Dawn broke over Freedom Bay with a crisp, salty breeze. Garrick Ironbone and Erik Stevens stood at the shoreline, surveying the skeletal framework of the Spine. The keel stretched like a spine across the sand, rough timber beams set firmly into the mud and anchored with salvaged bones and iron.
Erik whistled, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “This… this could actually hold together. You sure you measured it right?”
Garrick, arms crossed, nodded with the quiet confidence of a master shipwright. “I measured it twice. You’re the one who forgot the compass yesterday.”
The first day was all about foundation and framework. Erik’s colossal arms hoisted massive beams while Garrick drilled precise joins into the bone arches that would support the hull. Sweat dripped, wood splintered, and every so often a misaligned beam sent the two laughing—or swearing—in tandem.
By mid-afternoon, the keel was laid, and the first few ribs of the hull began to take shape. The crew—curious onlookers at first—were soon drawn in, carrying smaller beams, measuring planks, and trying their hand at riveting.
That evening, as the sun sank into the horizon, Garrick and Erik Stevens stood back, wiping soot and sawdust from their faces. The Spine was no longer just a dream; it was starting to breathe.
The next morning, the work intensified. Ribs of salvaged bone and timber arcs rose from the keel like the fingers of some ancient sea beast. Garrick supervised every join while Erik tested the alignment with the precision of a seasoned architect.
Here was where the first Armadillo shell plates went on. Each one was heavy, awkward, and strangely organic in its curvature. They clicked into place with satisfying clunks, forming the first glimpse of the ship’s armored carapace.
A highlight of the day came when Paris Oak, curious about the progress, climbed partway up the emerging framework. She sang a short melody to test the acoustics. The sound bounced off the half-formed ribs and shells, filling the bay with a surreal echo. Garrick nearly dropped a brace in awe.
By evening, half the armor plating was in place, and the hull had taken its iconic rounded, clam-like form. Laughter rang across the ship as crew members used ropes to slide across beams like impromptu zip lines—everyone had fun despite exhaustion.
The Spine’s main deck and wheel system were the day’s focus. Garrick and Erik Stevens worked in synchrony, assembling the four massive wheels along the sides. Each wheel required intricate gearing, and Erik’s engineering knowledge meshed perfectly with Garrick’s structural insight.
Kenjiro Oni and Kethan volunteered to help, testing the balance of the wheels by pushing the hull slightly. Shouts of surprise and laughter erupted as the Spine wobbled just enough to send a few harmless splashes from the bay.
Meanwhile, Atlas Teant tested some hand-cranked mechanisms designed to channel water to the wheels. A misfire sent a burst of spray over his face, prompting a hearty laugh from Barnaby, who had wandered by to inspect progress.
By sunset, the deck was mostly finished, and the ship looked like a fully functional galleon in miniature. The crew, covered in sawdust and sweat, gathered for a quiet moment atop the half-finished hull, sharing rations and watching the orange sky reflect off the emerging teal and black plating.
Day four was quieter but no less critical. Internal cabins and floors began to take shape. Garrick and Erik Stevens coordinated carpenters and carpentry apprentices, guiding them through precise joins and ensuring weight distribution was perfect.
The first cabin walls went up, and the crew marveled at how snug and efficient the spaces were. Paris insisted on testing each acoustic nook, singing short phrases from every potential cabin. Her laughter echoed through the hallways, causing even stoic Garrick to smile.
Later, a small competition broke out: who could fit into the tightest cabin without brushing the walls? Erik narrowly won, though he admitted Garrick’s boots made it unfair. Even the apprentices joined, creating a chaotic but joyful scene of stacking, contorting, and ducking under beams.
By evening, most lower-deck structures were complete, giving the first real sense of the Spine as a home rather than just a skeleton of wood and bone.
The fifth day was all about turning the Spine into a warship. Ten demi-cannons and ten swivel cannons were mounted, each requiring careful placement and reinforcement. Garrick supervised recoil alignment while Erik Stevens ensured that the mounting mechanisms wouldn’t stress the hull.
The crew got their first real hands-on training with the weapons, sliding heavy shot into barrels, adjusting pivots, and learning to communicate across the deck. Paris tried to sing commands to see if her voice could carry over the noise—somewhat successful, though she was drowned out by Garrick’s gruff corrections.
Above, the lookout tower / clam pod was hoisted into place. The acoustic testing here became an impromptu game: crew members shouted instructions, counting echoes. Laughter echoed across the bay as Atlas tried to out-sing Paris, only to have Kenjiro mutter about wasting his vocal cords.
By night, the Spine was fully armored, fully armed, and unmistakably alive.
The final day for Garrick and Erik Stevens was a triumph of coordination. Deck walkways, ladders, railings, and minor fixtures were installed. Every beam, every plate was double-checked, measured, and aligned.
Moments of levity abounded: Kethan tried to balance atop a nearly finished railing and fell into a pile of sawdust, sparking a chain of playful revenge with Erik tossing harmless scraps at him. Garrick, ever the engineer, shook his head but couldn’t suppress a laugh.
By sundown, the Spine stood complete: armored, functional, balanced, and ready to sail—or roll—at a moment’s notice. The crew gathered atop the deck, watching the sunset paint the ship in hues of teal and gold, pride in their faces, exhaustion etched in every line.
Barnaby entered the Spine alone, carrying bundles of fabrics, rugs, curtains, and tools for carving and decoration. The day was quieter, slower, but no less important. He worked meticulously, installing waterproof carpets in the chow hall, trimming cabins with teal accents, and hanging small carvings and personal touches that made the ship feel like a home.
Each cabin was a canvas: Barnaby left subtle patterns in corners for Paris to play with acoustics, reinforced shelves for Kethan’s maps, and soft cushions for Garrick to rest in. By the end of the day, the Spine felt alive, cozy, and inhabited, a reflection not just of the crew’s skill but of their personalities and shared life.
Even small tasks—folding curtains, polishing rails, arranging kitchen shelves—were turned into moments of art. At sunset, Barnaby stepped back and smiled, the Spine gleaming, humming with the energy of a ship that had been built with hands, hearts, and laughter.
Paris singing while beams were hoisted, testing acoustic anomalies.
Impromptu races across beams on Day 2, sliding and swinging ropes.
Kethan and Erik Stevens’ harmless pranks with sawdust and scrap wood.
Atlas teaching a small fire drill using water buckets and rope, turning work into a game.
Garrick giving subtle life lessons during every adjustment, the crew learning through action.
Small competitions for who could mount cannon barrels fastest, or balance on beams without stepping off.
By the end of the week, the Tankborn Spine was more than a ship: it was a living testament to skill, ingenuity, and the bonds of a crew that could build, fight, and laugh together. Garrick and Erik Stevens had orchestrated a mechanical symphony, while Barnaby added the final strokes of artistry. The Spine was complete, ready to sail, roll, and resonate with the heartbeat of its crew.