab walked swiftly and solidly past the work stations, outpacing his coworkers quite well. He passed half-made ovens and huge coils of wire, and the people who had made them. Yet, he didn't pay any attention, smiling as he went along. Indeed, he actually whistled softly to himself, as he approached the gates, giving a smile to the entering laborers. None of them returned the gesture.

"Mother!" he swung open the door to the tenement, taking a deep, visible breath. "I'm home!"

There were two people in the room at the time; his mother Ellie and sister Rain. Ellie stood over the kitchen counter, though it was a generous term for the chipped wood slab, her hands busy on a pile of turnips. She was a bit heavyset, not aging particularly well, but still had a soft face and deep, blue eyes. Her dress was spun wool, heavily patched and grey, but it went with her skin quite well, and she never complained. "Well," she smiled as she looked at him, scratching at an itch he had on his arm. "You look in good spirits today. Did you get a pay raise?" Those last words lighting up her eyes.

He chuckled lightly, moving his hand up to rub at the shoulder. "Hardly," he watched as her eyes went back down… a familiar sight. "Don't worry though. It's not like I'm going to be on the bottom floor forever. Father isn't." His face turned to look over at the girl in the corner, huddled up next to the threadbare couch. "And how's my little sweetling doing?" He traveled over to her, that milky white face turning to him with a wide-eyed warmth.

"Big bruda!" she raised herself, standing a little bellow five feet; well over a head under him. She was 15 years old, soon to be 16, but you wouldn't know it if somebody told you about her. She wore a baby blue dress, white and frilly as was fashionable. She didn't dream of cloths, jewels, or boys like other girls her age did, though; her passions where coloring, make-believe, and her dolls; a well-kept elf princess with cascading blonde hair in her hand right then. It was almost as if she was still a child… but it wasn't as though he minded. Her shining strawberry blond hair, loosely wrapped in pigtails, signaled love and energy. However, right now she was gripping herself around his chest, snuggling in.

"That's quite enough." Ellie snapped at her, voice crisp and clear. "Get off your brother. Seriously," she turned over to him, reaching for another turnip as she slid the prepared slices into a bowl. "Calab, you need to stop supporting that kind of behavior. How will she ever find a good husband if she never learns to grow up." A sigh came from her lips, elbows resting on the counter as if exhausted.

"But mama!" She whined, looking over while gripping at him tighter. "Boys are icky! I don't wanna marry them. Big bruda," she looked up, begging. "Stop her."

"Mother, let the girl be." He patted her lightly on the head, slowly letting her back to the floor and draping his arm about her shoulder. "I'm sure she'll grow out of it in time. Not every girl has to marry at exactly 18 you know." He gave her a knowing look, settling himself into the chair. "You think Dad's on his way home?" He asked hopefully, trying to steer away the conversation, the salty stench of pickled turnip starting to making his stomach rumble. He'd almost forgotten how hungry he was, his mind wandering this way and that.

"Most likely," she pulled herself back up, realizing she had one more portion to prepare. "I did ask him to stop by the taphouse to pick up a bottle, though, so he may stay for a beer." On that note, the room became quiet and peaceful, Rain cuddling up into his side.

Reaching over, Calab picked up the book beside him, lain closed since the last night. On the cover was a vast ship, sails whiter than the overseers' handkerchiefs, cutting through high waves on the open seas. The Voyage of the Red Reavers, it was titled, a copy he'd picked up with his Summer bonus. It would be winter soon, he thought, before flipping open to his last page, clearing his throat, and reading aloud to the little girl next to him.

"The sun broke through the clouds as Captain Ezekial returned to the deck, his horn pointed north the approaching island. The smells of fresh bread and trees wafted over from the landmass, and in his heart, he knew this with the Fenith Island he was looking for…"

This was his second favorite thing in the world.

Dinner was always a very awkward time for the family.

