Tatterdemalion (Modified Celestial Forge V1, currently in DCAU)

[FourmyleCircus]

Chapter 1: The Chiropterophilous City

The golden sands and beating sun had scorched away everything that he once was. All that was left were the clothes on his back and the toolbox in hand. Heavy as it was, it contained everything he needed to live, and he would no more leave it behind than a camel would its hump. Before him, the city shimmered like a mirage, harsh angles and neon lights lashing out at the soft dunes and casting the desert crimson.

It'd do. Something to take his mind off things for a while. A new, strange world to get lost in.

His foot left the sand of the desert and thumped down on the hard concrete of a city sidewalk, the cool winds of the desert night blowing a puff of sand behind him. It took one more step before he was fully out of the desert, and into the cold, humid air of one of the larger cities of this new planet.

The air in the desert had been dry but clean; here it was anything but. He coughed behind the scarf that'd protected his face from the sand; his convulsions shook more sand from his clothes, peppering the concrete. A few more steps under the darkened sky of the city brought him to a window, and he gazed upon both the goods and his reflection.

He hadn't looked at himself since he left The Last Oasis, and it seemed the sand had not been kind to him. His clothes, which had protected him so well, were torn and bleached. The long scarf had taken the worst of it, but his whole being looked strangely threadbare. Had his travels really taken so much from him?

Movement caught his eye, and he turned to watch a man exit another shop, then turn to lock the door. A shopkeeper would go a long way to helping him find income here, and a place to stay. He knew not how long it had been since he last slept, it was a luxury for someone such as he.

The sand-covered man crossed the road with tender steps, his soft leather boots not meant for the sidewalks and streets of the world he found himself in. He'd make something later. His eyes darted to the sign over the shop. Rags'N'Tatters. The universe certainly had a sense of humor.

His tongue felt like it had been transplanted from an old shoe, so dry was he after the trip. And out of practice, too. When had he last spoken to another? "Hail fellow, and well met, Shopkeep."

The shopkeeper turned to look at him quizzically, and silently he mouthed curses to himself. He had the wrong dialect and he knew it. But he didn't remember how people of this time spoke, nor whether they spoke English at all.

"Uh. Hello?" replied the shopkeeper as he put away his keys.

"Forgive my intrusion, kindly sir, but wouldst thou… would you know where I could find a numismatist? I have just entered this fine city, and I'm currently lacking in common currency." That was what people sounded like, yes? It had to be.

"A… numismatist? Oh, a coin collector! Well, I'm afraid I run a junk-shop, but I may know someone who deals in coins and antiques. I'm Rory Regan, and you?" Rory's voice was kindly but hesitant. Well, people everywhere were wary of strangers, and they didn't get much stranger than he.

"Tatterdemalion will do. It is pleasant to meet one such as yourself." He put one hand into a fold of his shirt as he spoke, reaching for a pouch contained within.

'Tatter… Tatterdemalion. Well, I suppose you are, considering how wrecked your clothes are. Would it be rude to ask for an actual name?"

"Rude? I think not, but I cannot oblige, for I remember it not. Regardless, if you could point me to the nu… coin collector, I would be appreciative. One coin for pointing me there, and another if you could help me find lodgings." With that, Tatterdemalion retrieved two coins from his hidden pouch, offering them to Rory.

They were heavy, for they were made of solid gold, and old enough to be worth more than their own weight in… themselves. And they mattered little to him, for he had more than he would ever need. A parting gift from his teachers.

Rory's eyes widened, and he gently pressed Tatterdemalion's hand down. "You probably shouldn't be showing them off. Follow me, I can at least get you some clothes that will stand out less."

With that, he retrieved his keys, unlocked the shop, and gestured inside. "Come in, Tatters. I probably have something that fits you, and we can talk about getting you a place to stay inside."

Tatterdemalion, or Tatters as he had been newly dubbed, dropped his hand completely but kept the coins in it. The tool box was technically the first through the door of Rags'N'Tatters. The rest of him swiftly followed, as did Rory.

Neither of them noticed the car outside, nor the man watching them. And the three of them, in turn, were unaware of the Bats fighting above them.

Even if they knew, there wasn't much they could do to aid the man, nor the man-bat. But it's the principal of the thing. One really should learn to look up.

Once inside, Tatters gently shook the sand from his clothes once more and removed the scarf from his face to reveal the sun-battered skin beneath.

Tatters was not an ugly man, merely average. But he had a tan few could match without doing as he had and marching through untold, unnamed deserts. His eyes took in the machines, curiosities, and clothes; all of which sent his mind awhirl.

From what he saw, he was in a more advanced age than he had left, one more akin to the place he had obtained the toolkit he held. This, itself, was not a problem.

The issue came when he tried to piece together what he knew. Memories fought their way toward the surface, and he had to sort what he remembered from what he knew. He fought the memories back, and attempted to reason his way to peace.

Tatters told himself that the old friends and loved ones were people he hadn't met. He told himself that this was not the place he had run from. No, this was somewhere else, darker and stranger.

Rory noted his distress and vanished deeper inside, only to return with a cup filled with ice and cold water. "If you need to talk, I'll listen, Tatters."

He took the water, but waved off the concern. "It is nothing, an uneasy head and an unsteady heart. I thought the desert had burned it all away. But enough, let us attend to the sartorial matters first."

Rory eyed the unsteady traveler, but left to find something in the vintage clothing section that might fit.

The cold water was a blessing upon his parched throat. In truth, he had been thirsty for long enough that he had forgotten what thirst was. The water washed away his uneasy thoughts.

Choosing a less ragged and alien outfit was a matter of mere minutes, though getting Rory to accept his payment took longer. It was an unusual experience, attempting to haggle a price up, especially when the shopkeeper had priced it at Free.

"Very well, we will stick to the two coins I offered before. They are already at hand." With that, Tatters deposited the two coins next to the cash register. Before Rory had a chance to argue further, the toolbox was already open and from it he extracted the tools of the tailor's trade; primarily needle and thread, though he did retrieve a set of fabric sheers as well.

For another man, adjusting clothes he had never worn and barely seen to fit himself would have been folly. It also would have taken much longer. The needle flashed in and out, his hands seeming to blur and dance.

Rory gaped as though he had not seen anything like it. And yet, Tattersfound nothing unusual with his performance, aside from it being slowed by his hunger. Still, it was as perfect as always. His tutors would have expected no less from him.

Well, it was good enough for a mortal, anyway.

Rory spoke almost warily, though there was some reverence in his words as well. "You're… really not from around here, are you?"

Tatters chuckled darkly. "I do not remember, nor care to. But I have traveled through the desert for some time to reach here, that is true."

Rory paused… "That would explain the sand. But we're near the bay."

"From your perspective, I suppose we are. I did not, however, travel a terrestrial desert. I travel the one between worlds."

"You're an alien? You came from space?" Rory asked, now more confused than cautious.

"Nay, I speak of the desert between… Realities. I walked here from another Universe. Speaking of which, I will have to get materials later to rectify my podalic problems later." Which, really, was a fancy way of saying that walking in soft boots on hard concrete was a pain in the foot.

