12.01.3013: Housebroken
Summary: Anabethe, Victor, and Devon visit a local factory.
Date: 16 November, 2013
Related: A Battle, A Bomb, A Priest
Victor Devon Anabethe 

Broadaxe Industries, Volkan
In opening pose
1 December, 3013

Broadaxe Industries is a micro-factory, a series of individual smithies that have become a conglomeration to share resources. As the name implies, they are a creator of fine — but still affordable — weaponry. Even an inspection by Young Lady Khournas is not enough to still the triphammers, although the production has been limited, allowing those inspecting and being inspected to speak. Victor is tagging along, because he's a Drake, not because his newly pregnant wife is along. That's certainly what he would say, and as if to prove the point, he's got a stogie going, smoldering in one corner of his mouth as he moves around, keeping his hands behind his back as he studies some of the product, hefting a fine longsword like a feather. "Nice pigsticker."

Devon has done all she can to encourage her husband to find suitable places to smoke his cigars, so she has decided to let this one go. She strides alongside Anabethe as they are escorted through the factory. She is dressed modestly without flowing, fluttering silk that is her standard. She keeps her hands behind her back as she moves, head tilting up toward the ceilings before her gaze drops to the sword. She smirks. "Pigsticker?" She inquires dryly.

Anabethe should probably not be out just yet. But she's been hooked up to machines for over a week now, so as soon as she didn't need help to breathe, she insisted on getting out. Just out. Anywhere that wasn't the hospital or a bed. And a factory will do just fine for that. Granted, her ribs are still tightly wrapped, and she's still not breathing easily, but she can move slowly. "What Vic means is, that's a high quality weapon, and we're doing everything we can to make sure places like these stay safe," she drawls, dry.

Victor nods at Devon's inquiry, "Pigsticker. Sword. Better'n calling it a toothpick." He grins, and mimes picking his teeth with the point. He is not, however, crazy enough to actually use a mono-edged blade to clean between his teeth. Nodding to Anabethe, he gives the blade another cut, then passes it back to one of the workers. "We ain't gonna let any of the Hosties get in here." That's for the worker, and then he looks back to Anabethe, "I'd offer you a cigar, 'Bethe, but I don't think you've got enough breath for smoke right 'bout now, eh?"

Devon smirks. "I sense you are casting judgement on the weapon," the woman says dryly to Victor before she offers him a more casual smile. She glances toward Anabethe, a bit of worry touching her features. "Are you sure you are okay to be out and about, Bethe? I feel it is my professional nature that I should express some concern…" She smirks. "Plus, your father would probably hold me responsible for you taking on any sort of duties in your state."

"Bite me," Anabethe grumbles to Victor, pressing a hand carefully against her side. "Besides, you know I don't care much for them anyhow. Because whatever the docs tell you about what they can do for your lungs after you smoke them, I'd like to keep my lungs in good condition. Easier to patch them when I put holes in them that way," she adds with a faint smirk, still walking as she shakes her head to Devon. "I'll be all right. I've had broken ribs before."

Victor nods definitively at Devon, "Yup. The Hosties layer on the armor. I like somethin' with a little more heft." His right hand swats the head of his axe, and he collects his cigar and grasps it in one hand as he points two fingers at his cousin, "And don't even start with the double entendres on that." Yes, he knows that term. Taking another draw from the stogie, he blows the smoke up, "I go in for checkups. They clean things up. It's worth the trouble."

"So critical," Devon says with a laugh toward Victor. "You would think that you would be happy for whatever weapon it takes to kill a Hostile…" Then she sighs deeply at the discussion on the cigars. "I tried to explain to him that, that isn't how it works," she says softly. "He will have to stop smoking in our apartments though…" She casts him a wife look that has a hint of Castellan at the corners. Then she smiles toward Bethe, if not a bit wanely. "And I don't think that was just broken ribs, Bethe…"

"Vic's getting housebroke," Anabethe singsongs at Devon's words, smile tugging at one corner of her lips. "And I know. Punctured lung. Sword nicked my clavicle. Could've nicked an artery, too. Must be more careful. Armor in bad shape. And so forth. Had to hold the line, though," she says stubbornly.