Granted, it was the one point during their hectic days that, at least for a brief time, they could all sit down, smile, and be together. However, it was also the one point when everybody was at their most tired, the weight of the men's labors and the creeping dusk starting to pull them down. As such, Calab found it strange the amount of energy everybody seemed to have that night.

Rain was working into her pickled turnip with her traditional lack of manners, semi-mashed white bits sticking to her face as she hummed audibly at the taste. Ellie's eyes where focused forward at her husband, filling up with a sort of depressed look. Rain was digging into her food without a care in the world, little pink bits occasionally exiting her mouth and landing on the table. Calab himself was cutting and chewing without any real thought, his mind elsewhere at the moment, still sailing the seas atop the great wave-cutter, Red Reaver. Finally, sitting there with his slab back and chiseled face, was his father, Harden, his mere presence almost a noise in a and of itself, chewing quickly and efficiently.

Then an off sided belched, thick with the scent of beer, reminded him that Trygrog was there too.

Everybody's position at the table bore a certain meaning, at least to him. His father had always been the basis of the family, its spearhead into the world; it was only fitting he took the head. He was a foreman now; having worked his way out of the sandy grit of a glass-blower's bellows to looking after five dozen men on the floor. Granted, he could be a little harsh at times, but all in all he treated his family and co-workers fairly… which was more than could be said for some of the others.

Trygrog had his spot too, though for a different reason. Stout and red, his belly starting to show a slight bulge from his age, Trygrog had lived in this place longer then they had by far. While he did make a fair bit, he was also a victim of the obsession dwarfishness tends to instill. However, unlike other dwarves, who were obsessed with forging or mining or other productive things, his penchant was for drink. He wasn't really a part of the family, but as long as he paid his rent at least half the time, he was welcome there.

" 'scuse me," Trygrog apologized with a deep accent, slightly slurred by the alcohol in his system. Nodding, he took a small swing from the metal flask in his grip… gutrot, no doubt. Of course, the rest of the family quickly let the situation slid, Calab waving the lingering scent away from his nose, trying to keep his eyes away from the dwarf's browned smile.

"So, how was the glass today father?" Calab inquired, his tone a little subdued.

Harden gave a little noise, something half a chuckle and half a snort, looking up with a beady set of pine green eyes. "Ask that first. Boys your age should be thinking about things other than work this time of night." Scraping up his last bit of food and literally swallowing it whole, though, he was quick to oblige. " Reggie dropped today, all the dust finally getting to him. Set him up on three days' rest, half pay." The sound of a mystic's firework shot off in the background… somebody was trying to dazzle a few gold out of the workers again. "Other than that, thing where pretty smooth. Above our quota for the week, that's for sure." The communal bottle of wine; poor but cheap, was soon in his hands, topping off his own flask. "But how about you honey? Everything went well on the home front?" Father's smile was always powerful, his teeth straight and strong, if a bit yellowed. He never did anything half-heartedly, note even smile.

Ellie focused in, as if snapped out of her sleep, before responding. "Oh, it went just fine. The corner market was selling quite cheaply. Kardia had a good crop this season, it seems."

" 'as been a wee mild fir winter," Trygrog interrupted, hiccupping just before the first word. " Course, you never could tell here, wha with all the smog." He took in a deep breath, coughing it out as if to exaggerate the point."

Silence feel for a few minutes then, as Ellie looked down into her food, looking a tad embarrassed. Harden shrugged, standing up and stretching his arms behind his back. Slowly, surely, the meal was returning to a sense of normality. That is, until his mother looked up once again, swift and curt, interrupting his little indulgence in the wine.

"By the way, darling," her voice was extra sweet as their eyes connected… never a good sign. He swallowed the mouthful he'd been swishing for a while, to savor the lightly fruity flavor. "Yes?" He asked, fiddling with the last of his food, annoyance probing at the back of his mind.

"Well, I don't mean to inconvenience you," her face had Errand written all over it, causing him to mentally sigh, dejected. " It's just, you do know what tomorrow is, correct?"