He had no way of knowing the thoughts he had sparked in Rory. Rory simply bent down to scoop up a sample of the sand Tatters had carelessly scattered at the door of the shop and examine it. They were a brilliant gold, and of a fine, almost powdery grain.

And, to the right man, as valuable as the gold coins they were both trying to ignore. People had called it many things over the years, but perhaps the best known name for the substance was The Sands Of Eternity. A potent reagent in many forms of magic, but to Tatters it was just another annoyance.

Sand was irritating to skin and lung, and got simply everywhere. Mystical sand was just as irritating, just filled with energies beyond mortal understanding.

With a gesture, the toolbox snapped closed, the tools seeming to vanish as it did. "Do you have a place where I could change?"

Rory directed him to the back, and Tatters gratefully took to the private room to change into a set of clothes that weren't filled with priceless irritants. Meanwhile, the junk shop owner set to doing as he always did: collecting the trash of someone who cared not what they were throwing away.

For Rory was not your average modern man. True, he was born in the modern era, but he was not truly alone. The spirits of many wise and terrible folks, wizards soldiers and more, had been advising him. He himself was no magi, but he knew others who were.

Including the man who decided to take that moment to call. Normally, Rory would be elsewhere. In ideal circumstances: at home.

But instead the call actually connected and Rory raced to answer it, cradling the Dust-pan as though it was the most valuable thing he owned. Which, considering what was in it, perhaps it was. "Hello, Rags'n'Tatters, how may I help you?"

"Hello, Rory. A friend of mine said you have a most unusual customer." The voice was deep and rich in a way that spoke not of natural gifts, but rather of one who had spent a life-time doing public speaking.

"I'd ask how you know, Jason, but I'm sure the answer would infuriate me." It wasn't that Rory and Jason Blood were on bad terms. It was that their… partners were diametrically opposed. There was a good reason that he tended to stay away from the Demonologist, after all.

"I'm happy to report that I was not scrying on your shop or otherwise keeping it under watch. Instead, Harry happened to be out driving when your new friend appeared, and saw him walk into your shop," said the voice on the other end of the line.

It was about this time that Tatters returned. The battered scarf and smooth-worn boots were all that remained of his previous outfit. "Do you wish to keep my old garments in trade?"

Rory held up a finger and returned to the call. "I know you collect antiquities, Jason. Tell me, do you have any interest in coins?"

Surprise was evident in Jason's voice. "Coins? What exactly has he tried to pay you in?"

"Gold, sand, and now rags."

"I'm sending Harry by with a car. Please come to my apartment, I'll prepare for guests."

"I'll see you then." Rory said, before hanging up the phone and turning to face Tatters once more. "I suppose I can fix up your clothes and sell them, or use them for scrap. Still, you've paid me quite enough. And I have good news. One of the local collectors has agreed to meet us, and take a look at your coins."

Tatters clapped his hands and nodded. "Splendid! When is our appointment?"

Outside, a car honked its horn. Rory glared out the window, spotting a familiar face waving from the driver's seat. "Right now, apparently."

Tatters nodded and strode from the shop, though his footfalls were careful. While, the leather wrappings were good for avoiding the occasional sharp rock, one still had to feel before one put their whole foot down.

While Tatters made his way to the car, and was seen to the backseat by Harry, Rory instead made sure to grab his coins and a jar to put the sand he'd swept up in. After a thought, he stuffed the discarded desert rags in a plastic bag as well. After that, it was a simple matter to lock up the shop and join the two in the car.

The trip was quick, though the brown-haired Harry tried to make small talk, his blue eyes often darting to the mirror to take in his passengers. A master mystic he was not, but he thought himself a student of human nature. He had to be, in advertising.

And what he saw behind him was a nervous Rory and a very tired traveler. To him, Tatters showed many signs of an addict. Not one jonesing for his next fix, as such, but rather a man who would do anything to get away from his troubles. The sort of man who turned to the bottle and needle to get what he couldn't from life.

Of course, others threw themselves into their work, or travel. Given the man's gait, attire, and complexion, he'd bet on the latter.

The trip took them to Park Row, a once bustling section of the city that had fallen on hard times and never gotten back up. Now home mostly to the hopeless and abandoned, in its prime it was where the movers and shakers of the city called home, its theater the pride of Gotham. No shows played there now.

909 Park Row was a remnant of those better times, a building meant to house the best, and the only place on the block who still had a doorman. The strange party of an Advertising Executive, Junkshop Owner, and weary traveler made it past without much comment. The toolbox that Tatters carried likely aided in this.

A quick ride in the elevator and passage through a warded door later, they were at the penthouse and confronted with multiple paintings of a man who made Tatters's scalp itch with repressed memories. The other artifacts dotting the place did much the same.

The man in the portraits soon greeted them. "Hail and well met, traveler. Welcome to the Den of Blood."

He found himself bowing slightly, setting the toolbox on the ground as he did, before reaching out with his right hand. The two did not shake hands, as such. They gripped each other's forearms in a greeting that had gone out of fashion long ago.

Were they enemies, the point was to assure the other that they weren't going to draw a dagger and stab one another. Here, it was simply two men out of time meeting as though no time had passed.

"Hail and well met, Sir Blood. I am here on nummary matters, I must confess. Though the artifacts here do impress," said Tatters.

"There will be none of that, my friend. Rory told me you had coins you wished to trade?" Blood asked, attempting to keep the smile from his face. Evidence was piling up, but he was still uncertain.

"I do indeed, friend Blood. Though they weren't much, I suppose now they will be worth a tidy sum." With that they broke the warrior's embrace, and he stepped back, reaching once more for the purse contained within his pockets.

Producing a single gold coin was but a moment's effort, and he presented it as though he was paying tribute to a lord. Perhaps in his mind, he was.

It took naught but moments for Blood to recognize the coin. He still tested the texture and tooth of the metal, as well as passing his mind's eye over it to look for enchantments, though he found none. "That, my friend, is an artifact from times long past."

"As am I, friend Blood. As am I. Are you willing to exchange the coin for the coin of the realm?" There was a touch of challenge on his face, and Blood was quick to notice.

"Aye, friend, it has passed the test. Though, I confess you have yet to." Blood said, before turning away to gesture deeper inside. "To the balcony, where you may sit. I have but one trial for you."

The trip through the apartment was uneventful, though it was easy to see the difference between where Harry lived and where Jason did, simply due to the lack of relics strewn about.

It wasn't long before Tatters found himself seated on a patio chair overlooking the city, his tool box open beside him.

Blood presented him with a handsome chunk of wood, already trimmed to a proper size for carving. "My trial is thus. I wish you carve the arms of Caradoc family. Take as long as you need. Should you fail, I will buy but one coin. Should you succeed to my satisfaction, I shall buy as many as you wish."

Tatters nodded and retrieved a wonderful wood knife from the toolbox without looking, and set about his task.

With that, the three native to the time retreated inside.

"Jason, what the hell was all that?" Rory asked, his discomfort making his perhaps a bit shorter of temper than usual.

"I remember him, and he seems to remember me. That's what that was. A piece of my past has surfaced and I want to know exactly what he knows." Jason Blood replied. "But I do not remember him well. The carving should buy us some time. Tell me what you know."

