[WP] In a world where magic only works in the Northern hemisphere and technology only works in the South, the Sheriff of a border town works to keep the peace against threats coming in from either side.

“Give it to me straight,” came the exhausted interjection from behind the sturdy desk. Sheriff Hughes had had enough of people dancing around the mess that struck them square in the face every damn day in this town. Take this Cordon fellow - three generations his family had been craftsmen in Walton, and they still can’t get their heads around the concept of a border town.

“Sheriff, I…” John Cordon ran one wiry hand through his hair as the other tightened its clasp on a well-loved, wide-brim hat. “I can’t abide…” He paused again, obviously noticing something tighten in the way the lawman was watching him behind his lightly smouldering pipe.

“You can’t abide the Melvilles, yes, you’ve told me on numerous occasions,” Hughes supplied in quiet, controlled manner, before letting a touch of his true fatigued frustration show. “Yet,” he leaned forward to jab in the texto-mancer’s direction with his pipe stem. “After each of my clear explanations as to the nature of our reality, you or another disgruntled trader returns some weeks later, offended yet again at the idea of a bloody sewing machine!”

“It’s not that simple! You know that!” Cordon - brow furrowed and eyes looking anywhere but at Hughes - put his hand on the rickety chair beside him, stared down at it, and slumped, dropping onto it with an audibly dejected thud.

The Sheriff watched all this with a sympathetic eye, and spoke again, the iron in his voice somewhat diminished. “John,” the tailor-mage’s eyes met Hughes’ at the sound of his first name. “I understand. I really do,” Hughes made a rattling, cracking sound in the back of his throat, and a sharp flash of red blossomed from his pipe, reigniting the dying embers. “But you know as well as I,” he puffed for a moment before continuing, his words crawling their way around the pipe between his teeth. “That Southerners prefer to take their patronage to people with machinery - as is their way, and - yes, I know,” the Sheriff put up a hand to stifle whatever Cordon seemed to be about to contribute. “That Northerners find the idea of speedy production, consistency of make, and - really - the novelty of technology appealing when they’re in the market for a new pair of trousers, a fancy waistcoat or a set of damned, thrice-blasted, dark acolyte robes!” The iron was back, he had had enough after all, “This isn’t. A legal. Matter!”

“It’s my son, Al.” Cordon quietly said, after letting the Sheriff’s angry words settle in the musty air of the office. No wind was shaking the shutters tonight, or relieving the sweat patch growing down the cotton - and spell-woven, mind you - shirt on Al Hughes’ muscular but comfortably padded back. “He apprenticed himself to Frank Melville.” 

The Sheriff didn’t say a word, nor breathed, knowing the anguish in his old friend’s - well, not exactly friend, but regardless, he understood the pain of a child looking elsewhere for fulfilment than the tried and true ways of their elders. His own daughter carried a revolver, wherever she was, not a single fae-mark on her. At least she’ll have healthy skin to a ripe old age. He chuckled to himself. That was exactly one of the arguments she’d thrown in his marred and wrinkled face all those years ago. Hell, he carried a revolver too, he had to if he hoped to get anything done on the south side of town.

“Why do you laugh?” His voice was ready to crumble at any moment.

“John, my friend,” the Sheriff said conversationally. “He’s your son. Buy yourself a little storefront in the south, a sewing machine or too, and hire the little bugger once he’s completed his journeymanship. You can’t stick dirt in your ears over this, your kid’s more important than your craft. Now get out, and stop coming to me for economic or child-rearing advice.”

Suffice to say it was not a genteel departure for old Cordon, but the Sheriff knew he’d see sense. Hughes ran his hand along the finely smoothed desk, still puffing away, but now more contentedly, and found his callused and fae-stained fingers arriving at a standing picture frame.

He brought it to his face and a rare smile peeked under his moustache for a second. There she was, with that blasted pistol, not an amulet or focusing crystal in sight, just before she’d headed off into the southern wilds. The grin widened. The flash of light off her star-shaped Ranger’s badge was unmistakeable. “That’s my girl.”

First post from a long-time lurker! Gone for a small-scale tone to warm up. All feedback welcome! cheers

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