One eye half-closing, he dug into his memory… it was so easy for him to lose track of the date, especially when he enjoyed his dreams so much. "Um…" She just kept looking at him, obviously refusing to let him get out, until he turned his head, Rain setting down her fork with a playful clang. Then, it struck him. "Maiden's day… right?" His voice certainly didn't sound sure, until he caught a little movement in her eye, telling him it was sound.

"Yes," she turned back to her food, as if it meant nothing. "And you do know how important this day is to your sister. She's just dying for a repeat of last year. And, well, I'm not allowed to attend, so I was wondering if perhaps."

He knew what she was going to ask; they went through this process every year. "The foreman already knows the drill, Mother," was his simple response. Maiden's day was so supposed to be a romantic holiday, to celebrate the purity of winter and the hope for spring, or some other such thing that hardly made sense since the factories came. Every maiden in the city was supposed to go out in pure white, giving away flowers to the local young men, in exchange for a kiss. Of course, there was a certain romance to it, and stories of couples meeting on this day abounded… alongside stories of bloody dresses. Fathers, mothers, and engaged person alike where bared from the festivities, though. That, and considering Rain's "Special Problem", he'd been escorting her for the past 5 years… all to little avail and more than one unsolicited kiss.

"Maiden's Day?" Rain perked up, suddenly excited. "I get to wear the white dress, right? Like the princess?" She gave a wide smile, giggling with glee in her chair. "Fun!"

His father and Trygon both gave loud, hardly laughs at that, almost shaking the walls with their combined jolliness. "Such a cute girl, big guy," Trygon lifted his flask to the air in a mock toast. "If only I where a hundred years younger."

"Oh, come on," Harden responded, slamming down on the table. "My little sugar isn't interested in grubby drinkers like you. A princess needs a prince in order to carry her away. Right?" He looked over at her, shaking his head lightly at the sweetness of it all.

"Ya," She leaned over, wiggling against Calab's side, causing him to shy away a bit. "My prince is right hear daddy." Her hair tickled a bit as it fell only his arms, smooth and soft. "When I grow up, we're gonna get married under a BIG tree. Right, Calab?" She looked up , eyes innocent.

Ignoring the scowl from his mother, he reached over and ran a hand through her hair, enough to get her to relax. "Of course, dear." He spoke quietly, trying to make it sound like a secret. "But it's supposed to be a surprise, remember?" She always got like this… but what could he expect?

"Right!" She looked up, shocked for having forgotten herself. "Where would I be witout you?" She stood up straight after that, lingering for only a brief moment, before going back to her food.

The rest of the night went by quickly.

After dinner, the family usually broke off to do their own things. His mother would sit down with her knitting; a pile of old cloths she bought at bargain always in need of touch-ups for her working men. The end of the center cot was usually taken up by his father, carving out interesting figures from blocks of wood when he wasn't handling work issues. Rain sat on the couch, drawing, for about an hour before receiving her kisses and sent off to bed, snuggled up under her thick blanket. Trygon would inevitably have taken to the streets, squandering what money he made on cards or more booze. And, like one might expect, Calab curled up with his books, continuing the grand adventures of The Horned Pirate.

The simple wonder of the Dragon shrine was not lost on the Captain, eyes gaze set on the aged marble. Yet, even that was nothing compared to the beast which stood before him, white and blue with wings fifty feet long, fangs glittering in the morning sun…

Then, sounding through the room, where the bells of the town clock, ringing out the hour. First one gong, then two, again and again until it reached 11… and thus signaling the end of his reading. Slipping in the red ribbon which marked his place, Calab returned the book gently to its place, a small yawn escaping as he once again went through his routine. Apply tooth powder, strip cloths, turn off light, set self into cot. The surface was a little lumpy, as he turned himself slightly to get just that right spot, eyelids dropping as he worked for sleep to claim him. It was a little difficult; his father snored, after all, but finally, he could feel his mind slipping.

Now, the real fun could begin.