Harry was the first to respond. "The man's running from something. Something bad enough that he'd abandon his life, whatever it is."

Rory took a moment. "When he introduced himself, he said he didn't remember his name. I don't think he was lying. I took the liberty of saving the clothes and sand he arrived in. Called himself Tatterdemalion, which suited him at the time."

Rory hoisted the plastic bag and pushed it toward Jason. Jason felt something in him recoil, likely the spirit of Etrigan, but the sensation meant little to the human. The clothes didn't precisely have an Aura so much as a lack of one. One who spent time In the company of angel would find their clothing bleached, but not like this.

The clothes had been Judged and found wanting. Every bit that had failed had been stripped away, leaving only threads arranged in the concept of clothes and protection. The sand, too, had an aura of Judgement upon it.

Despite his misgivings, he took the clothes bag and examined the contents more thoroughly. They had been impossibly well-made, once. The stitching held, even though they had been baked, bleached, and sandblasted.

"If I'm right, what we have here is The Wandering Smith. A being ancient when I last laid my eyes upon him. How did he introduce himself?"

Rory frowned. "He called himself Tatterdemalion, which seemed odd. The way he speaks is just weird."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, like you when you've spent too long as your passenger but… different."

"Did he say that he was Tatterdemalion, or that you could call him Tatterdemalion?" Jason asked, his eyes starting to water from having something so thoroughly… cleansed and purified so close to him.

"Neither, just that it would do, why?" Rory asked.

"Because The Wandering Smith was thought to be a being of the Fae, or at least Fae touched. He talks like that because that is how the Fae speak. Incredibly precise, but obscure all the same." Jason replied, setting the clothes aside.

Just in time, as well, as the one called Tatterdemalion returned with his carving. It was too intricate for the time that had elapsed, but that was well within his expectations. The Wandering Smith that Jason recalled was always quite fast, and skilled beyond that of mortal men.

"It was handsome wood, but now it is a handsome carving, Friend Blood." Tatters said, handing over the block of wood.

Indeed it was, a shield with an ornate crown carved within decorated one face. Another craftsman would have slaved for hours to render it, but in mere minutes the Tatterdemalion had rendered it a work of art. There were details that must have been made with the point of a very sharp knife indeed.

Including, almost imperceptibly hidden within the representations of jewels, a pig.

This tiny, seemingly unimportant, detail did two things. First, it told Jason that Tatters indeed knew who Caradoc was and the details of his life. Secondly, it made Jason double over laughing.

Wordlessly, he passed the block of wood bearing the shield to Harry, who examined it briefly and saw nothing more than a fine carving. Rory, too, did not know the importance of the pig.

When Jason had almost recovered, it was Tatters who spoke up. "Do you wish me to craft Guinier's gift to go with it? I'm afraid the only gold I have are the coins upon my person, and I know not if yours are larger, Friend Blood."

This fully broke the man, and stifled all conversation for quite some time.

---

A/N: Welcome to the adventures of Tatterdemalion, a wandering Forger. I'm using a modified version of the original Celestial Forge(That I've taken to calling V1.5) with a few perks added from things I happen to know and enjoy. The rules are a bit different this time.

Spoiler: Da Rules

First of all: CP is gained at a rate of 100 per 2K words, unless a crafted item is used by someone that isn't Tatters.Should a customer put an item to use, the rate is increased to 100 per 1k words.

Secondly, rolls are only done when Tatters sleeps. This will be less common than for others, as Tatters does not require sleep for reasons that will be covered under Perks Gained. When it's triggered, there will be one roll per milestone(the CP gained). These will be placed in a list, and the perks will be purchased in order of Most Expensive to Least Expensive, and he'll get what he can afford.

Likewise, he will gain a number of freebies in accordance with the value of the perks. IE: If he gets a 600CP perk, he'll be able to take up to six freebies, starting with Free To All perks, and then any freebies that'd come with the Origin the perk is discounted for.

Third, Tatters does not have a warehouse or workshop. Should he roll a Warehouse attachment, it will only be Accessible from a property he own. What he has instead is the Car Disassembly Kit.

Fourth: At any time, Tatters may choose to leave his current universe and go venturing into The Desert. However, there is a penalty for doing so. In The Desert he experiences Judgement, which will burn away perks he hasn't used recently and his memories. The severity of the Judgement depends on how long and how well protected he is. At this time, exiting the DC universe and looking for a new one will take 1000CP worth of purchased perks from him. Returning to a Universe he's already visited will take fewer Perks, and in time he may find ways to speed up the process.

Five: I already mentioned this, but I'm repeating it to be clear. Due to how slow he's going to amass perks, Tatters gets one freebie per hundred points the perk costs, starting with things that are free to everyone and moving to freebies that he would have gotten if he had the Origin that perk was discounted for. You'll see what I mean in perks gained.

A last thing, to be absolutely clear, Tatterdemalion is currently in the 90s version of Earth-12, where Batman The Animated Series, Justice League, and so on take place. So expect 90s incarnations of the characters, and for things from BTAS to be taking place in the background.

Perks Gained:

Spoiler: Perks Gained

Car Disassembly Kit (400cp, Discounted for Young Genius)(Real Genius)
First of all, this is the most comprehensive toolkit in existence. If a tool exists, limited by the highest level technology that you have access to, this kit has them, in whatever amount they are needed. This includes things such as screws, nails, nuts, bolts, washers and similar items. All these tools somehow fit inside a standard toolbox (even if they are bigger than the toolbox), and the tool you need will always be the one you pull out. These tools will never break, get dirty, get lost, or require charging/fuelling/plugging in. You can instantly repack them into the toolbox with a thought.

What is more, you will find that everyone using these tools can work easily five times as quickly and efficiently as they otherwise would. This speed boost increases by an order of magnitude when working on some sort of prank.

Four Freebies:
Straight-A Student (Real Genius)
After all, there's a reason you got into this college in the first place. Your smarts are boosted enough to put you into the top five percent of your class, and you have top notch study skills and very good short and long-term memory. Also, if you had any learning disabilities before starting this jump then you certainly don't have them now. Of course, we meant the top five percent of a class of students in a mostly real-world top tier tech university and not some super academy full of hyper-intelligent beings.

Put Down the Sandwiches and Go (Real Genius)
People tend to assume you are someone they would expect to be where you are. This isn't perfect, too much interaction will clue people in that you don't belong, but it might get you past a bored security guard or cause some embarrassment with your new roommate.

I Never Sleep, I Don't Know Why (Real Genius)
You have no need for sleep and never feel a need to do so. You can still choose to sleep if you want to, and can go to sleep and wake up instantly without disorientation as well as choose how long you will stay asleep, barring outside interference.

Just Got Word from the Admissions Committee (Real Genius)
You will always be accepted as a new member of any formal organization you wish to join, as long as that organization is not already hostile towards you. This includes schools, clubs, companies, military units, harems, covens, and any other group of people with something like formal admissions guidelines. Whether or not you get to stay after you join is dependent on if you can fulfill your responsibilities or not, but you will at least get to become a member.