Victor shrugs helplessly at Devon's commentary, "I'll kill 'em with my teeth if I have to. I'd just rather use somethin' effective." He grunts at the chastising of his smoking habit, "Hey. I like it. Even if I can't smoke in my own damn room since it might hurt the baby." Anabethe's sing-songing causes Vic to snort, "Yeah. Real fuckin' mature, you grubby, cootie-carryin' girl."

"Oh, yes… punctured lung," Devon says, smirking a bit as she takes another step forward along the factory line. She glances over toward the pair of Khourni after a moment. She shakes her head. "Now, now… I don't want to have to take you both back home." She shakes her head with a smirk, but then her expression softens. "I have only heard about what happened with the bombings, Bethe… how are you doing?"

"I don't think I ever claimed maturity," Anabethe snorts to Victor in turn. "That might be a bit much to expect." She walks slowly, twisting a strange, very plain ring on her index finger as she goes. "I'm fine, though," she continues to Devon, looking over with a flash of a smile. "I hurt like hell, and I'm going to start pushing drills about holding a damned line and following orders in battle, but we made it out all right."

Victor chuckles at Devon, the sound resonating from low in his chest, "What, you gonna turn this crawler around if we don't behave?" He puffs idly on his cigar, "Oh, yeah… I forgot. You don't even pretend to be mature. Very mature of you." He's just on a roll now, although the mention of drills causes him to grimace, "Shit. Who's fucking around now? Some idiot trying to make a name for themselves by jumpin' into the middle of the Hosties and draggin' everyone else into the shit?"

"You two are both exceptionally mature," Devon says with a wry smirk. Then she releases a bit of a sigh as she reaches to rub at her low back thoughtfully. She glances toward Anabethe at her description of the events, and she frowns. "I'm guessing that there weren't that many Khourni there," she says airly. Then she rolls her shoulders. "The wounded were severe. What happened?"

"Oh, there were Khourni," Anabethe grimaces. "They just got distracted. Couldn't decide who could do what. Nitrim's so fixed on proving himself he insisted on watching my back from right next to me. Reena got hit early. Some other civilians. And Bianka was about ready to run off the line to follow Thalo to the bomb."

Victor shrugs helplessly at Devon's teasing, "Mature's boring as fuck." Gathering his cigar back into one corner of his mouth, he reaches out to rest one hand on the back of Devon's neck, blunt fingers rubbing gently. "When have you ever known 'Trim not to go after somethin' he wants? He's got the dedication down. Just needs to work on the think-then-act thing." And he's one to talk. His broad shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug, "And the Ibrahms are great, but they worry too much about maneuver. Not about holdin' a line and kickin' ass in place."

Devon blinks. "Reena was there?" She asks, her voice earnestly worried. She grimaces. "I suppose that means she wasn't at Kadmus's bedside, but…" Her shoulders deflate a bit and then she sighs. She regards Victor with a slight frown before she touches his wrist gently as he rubs at the back of her neck. She then shakes her head a bit. "I take it there were no actual fatalities though?"

"Just Hostiles," Anabethe answers Devon with a grim smile. "But it was close. And the factory was lost, which certainly doesn't make a win of it." She takes a few more steps, passing to consider a halberd. "Do you think Dad would consider it if I told him I wanted to be a Knight Lieutenant?" she asks, looking up to both of them. "I mean. Jarek's one, and he's an heir. And I think I've earned it."

Victor blinks in slight surprise at the touch of Devon's hand on his arm, as if surprised his hand is even at the back of her neck at all. But he shakes that off quickly enough, nodding at Anabethe's statement, "Guess it's a good thing the boss-man put another Company on patrol. If the scouts are starting to bomb shit, that's bad news." The question that follows causes him to grunt thoughtfully, "Guess you could ask Uncle Jeb for a recommendation. How come you want the rank, 'Bethe? Never needed it before."

