Scrapclan
What an oddity the scrapclans are. Their tribekin are fighters - they are gatherers. Their tribekin are riders on roaring motorsteeds - they creep silently, on foot (or carried, cramped into the hold of articulate-legged transport engines). Their tribekin live lives of speed, and boldness, and reckless defiance - they are tinkers: meticulous, quiet and curious.
Unsurprising, then, that the others do not fully trust them. This isn't helped by their insular natures - scrapclans stick to their own, each having long ago developed customs, intalk and even curious spiritual customs shared by no others in their tribe. Where it not for their necessity, Rust Banner would not tolerate them. But they must - the scrapclans locate the greatest treasures, build the most cunning machines, and are often the only ones to decipher the technological secrets of the Magi, whenever such wonders are found.
Scrapclanners are patient: a trait honed by their place as perpetual outsiders. They watch as their tribekin ride bellicose unto raids, battles. Returned, a warrior loudly brags while holding aloft the burned and twisted gear-trophy of an enemy engine laid waste; and once they have grown tired of it, discarding it in their bordedom. It is then, once the glory-fires have died down, that the scrapclanner will shuffle forth from the shadowy outskirts, taking up the twisted device up and secreting it back to their temporary workshop - somewhere quiet. Somewhere out of the way.
They'll examine it. Study it. Learn it curves, its shapes, its make, deducing its method of construction. And they'll incorporate it into their latest work: a better shaft-array for their tribe's marithine, or the eight-piston workings of a servoskeleton they have for years been tinkering at in secret.
Image by Pedzep
Rust Banner
Unsurprising, then, that the others do not fully trust them. This isn't helped by their insular natures - scrapclans stick to their own, each having long ago developed customs, intalk and even curious spiritual customs shared by no others in their tribe. Where it not for their necessity, Rust Banner would not tolerate them. But they must - the scrapclans locate the greatest treasures, build the most cunning machines, and are often the only ones to decipher the technological secrets of the Magi, whenever such wonders are found.
Scrapclanners are patient: a trait honed by their place as perpetual outsiders. They watch as their tribekin ride bellicose unto raids, battles. Returned, a warrior loudly brags while holding aloft the burned and twisted gear-trophy of an enemy engine laid waste; and once they have grown tired of it, discarding it in their bordedom. It is then, once the glory-fires have died down, that the scrapclanner will shuffle forth from the shadowy outskirts, taking up the twisted device up and secreting it back to their temporary workshop - somewhere quiet. Somewhere out of the way.
They'll examine it. Study it. Learn it curves, its shapes, its make, deducing its method of construction. And they'll incorporate it into their latest work: a better shaft-array for their tribe's marithine, or the eight-piston workings of a servoskeleton they have for years been tinkering at in secret.
Rust Banner
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