Master Craftsman (Discount Peasant) - 600 (King Arthur)
Thanks to being taught by faeries anything you make by hand is a great deal better than anything regular human can make. Armor is nearly indestructible and lighter than it should be, blades are sharper, blunt weapons have more force behind them, bows and crossbows can shoot farther and are easier to pull back. Even mundane items like baskets work better, though you can't give items mystical powers without being a wizard or something.

Two Freebies(as that's all there is here.)
General Peasant Skill (King Arthur)
Every peasant must know some sort of trade to make a living in this age. You however have several. Both in the cultivation of animals, plants, fungi, and other life forms for food, fashioning useful items out of various metals, And planning, designing, and constructing buildings and other physical structures.

Gold Coins (King Arthur)
It's a bunch of gold coins, around 1000 of them. I'm not sure why these people use solid gold as
currency but that's not really important is it?

 

[FourmyleCircus]

Chapter 2: Adventures in Aphnology

When Jason finally recovered from his fit of laughter, it was Tatters who spoke first. From his position in some chair he'd found, he asked a simple question. "About the moneys, how much is a coin worth? I am thrifty by nature, I have spent but three of the coins so far; this shall be the fourth, and perhaps the fifth."

While he was not the richest man alive, Jason had many investments and resources saved from his many years on this earth. Along with his unusual field of work, he had seen countless treasures and pocketed a few. That did not mean he wasn't hesitant at the sum. A single gold penny could be worth quite a lot at auction, and the man in front of him had thrown two to a random man he'd seen on the street. This implied that, perhaps, the man with the tattered soul in front of him was wealthy indeed. He hesitated, the words pouring from his mouth as though they were made from molasses. "At auction, I believe I could probably get four hundred thousand a piece. They are in good condition and if one could verify them, that would make them all the more precious. I can offer you perhaps half that, and not quickly. I'd have to wait until the bank was open."

Tatters balled up the ends of his weather-beaten scarf, placed them on his shoulder, and leaned his head against them as though they were a pillow, his face serene. "Two coins then. Such as I gave Friend Regan. One would not impoverish one such as yourself, Friend Blood."

Rory shivered, not just at the knowledge of how much money he now had in pocket, but the tone Tatters used. It was an accusation as much as it was an act of negotiation. It was clear that he thought that Jason was trying to take advantage of him, in some way.

Jason for his part lifted a hand placatingly. "It would be the work of months to find someone who would wish to pay. I am offering what I am as a friend and countryman. If you wish the full price, I can introduce you to an auctioneer to sell them yourself, but then getting them verified and appraised would be on your head not mine."

This, the walker between worlds seemed to accept. He nodded slowly. "So be it, I recognize the cost of business. And if… four hundred thousand is too much of an imposition, I'm sure you could find another way to pay for the acquisition."

Jason twitched slightly, well aware of what his guest-and-opponent was doing. "I said there would be none of that."

He took a deep breath before speaking again. "But yes, there are services I can offer. You are a traveler in need of a workshop, are you not? I have a property near here in need of improvement. You could claim it as your own, and do with it as you wish. On top of that, it is difficult to exist in this time with no identity."

"And you will aid in acquiring one. Very well, we shall call it three hundred thousand and these services for two coins, that carving, and a gift of my choosing, from me to you?" Tatters made no acknowledgement of his misstep. And why would he? He was dealing with a man who bartered with beings from hell on a regular basis. They both knew what he was doing, even if it flew over the heads of those watching.

Jason nodded in return, and stepped toward the tattered man, one hand extended. "Well dealt, Tatterdemalion. I will go beyond what I've said, of course, and offer further services. I'll warn you if things ever seem inequitable, and we can discuss it as men."

Tatters stood and took Jason's forearm once more. They shook on the deal, things being at least that unchanged from when Jason was young. "As men."

It was almost as though those words reminded him he was human, as his stomach growled loudly. "Ah. My borborygmi indicate it might be best to turn the discourse to something of a more prandial nature."

Jason laughed as he broke the handshake. "I hope you will settle for something more pedestrian than roast peahen, many of the foods you are accustom have long since fallen out of favor."

Tatters smiled as he nodded. "I was hoping this City would have a Diablo Burger, actually. I grew quite fond of them in my last stop. Perhaps we are too far North for that."

Puzzlement filtered across Jason's face, an eyebrow quirked on its own. Was he making light of his condition, or was Diablo Burger simply a chain restaurant that he was unfamiliar with? "Don't know that one. We can go to Big Belly Burger, if you'd like."

Tatters nodded absently. "If you believe it a fitting replacement, I shall trust you on this matter. You may take it out of the payment, should it make a dent. Do they have bird-peppers? They've grown on me."

"I'll grab some hot sauce from the kitchen. Harry, could you take Tatters down to car? We'll be a minute, Rory and I have something to discuss." Jason said, nodding to the door.

Tatters held up a finger. "I must reacquire my tools, just a moment."

Harry eyed his friend, before following Tatters off to the patio, leaving Jason to talk to the ever befuddled Rory.

"Listen, I don't know if he's precisely the person I thought he was, if he's changed, or what. But if I'm right, there are two things you must never, ever do. Number one, don't get into his debt, or get him into yours. If he tries to pay you, accept it. Unless you're convinced it isn't enough, just take it."

Rory paused, going over the earlier events. "So, my trying to turn down his money and give him free clothes…?"

"Was a bad idea, yeah. Having a fairy or fae-touched in your debt means they'll try to get out of it any way they can. Usually they'll do it by repaying it in such an over the top way that you'll come out owing them instead. Follow me to the kitchen." Jason gestured as he stalked off, leaving Rory to follow behind or be left out. Naturally, Rory followed.

"Number two, never, ever try to deny him his freedom. You can ask him to stay, you can ask him to go. But never try to force him or demand. If he's who I think he is… well. Even the Suit of Souls will have issues stopping him." Jason picked around in the refrigerator, calmly moving the bottles of blood and pickled tongues aside. Eventually, he retrieved a bottle of hot sauce and jar of jalapeño slices.

"How bad? We talking, he'll beat me within an inch of my life, or…?"

"If he's who I think, a king tried to cripple him and make him a slave. Sliced both his hamstrings and left him to make treasures. When the king's children came to collect said treasure, he killed them and used them for raw materials. Sent him cups made of his sons' skulls. Decorated with diamonds and rubies made out of the kids' teeth and eyes."

Rory's eyes widened. "And you're just going to give him money and a place to stay in Gotham?"

Jason shrugged and found a plastic bag to put the bottle and jar in. "I could be wrong, and he could be someone else. I could be right, and he mellowed out. Either way, it pays to keep watch on him. If you hadn't accepted payment for clothing him, the most likely result is he would have tailored you something out of silk and gold that'd be worth a couple thousand and probably be enchanted."

Rory nodded, swallowing, sure, a new suit. That could be nice. But from a guy capable of… the other things. Not so nice. "And that thin feeling I get when I look at him, like there's something missing about him?"

Jason headed for the door, again expecting him to follow. "Same as the clothes. Something pulled out a good portion of his being. Burnt it away, more like. That could be good, could be bad. Hellfire can do that to a person, but that wasn't hellfire that was used on him. It felt… It feels like the Sun, almost."

