Snippet #2509004

The heat of the Flamer felt as welcome to Roland as a mother's warm embrace, the banging of metal her song. The main working crew pulled the lose metal panels from the wall and passed them to Roland and his temporary assistant, a human by the name of Burt. Burt ground away the rust that had weakened the metal enough to fell the wall as Roland reinforced those areas by welding what scrap tin he was given and then punching a hole for a nut and bolt with a hammer and thick carbon-steel nail. The new panels were then taken back to the wall and re-fixed to the posts that held the wall in place, 'making good' by making minor adjustments when needed. What poles that had faced a similar fate were given a similar treatment; ripped from the ground by Nightkin strength, reinforced by Roland's skill, bent back into shape by either his hammer or bare hands, and then thrust back into the ground and firmed by the working crew with shovels and new cement if needed.

The small voice, a nervous note somewhere within the words, caught Roland off guard between sending a refurbished panel to the working crew and waiting for a ground panel from Burt. Moving the smoked lensed goggles from his eyes, protective equipment readjusted with new strapping to afford for his Nightkin ergonomics, he looked in her direction and motioned for Burt to cease his grinding.

"Say again, young miss?" The ever-present throaty growl of a Nightkin's weak voice box perverted his syllables. His mutation, focused around stealth, made it difficult for his breed to speak out loud and caused every sound uttered to be a grinding rumble. During the war, it had been a blessing. After decades, it proved to be a nuisance among human company when he worked alongside them.