>>6131923>>6131931>>6131987>>6131998>>6132032>>6132020>>6132208>All upon completion.>Pip Arcblade meeting.<span class="mu-i">“The shipwright has cleared up his ssssschedule to receive you. But I will give you advanced notice that the man himself isssss…eccentric.”</span>
Your first impression of Pip Arcblade is that the man’s workshop is strikingly out of place in the cold, efficient expanse of his company’s shipyard.
The light is dim and warm, casting an amber glow across the two-story workspace, illuminating the organized chaos beyond the blast doors. Detailed schematics are layered across the walls, competing for space with raw pencil sketches. It’s almost as if ideas were captured as they were formed, taped up and scribbled all over with notes in a dizzying mix of Basic, Sy Bitsi, and the looping scrawl of the Teladi language.
Diagrams of hull plating, propulsion systems, and energy conduits overlap with intricate designs of alien vessels you don’t recognize. All of them are indicative of significant artistic merit, even if only a handful have additional papers dedicated to justifying their functionality with detailed internal structures. But the fact that all of them are armed, even the smallest civilian craft, speaks to the perils that lurk within the Unknown Regions.
Across the room, half-finished models and prototypes are stacked in precarious displays, each a unique concept caught mid-birth as if sculptures rather than ship models. Some are fashioned from sleek metal alloys, while others incorporate organic shapes, evoking a sense of fluidity and grace. The faint hum of machinery and the earthy scent of coffee fills the air, clashing against the taste of atmosphere that prickles on the tip of your tongue.
Your party exchanges glances. Suzel’s eyebrows are practically lost in his hairline, whie Elba releases a low warbling of utter bewilderment. Ceyla seems awestruck, fingers twitching at her sides as her head swivels like a turret to see everything. Trykov maintains a stoic look, even if he has to try not to cringe at the utter mess of things.
In the center of the room, a man who could only be Pip Arcblde looms over a drafting table, the <span class="mu-i">skritch</span> of his stylus noticeably audible against the station’s air recyclers. He cuts an eccentric figure, dressed in the clothes of an academic rather than the overalls or jumpsuits you’d expect of his trade. A brief glance at his features reveals a surprising youth – he could not be older than you by perhaps two or three years.
“Master Arcblade?” you call, electing to break the spell of concentration. He looks up, brows furrowing sharply in irritation before his eyes focus on the guests in his workshop.
(cont.)