"Last question, before I try not to think about any of this. Why Big Belly Burger?"

"Back then, fat wasn't a bad thing. Kings were fat. Nobles were fat. It was a sign of prosperity, of not needing to work. So taking him to a place that's a symbol of Luck and Prosperity, I'm hoping to keep him happy. I bet you he orders a cheeseburger and a shake."

The ride down the elevator was taken in silence, as the two of them let the conversation sink in.

The four of them eventually left Park Row and the worse section of Gotham – for no part of it could truly be called the good part save for Gotham Heights – for the friendlier areas. Eventually, they came to a building with a statue of a large red-haired-and-bearded man wearing glasses and smiling, a plate of burgers raised to the sky while the statue's other hand caressed his stomach in satisfaction. Big Belly Burger was number two among the national chains, and seemed to be content in that fact.

They all piled out of the car, a motley assemblage as before. Here, it was Harry that stood out, however. His suit was simply too well tailored for eating fast food, being more appropriate for The Rose Cafe or a boardroom.

Jason, as it happened, turned out to be right with Tatters ordering a Cheesemeister Deluxe meal deal and a strawberry-banana shake. The rest of the group stuck with the Belly Bloater.

For the regular denizens of Gotham, it wasn't anything special. Just plain, ordinary fast food. For Tatters, it was something to be examined and reverse-engineered. An eight ounce(before cooking) patty adorned with processed cheese, lettuce, tomato, an unknown possibly extra terrestrial special sauce, and potato which was then served up on a pretzel bun. In fact, all Big Belly Burgers were adorned with rösti, though most people mistook them for hash browns. It gave the burger a sort of crispness that even the lettuce couldn't match.

To this, after some deliberation, Tatters added the sliced jalapeño and hot sauce that Jason had brought for him. Everyone at the table watched him warily, for to them the idea of an ancient world traveler treating fast food as an alien artifact to be dissected was kinda funny. Finally, it was Jason who spoke.

"Friend Tatters, did you really make the… you know." Jason gestured to his chest.

After a few bites and a savoring of the flavor, for hunger was truly the best spice, he responded. "Nay, I made naught for the happy couple save for something to made up for what Caradoc lacked. If you wish, I'll make you the same, for no charge."

This brought another laugh from Jason, who took a sip of his Soder and tried to calm down. "It would be ill-advised to seek service from one such as you without asking what it was."

"Wise words indeed, Friend Jason." Tatters waited for Jason to take another drink before speaking. "It was a back scratcher."

This had the expected result, and Jason soon experienced the wondrously strange and painful sensation of flowing a carbonated beverage through his nose. To the mystification of the two relatively normal people at the table.

"What's so funny about a back scratcher?" Harry asked, confused (but interested, as he often was).

"Caradoc Strong-arm was also called Caradoc Short-Arm, because of an incident involving his biological father, a demonic snake, a tub of vinegar, and his soon-to-be wife. The same incident that lost her a piece of her anatomy that was soon replaced with Gold."

Harry and Rory worked through the day's conversation in their heads and found themselves chuckling as well. "You two certain lived in interesting times." Harry finally said.

"Times are always interesting, my friend, so long as you are willing to seek it out. Something I'm afraid Friend Jason never had to do, much to his sorrow. But that's not my story to tell, and I dare say I know less of his than he of mine." Tatters paused to attend to the matter of his french fries. Some hot sauce was added to a small paper cup of ketchup, along with extra salt, which he stirred with a bit of potato. It seemed almost ritualistic the way he did it.

But at least he wasn't dipping his fries in the Banana-Strawberry Milkshake.

"Regardless, this meal was quite scrumptious, but I believe I could go for another burger. May I have a small advance of twenty dollars to purchase myself more?"

Jason looked at the remains of Tatters meal. The French Fries were half-eaten, but the burger had disappeared sometime while he was choking on his cola. The shake, too, was only partly finished. There was something else involved, but he couldn't be sure what. Regardless, he retrieved his wallet and fished out a twenty. "Go ahead. Just don't leave food on the table."

Tatters took the money and stalked off to the register.

"I think he's noticed." Jason said, as soon as the traveler had left easy earshot.

Rory raised an eyebrow. "Noticed what?"

"That we keep trying to get rid of him, so we can talk." Harry said.

"Well, there's a lot to talk about. He's… strange. He talks about things around him, but never himself unless directly asked." Rory said, watching the traveler as he chatted with the woman behind the counter. "I think it has to do with what he said. That he can't remember his name. There seems to be a lot lost, but he doesn't seem to be missing it, if that makes sense. I think he doesn't want to remember, and part of his 'hostility' toward Jason, is that we're trying to make him remember."

Jason's mouth quirked in a half smile. "I think you're the expert in that. There's plenty of things your Residents wish they could forget."

Rory snorted. "Yeah, and when I get home, I'm going to be asking the suit plenty of questions. Hey… Jason, are you going to give me the same rate you gave him?"

Jason frowned slightly. "I suppose I better, shouldn't I? It wouldn't do to cheat someone that he's taken an interest in. He might think it me cheating him by-proxy. It'll probably take longer, though, wouldn't want to flood the market."

Eventually, Tatters returned with a take-out box, which he placed on top of his toolbox, and resumed picking at the remnants of his meal.

"You're picking up the local dialect better than I expected, friend. And the cuisine as well." If he had this strange man's disdain for past transgressions, Jason was going to make the best of it. Why make the others targets? Still, Tatters seemed friendly enough, despite whatever they might have done to each other in the past.

"This isn't my first time in a time such as this. I spent a few years in a college down in California, picking up this and that. Though I admit that the epistemology has never been my primary priority." Tatters said, between bites of his fries.

"Indeed? Do you plan on resuming your studies? I may be able to help with that, as I have contributed much to Gotham University over the years…" Jason replied.

Once more, Rory felt like a fifth wheel, but as the original contact, he did owe it to both to stay.

"I don't think I shall have problems with my application, once you find me an identity, but any help would be appreciated, Friend Blood. Regardless, until time comes such that I can rejoin the hallowed halls of academia, I expect to busy myself with creating a stock of items to trade and sell on the street. There are many that require aid and comfort, after all."

A wry smile spread across Jason's face. "Indeed. Do you have an idea of what subject you might pursue? I'm sure you would find Medieval Studies quite easy, or perhaps spending some time in the literature department as an Arthurian Scholar."

A twinge of something shadowed Tatters' features. A brief drooping of the eyes and cheeks, the shades of some sorrow best forgotten. It was swiftly followed by a grin, however. "I spent some time with a Renfaire once. I doubt any of us actually sounded like that, but I made a good deal of money as a blacksmith. It seems that they are keen to rediscover our old techniques. But nay, I plan on pursuing engineering, as I had before."

"Oh? Mechanical, electric, or others?" It was an innocuous question, and spoken by a man who had mostly acted as scenery. Harry wasn't stupid, no matter what some people thought of marketing execs. If anything, he knew when to listen, and he had an inquisitive mind.