Devon arches up her brows a bit at the surprised look from the Khourni. There is even a hint of amusement in the glass of her eyes. Then she turns her attention back toward Bethe as she talks about the rank, and there is a faint frown on her lips. She nods a bit with Victor. "I mean, I'm certain that Jevon would consider it, Bethe… but you shouldn't compare yourself to Jarek." She tilts her head, giving the Young Lady a chance to answer Victor's question.

"That's the point," Anabethe grimaces to Victor. "I don't want people to follow me just because I'm the Young Lady. I don't want to be…outside of the chain of command, in some weird limbo where people have to respect me as heir, but don't know whether or not they ought to listen to me in the field. It's dangerous. It's messy." She starts to reach up, then winces as it pulls on her shoulder wound. "And maybe I just want something that I've earned, you know?"

Victor shakes his shaven head slowly, "You're missin' what I'm sayin'." Vic keeps his hand at the back of Devon's neck, gathering up his cigar in his other hand and blowing a stream of smoke up toward the heavy duty forge ventilators, "You already got the respect of the soldiers. Who the hell cares if they follow you because you're gonna be Lady Khournas, the Knight Commander likes you, or they like looking at your ass?" The pauses a moment, drawing on his cigar again, "Those aren't the only options, by the way. Even if I have a great ass."

Devon is quiet for a long moment in the wake of their words, and then she glances toward Victor. "I think… I understand what Anabethe is saying." She glances toward the Young Lady. "There is something to be said about being given something for merit instead of because of blood or father's preference… but," she glances toward Anabethe. "Asking for that rank wouldn't gain you that, would it?"

"I care." Anabethe sets the halberd carefully aside, continuing down the path through the factory. "I care whether or not it's something I've earned. I care that people won't die in battle because they're not sure where I fit in the chain of command. Other people ask for promotions, don't they?" she asks with a glance to Devon.

Victor frowns slightly at Anabethe's response, but he shrugs a bit, nodding at Devon, "I think I get it. Guess so long as they keep followin' when I charge and holdin' when I stand, I just don't care for myself." Shrugging again, he nods to Anabethe, "Yeah. Lots of people ask for promotion. Sometimes for years. Or forever. Don't figure that'd be a problem with you though, 'Bethe. People don't follow you 'cause you're the boss-man's daughter. We follow you 'cause of you."

Devon glances toward Victor at his words, and she offers him a gentle smile at his words, but then she looks at Anabethe. "As Victor said… I doubt it is beyond your reach, Bethe… but also as Victor said… people trust you because of who you are." Then she offers her husband a tired smile. "I need to get back…" She at least doesn't ask when he thinks he will be home.

Anabethe's features soften at Victor's words, and she reaches over to give his shoulder a squeeze. "Thanks, Vic," she murmurs, summoning up a small smile. "It's good to hear it, all the same." As Devon speaks up, she nods to the other woman. "Take care, Dev. I'll meet you later to look over some of the numbers."

Victor settles his cigar back into the corner of his mouth, nodding at the squeeze to his shoulder and reaching out to rest his hand at the back of Anabethe's head a moment, a familiar gestures both in that it's a frequent one from the broad Khourni, and that it's a frequent one he makes toward family. "All the Drakes stick with you 'cause of you, 'Bethe. Seriously." Blunt fingers squeeze gently, then release, and he nods as Devon makes her excuses, "Feelin' tired already? Alright." His hand at the back of his wife's neck shifts up to the cup the back of her head as well, then he drops both hands back to his sides, "I'm gonna to check in with a returnin' patrol. You want me to send someone back with you?"

Devon watches the interaction with a gentle smile before she sobers a bit at Victor's touch and question. She shakes her head. "No, no… no need." She offers him a quick smile before she looks toward Bethe. "Oh yes… numbers… I'll stop in and see you in the infirmary." There is that doctorly tone in her voice. Then she smiles easily once more. Slowly, she starts to step away to leave the factory and head back to the Spyre.

"Actually…I should probably go back with Devon if I don't want to be stuck in the infirmary for the next couple weeks," Anabethe admits with a sigh that rattles a bit more than it probably ought to. "Hey, Dev, hold up!" she calls after the other woman, managing to jog a step and a half before deciding that walking is a much better idea.

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