"Mechanical, primarily. Though I am apt to make mechanisms that would have been seen as magic in eras previous, I admit that I have been eclipsed by many modern wonders. Imagine how long it would take me to make a mechanism such as your car by hand! At best, I'd be lucky to hammer the steering system into shape." Tatters stirred his milkshake with a straw as he spoke. "Though, I confess, the secrets of aerodonetics have always fascinated me."

Harry muttered behind his fries. "The hell is aerodonetics?"

Jason smirked a bit, trying to disguise it as simply knowing something his companion didn't, but he couldn't help but feel some satisfaction from the apparent confirmation. "Gliding, Harry. Areodonetics is the study of gliders, be they aircraft, hang gliders or wingsuits."

It was Rory who got the reference first, eyes widening.

Tatters nodded, slurping at the last of his milkshake. "Indeed. The issue is as always the ratio of surface area to weight, as well as maneuverability. For instance, the flying squirrel gets the most out of a webbing between the arms and legs, but for a human to get the same reduction of speed and control, you'd have to put the ratio more firmly on the side of gliding surface. You could get away with making it baggier, of course, to catch more air, but you'd lose an amount of control."

When their late supper finished, they piled into the car and drove off, Harry dropping Rory off at his own home before returning to Park Row and stopping in front of a damaged, boarded up building. Jason fished out some keys and opened the lock, revealing the inside to be as ramshackle as the outside, though the floor itself was mostly in good shape.

Jason gestured toward the stairs with the broken banister, and the collection of various bits of trimming, architectural flotsam, and assorted junk. It didn't look like anyone had been living here, but one never knew. "It's not much now, but I'm sure you could turn it around."

Tatters nodded, stepping inside and glancing about. "It shall do. I thank you, it is a handsome start, and when you come by with my funding, I'm sure I'll restore it in no time. Good night, friend Blood."

Jason frowned. "You can't be thinking of staying here tonight, Tatters. There's no bed. It's certainly not livable."

"I need no bed, friend. Simply a place to work, and some supplies. The broken bits will do for tonight. Now go, rest. We shall reconvene when the banks open."

Jason wanted to argue, but he knew when he was being dismissed.

The trip back to the car was brief. He and Harry had a surprising amount to talk about.

-*-*-*-

A few streets over, in a different decaying neighborhood, another conversation was being had on the same subject.

Betty may have been beautiful once, and if one was talking solely about her personality and heart, she still was. But any physical beauty was hidden by the baggy, torn clothes that marked her as a member of Gotham's homeless population. There were no two ways about it, really. She slept in a box.

It wasn't that she minded, it was a way of staying alive, and she was grateful. But like most people, there was a time.

There was a time when she was important and secure. There was a time when she talked to some of the most powerful men and women in the country. And now, well, perhaps she still was. She knew that Rory was something special: The Ragman, the protector of the downtrodden.

"I saw ya get inta that fancy car, Rory. Is everything okay?" She asked. She didn't like those sorts of cars, never did. Too many shady deals in too many backseats. She always told John to avoid backseats, but he hadn't listened. And look what happened to him, he ended up decorating the back seat. And some of the front. No, fancy cars were bad news.

Rory frowned. "Maybe, Betty. Maybe. The short story is that someone else came into Gotham with nothing but the clothes on their back, and certain people have taken an interest in them. I… just made a lot of money helping them out, and I don't know how to feel about that."

Betty peered at her friend. There were plenty of reasons why someone would be that vague, that she knew well. But it was the money part that bothered her. The Good Book said that it was the love of money that was the root of all evil, and while she knew that Rory didn't subscribe to the same religion, she also knew he wasn't impressed by money.

Which means that it was foisted upon him. Her mind worked overtime, trying to put the pieces together. Fancy car, but a local one. Lots of money. And a transient who was apparently worth that lots of money to whoever was driving the fancy car.

"I don' like tha smell'o that, Rory… but trust yourself, and trust the Rags." She said with a nod. "An' don' let the money change ya. We need good people like you."

Rory nodded, thinking. "Would you happen to know anything about a 'Wandering Smith', Betty?"

Betty frowned, thinking. "Ah'm assumin' you don't just mean the last name. It covers too many people, Rory. A lot of us pick up some skill ta keep us alive. Makin' jewelry, or carving coins, or paintin'. What does this Wanderin' Smith do?"

A half smile graced Rory's face. "Now that's the question. I didn't see much, but he can apparently carve like nobody's business. He's always carrying a toolbox, too. Big, heavy one. And he smells like sand."

A half nod from Betty was all he got for a moment. Her eyes may be as tired as her bones, but they were still sharp. She went over what information she had in her head, and came up with nothing. That just meant that she didn't know what she didn't know about this man, really. Standard operating procedure applied here: be nice, ask questions, and give information that was informative but useless in trade for useful information. "Ah'll ask around, Rory."

He nodded, pulling a few small bills from his wallet and pressing them into her hand. "That's all I can ask, Betty. Do you need anything from the store?"

She snorted and shook her head. She'd been trained to survive anywhere. Gotham's streets weren't that bad.

---

A/N: Not super happy with this, which can also be called "Four Men In A Burger King" but I needed to get this discussion out, and level the informational playing feild between the characters. Next chapter: Actual crafting! Running into People on the street! If you're coming here for violence... you're going to be disappointed, because that's not happening just yet. For those keeping track at home, we're at 7,713 words, or just under 400 CP banked. If things hold up the way I've outlined, this means that we've got another three chapters before Tatters actually rolls, though that doesn't mean that this day'll get stretched out. Remember, he doesn't need sleep so he doesn't have the issue of automatic rolls. I can off screen any amount of slow crafting or buying stuff and still have things happen at a good clip.

 

[FourmyleCircus]

When the door had closed and Tatterdemalion found himself alone, he wondered if he had been too harsh on the men who meant only to help him.

But he didn't need their aid, even if it had been welcome. He would have found a building such as this just as easily. He could have made his own life here, as he had done so many times before.

And yet, he had been welcomed with open, if wary, arms by Jason-of-the-Blood, based on interactions long past, times both of them barely remembered. Jason-of-the-Blood had been a weapon, a tool created by a harsh demonic intellect. Was it any wonder that the Tatterdemalion was wary of his kindness?

Anything Jason knew would make its way to the demon inside him, and from there to Belial and the twice damned Cambion that had forged Jason into Jason-of-the-Blood. And those beings didn't forget, easily or otherwise. They would know who the Tatterdemalion had been. They would wish to use him again.

He shook his head and set his toolbox on the ground, the latches flicking open seemingly of their own accord. In moments like this, it was easy to forget the weight of the burden he carried. There was only the Now. The things he had before him to build.
Though he didn't know what riches the hovel might yet hold, he knew that there was plenty for him. So many other men saw only what was, and ignored what could be. And what there was in this house was a wreck. Doors off their hinges, a broken banister with intact balusters, and boarded up windows. The electricity had been cut off long ago, along with the water. Things he would have to fix.

What little light he had came from the street-lights and was filtered through the broken windows and boards. But it was enough for now. The lid flipped open without a sound and from it, he withdrew a set of work-lights and their accompanying tripod, Their height far exceeded the box's depth. Once he had them fully, he extracted another set, and finally a flashlight.

The work lights switched on with the quiet hum of electricity through filament, illuminating the shabby confines of the abandoned building. It wasn't fit for human habitation, yet. The first light was taken to a corner, and the second was placed in yet another, providing him with all the light he'd need for his tasks. From the outside, of course, it likely looked strange, with beams of light scything through the darkness of a building that should be empty. But not a soul would say something, nor approach to find out what. Such things just weren't done in Gotham.

The flashlight flicked on, as the sole inhabitant of the abandoned house began his search for items to recycle into things he could sell. It wasn't hard, the balusters were easy enough to remove with a little wiggling. They were thick enough for his purposes. They were bundled under one arm, as he climbed the stairs carefully. Luckily, the stairs creaked and groaned but held fast under his weight.

Upstairs he found more doors and what used to be a bedroom, the mattress missing and the bed frame splintered. Luckily, the posts were little more than squared off wooden pillars, and those he'd definitely be able to use.

The dresser, too, was mostly a write-off, but there was an intact drawer that he soon put to use holding his salvage. The bedposts were pried apart with a screwdriver, and slid noisily down the stairs. Restoring the building would of course be cheaper if he didn't use it for materials, but he wasn't like other people. He didn't need sleep, so he needed something to occupy himself. Salvage would do just fine.

Didn't need sleep. Didn't want sleep. He still could, of course. But to sleep is to risk dreaming. And that wasn't something he wanted. Not yet, at least.

And so, he went around, gathering anything that would make for good materials.

Which is how he ended his circuit of the house with about four wooden doors, eighteen wooden balusters, four bed posts, and two half chairs.

It killed maybe half an hour, and he knew he had twelve to spare, at the very least.

Which meant it was time to start on the next part of his process. From his tool-box he produced two sawhorses, and placed one of the doors across them to act as a table. Maybe he'd actually construct a table from a door, people seemed to enjoy quirky artifacts such as that. But that'd wait until he knew he had a buyer. No, for now it was best to start small.

Once more, he reached into the tool box, and pulled out a few boards and some sturdy wooden legs. He could have pulled out the tool fully assembled, but he enjoyed the process of assembly.

These pieces were assembled something similar to a waist high bench with a ditch across it. To this he added an end cap. Next were the two large wooden springs, made in a way similar to a bow, and he placed them in their holes on either side, and strung them together. A treadle was likewise retrieved and attached to the band between them.

In this way, he assembled his pole lathe.

A foot-powered pole lathe was, perhaps, one of the most primitive 'power tools' one could think of, and it was also one of his favorites. He could have simply grabbed a table lathe or a full sized one from the box, but when working with wood, he felt simple was best.

That done, he retrieved his carving knife from the box, and took a deep breath. Again, there were better tools for what he was about to do, but they weren't as familiar or comfortable to him. This knife, on the other hand, he'd made himself years ago and it fit perfectly in his hand, the leather wrapping on the hilt had been molded by many hours of sweat and heat. It was practically an extension of his arm at this point.

One could take a squared off block of wood and lathe it, of course. But that was more difficult on a pole lathe, and it was a bit pointless. No, the optimal shape, if you weren't using something already round, was an octagonal one. Fortunately, his blade never lost its edge and as it had come from the toolbox, it allowed him to work at an accelerated rate. Thus, he shaved down the corners of the balusters, leaving the shavings on his improvised table.

He mounted the prepared wooden baluster on the nail that acted as the pivot and wrapped the cord around the spacer that allowed the whole thing to spin. The machine didn't have a guide, but with the lower RPMs it mattered less. Once he had it roughly in place, it took but a few good wacks to wedge the tailstock in place and check to make sure the whole thing was on tight. Another reason people would prefer the modern metal versions, really. When the whole thing (aside from the points) was made from wood, it was a touch less secure and harder to adjust.

Moments later, he'd ducked down to retrieve the various cutting tools he'd need for this project and place them on the makeshift table. The first to be used was the turning tool. It was a touch heavy, at eight ounces, and a respectable sixteen and a half inches in length. What made it special, of course, was that it was his. As he gripped the cool wooden shaft, he could almost feel it meeting his hand with joy.

It was smooth, but not slick, and molded for his hands alone, steeped in the oils of his skin until they'd become part of the wood. No others had touched this tool, and likely no one else ever would. It bulged outward near the middle, seeming a bit bulbous where the wooden shaft and the metal one collided. All the better to grip it when he needed to choke up on it if he was dealing with something tougher or if he needed the added leverage.

A modern engine lathe spun the material continuously and at a stable speed. A pole lathe, on the other hand, used a treadle as the sole motive and regulating force. As he pressed down with his foot, the rope wrapped around the spacer pulled and spun it like a spindle, as well as applying force to the bows he was using as springs. This in turn spun the wood.

While all this was a simplification of the process, the truth was that he barely thought of it as anything but Right. He was a craftsman, he built things. The hard wood in his palm felt more natural than the flesh of another; he certainly knew more of what to do with it. He pulled his scarf up, wrapping it tightly around his mouth and nose. Despite this, he felt himself grinning in anticipation.

As he set his tip to wood, he pressed down his foot and set it in motion. It was perhaps a bit wasteful to not use something that was already shaped correctly, and he likely could have done the first part of the process, which was rounding it all out, faster with a different tool. But he was doing this to kill time.

Besides, with the experience he had, he could make progress on the actual shaping while he had it.

Engine lathes, which is to say any motorized lathe, were simpler to use. Which didn't make them easy, of course. But with a pole lathe, one had to pull their tool back as they lifted their foot, and the springs caused the whole thing to rotate backwards as it reset. In this way, he established his rhythm, down-in, up-out. Down-in, up-out. Faster and faster he moved, peeling away at the wood strip by strip. The scent of wood filled the air, each thrust of his tool sprawling tiny particles and causing it to strip off in streams, as though it were water.

Another person would have used a table-lathe to get the sort of precision he was aiming for. But he knew his tool intimately, and his teachers would never abide by sloppiness. In this way, he turned the one foot of balustrade into eight pawns, pausing only to trade his tools out in order to get the details as he needed them.

Aside from the knight, any piece could be prepared this way, and details added later. But one always needed more pawns. It was a testament to his skills and focus, however, that he managed to get the rounded heads so close to done, for as the connections got thinner the whole piece came closer to snapping.

When the first set was done, he hammered out the stop on the tailstock and took it off the machine. He's started with pawns simply because they were the most in demand, given that a set would need sixteen. It just happened to be a good way to test himself, as well.

When he traveled the Desert, he often lost pieces of himself. Perhaps it was the isolation, perhaps it was the effects of the desert. He'd once known more about it, of course, but he couldn't recall what he'd forgotten. Thus, he liked to do simple, repetitious, and easy tasks to judge where he was.
Two more rods of pawns were made, simply to confirm that he was more or less stable as a craftsman. They were simple, utilitarian affairs and set aside on the door-table. The rest of the basic chess-blanks were made, to be finished later. These, he used the more proper tools for because they were far more ornate than a ball-on-a-trumpet. The queens had to have proper curves, you wanted straighter cylinders for the rooks, and so on. Of course, the crenelations on the rooks would have to be carved separately, the diagonal slashes on the bishops much the same.
When he ran out of balustrades, he'd only really managed to pass about an hour due to his alacrity. So he moved on to the bedposts.

As before, he roughed an octagon with his carving knife and set it up once more. Really, had he been thinking clearly, he would have done this task first. There are certain things that one learns to make when starting with a lathe. Baseball bats are common, being just a tapering cylinder with a bulb on the end. After the baseball bat, one tends to move on to bowling pins.

He wasn't going for a baseball bat or a bowling pin. Instead, he worked on a set of exercise clubs, something that had fallen out of fashion many years ago in most places he'd traversed. Superficially, the exercise clubs resembled juggling clubs, due to the simple fact that juggling clubs were derived from them. They tended to have longer handles and thicker heavy ends.

For Tatters, they were a test of his accuracy in judging a material. He was fairly familiar with them simply due to the fact that he remembered them, though faintly, as a staple of the gyms he'd frequented when he was a younger man.

One generally found them graduated in half pound increments, and should you find them under-eight, adding slugs of metal to rebalance them was acceptable. He was hoping he could reach as close to the target weights as possible without needing to shave them down too much or resort to the slugs.

This technically took less time, despite working with a similar wood and much more of it, simply because of the simplicity of what he was attempting. Out of the four bedposts he'd managed to make eight sets of the exercise clubs, in the appropriate sizes.

The lathing done, he acknowledged that he wouldn't need it any more tonight and watched as it disappeared, packing back into the toolbox as though it never existed. Which resulted in a clear spot on the floor, the rest of it taken up by wood peelings and sawdust.

Mentally, he swore, realizing that he had completely forgot to lay down a tarp. His own fault, he'd gotten complacent. He didn't usually set up the lathe in doors, and could simply bury the wood chips to return them to earth and clean up his mess. That was a lot harder for one to do in a building.

Cleaning up with a Shop Vac he pulled from the magic toolbox killed a little more time, as did snapping the various items off the poles they formed and going at them with sand paper to remove the various bits of excess material. Unfortunately, while the toolbox would provide glue, screws, washers, bolts, and such, for some reason he never could get it to produce a decent varnish or stain. He'd content himself with polishing them to a near glass like smoothness, and purchase the appropriate materials in the morning.

Besides, it probably wasn't the best thing to be doing in an unventilated, creaky old house anyway.

Not that a task being stupid had ever stopped him before, or was likely to be the deciding factor in his attempting something like that in the future.

Instead, he wandered off to where he had left his to-go order and picked at the cold food, while pulling his change out from it at the same time. The cashier had been surprisingly understanding when he asked for two dollars in quarters, the rest in bills and whatever other change was appropriate.

The next test was one of manual dexterity. Once he'd finished eating, he stood by the table and placed a few of the dollar bills upon it. While the exact blend of materials had changed over the years, dollars had roughly the same physical properties from one year to the next. Something that worked in the Twenties should work in the eighties, should work in whatever godforsaken time period he found himself in now.

He started with something simple, a small fold near the top, the series of careful folds turning it into more of a band of cotton than anything else, the forty-five degree angle to separate the One from everything else. Soon, he had folded himself a paper ring.

The smooth cotton paper felt almost nice under his fingers, the fibers brushing against his skin was reassuring. This world was real, physical. The time he spent folding and shaping them was soothing in a way working the lathe hadn't been. The reason was simple, of course. When he worked the lathe, he was just as much attempting to create resources to keep a roof above his head.

Intellectually, he knew he had already paid for this building, and he had more money coming. But the emotional part of him was worried that he would be betrayed by the man who rose to fame from slaughtering his own family. Jason-Of-The-Blood was a kinslayer, a weapon. Even if he knew that it wasn't the man's fault.

But this? The reshaping of currency as though it was so much paper? That wasn't an investment hoping for future reward. He folded the bill next bill into a heart, because that's what he sought. The origami was done for the sole purpose of giving joy to those that had to live in this world in a way he didn't.

He worried at his bottom lip with his teeth as he worked on the next one, wondering if this would be the moment he reached the limit of his abilities and memory. The ring was easy. The Heart was simple. But to fold a shirt and tie out of a single dollar bill required practice and knowledge he wasn't sure if he had anymore.

The first one almost looked right, but he'd clearly forgotten a step, and it came out as a rumpled mess. The second, however, was perfectly crisp and well-defined.

And that was his truth. Anything he knew could be forgotten. But anything lost could be regained. If he could not regain it, he would surpass it, and he would do so through his own intellect and will.

He set the origami aside, and retrieved several clamps from his tool chest, to bind the door more closely to the sawhorses that held it. After that, it was simple to mount the desk vice to it, and retrieve the hot glue gun. A piece of scrap wood from the salvage was promptly placed within the jaws of the vice, and a quarter affixed to it, heads up.

He took his time selecting his engraving tools from his toolbox. It wasn't that he didn't know what he was going to do, or that he thought he'd do poorly. As an engraver he was supernaturally skilled. As he was in all other crafts. But one can still be a skilled engraver and terrible artist. The art of making Hobo Nickels was an old one, and it was something that traditionally took up plenty of time. Time was something he had in abundance right now, but sadly he knew he'd be done far sooner than others. He always had too much time on his hands, if he was honest.

And so he set to work, taking his small wooden mallet in hand, and slowly shaving away the metal. The quarters weren't as soft as a nickel would be, but that mattered little to him. He slowly defaced the coin, and more importantly, de-faced George Washington. The rounded features gave way to something harsher and more aristocratic. Lines were carved into the hair to give it the impression of being darker.

It wasn't uncommon for coins to be made for an artist's patrons, and for now he had a patron. Until their deal was completed, he felt beholden to Jason Blood. And so, it was Jason Blood who would adorn this coin.

It killed another hour or two, and Tatters found himself running out of ideas. He could turn the other quarters he obtained into self-portraits, of course. Or spend some time carving knights from whatever wood he had left. But the truth was, he had nothing to do but wait.

He hated waiting, almost as much as he hated sleeping. But in this infernal city, it wasn't like he could farm or ferment. He had no long term projects here, and no books to study or things to calculate. He didn't even have pen and paper to sketch.

In short, he was bored. Not bored enough to sleep.

There was only one thing to do.

It was time to go for a walk.

---

Author's Note: Part of the point of the Forge is exploiting synergies. Car Disassembly Kit gives you tools "limited by the highest level technology that you have access to", while Master Craftsman makes things better at what they do. As a result, a Master Craftsman made tool technically pushes the limits of a technology. As such, any tool he made himself would replace the equivalent tool in the toolbox, being better at doing its job than the regular equivalents.

Now that's said, I'd say this chapter fought me, but it's almost the opposite. It gave me so little challenge that I couldn't get up the motivation to do it. While it tells you, the readers, plenty about Tatters as a character, it tells me the author nothing because I'm just showing you things I already know. Were he doing something for someone else, talking to someone else, or trying to fix a previous mistake I could have blown through it. In fact, my beta readers have already seen such things happening in a future chapter that was nearly completed before this one. Still, the next chapter is exploring Park Row, and meeting a few of the locals, so I've definitely got that to look forward to.

Not going with instant rolls allows me some latitude in that direction.