Logs:Inspiration!
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| RL Date: 21 August, 2010 |
| Who: Leda, Uillean |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: An unpleasant incident with sawdust leads to inspiration. |
| Where: Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 7, Turn 23 (Interval 10) |
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| Craft Complex, High Reaches Weyr A passageway hewn into the rock and heavily patched with cement leads a short distance in to the bowl wall, with a door on either side. Aside from the light of regularly spaced glowlamps, the walls are bare, with just a coating of whitewash to cover the otherwise uneven layers of stone and cement. To the left of the entranceway, just a single step inside, a spiral staircase opens out of the wall, leading upwards through the stone. There's a door on either side of the corridor, staggered by a few feet, and at the end of the corridor there's another staircase hewn from the stone, leading upwards to the residential corridor, as well as a door that leads off into bathing facilities. One final door leads into a short corridor containing a few more residential apartments. The door leading to the east opens into an expansive room that seems to provide both a general working space with long, bare benches and chairs, and what will probably be a cozy lounge once it gets more than a single fuzzy armchair. Three tall windows carved into the stone offer air and light when the heavy wooden shutters are left open, though the lounge area has to make do mostly with glows. A hearth at the back of the room provides both heat and basic cooking facilities. The western door leads into another passage, off of which the main workrooms have been built. The loading dock is to the northern end, leading back out into the bowl, with the rest of the rooms leading deeper and deeper into the wall. The hour grows late and many of the workshops are freeing those who'd labored in them for much of the day. The Woodcrafters are no exception. From that portal spills forth a stream of apprentices and journeymen. The assortment is typical; some tired, some chattering happily, others discussing things of a more serious nature as they scatter to the four winds, whether that be their quarters or the living cavern in hopes of a late snack or a glass of wine before bed. Last to exit the workroom is Leda. The girl is dusted with a liberal coat of sawdust, fine stuff with almost sparkles in the odd light of the glows. She's coughing into a small square of linen but otherwise making no effort to tidy herself up. It's going to take a dunk in the baths to manage that. As she crosses the floor, tan footsteps are left in her wake and drifts shiver away from her hair and shoulders with the concussion of each step. Just behind Leda, having emerged from the workroom given to the weavers, is Uillean, who is carefully smoothing down her skirts as she walks, as if to get rid of invisible wrinkles, or microscopic pieces of dust. Or, rather, they /were/ microscopic pieces of dust, but that which trails behind Leda has no compunctions about attaching itself to the weaver, whose sudden upwards glance is one of dismay and distaste. "Excuse me," she says, in a voice that comes across as even outright apologetic. "But you are dirtying my clothes." The look that Leda casts over her shoulder is calm and friendly; Uillean's likely seen the sort before, the small smile, the curious eyes so bright in that dusty face. It's the look of someone who is often dirty and finds no issue with that state of being. "Ayuh?" That response has the coastal areas written all over it, both in composition and accent. The apprentice pauses, performing a pivot on one heel and raising her arm to give an experimental shake. Gold dust, the wooden version of it, puffs up into the air. The effect catches the girl's fancy to judge from the admiring cant of her head. "Share the wealth, Mam always said. Pretty in the light, isn't it?" In contrast, there's no escaping Uillean's tones: she's from Crom, though a higher class Crom than most. Her sculpted eyebrows lift slightly, as if to question Leda's response, somehow uncertain; after a moment, however, she simply shakes her head. "Pretty though it may be, I would prefer it didn't cover my clothes. It can't be good for them, and I'm yet to be convinced that the weyr launderers will take the proper care. Do they not have you wear aprons and-- hairnets, or something similar? When you are working with such materials." The question seems based on true curiosity, the curvy brunette tipping her head curiously to the side to wonder. "Oh...aye, lady, you have my apologies." Leda's smile deepens, the sawdust-filled creases of her face giving her the look of a prematurely aged crone as a result of that dusting and shift in expression. Her arm lowers to her side, only to have her hands lift what looks like a leather bib away from her chest. A sheet of new 'dust is dislodged by the action. It probably doesn't help that she's using her /other/ hand to try to flap the stuff away from the weaver. "I need to rinse these outside, else it gets everywhere. I, ah..." She trails off, glancing down at the drifts gathering around her feet. Well then. "Your clothes should be fine, lady, it's the fine stuff today. Comes right out in a wash." Uillean can only shake her head, again and again and again. But she manages a smile, at least, even if it's accompanied with, "I'm surprised they haven't provided you with some way to clean them inside, then. I suppose it's just one more thing that no one thought about, mm? I suppose you're right: it will all come out. And I suppose this skirt /did/ need-- all's well, then, mess aside. I pity those whose job it is to clean the floors." And the clothes, too, no doubt, but such things clearly lurk only at the far reaches of her awareness in life. "But you must call me Uillean - I am, after all, but a simple Journeywoman." The bib is allowed to thud against her chest again, with the expected results. Leda is unfashed. "That'd be my job, I expect," she says with a glance back along the route she'd taken. Funny how recognizing the work doesn't inspire her to get right on that; it doesn't seem laziness so much as a certain contentment with life, the universe and everything. Sawdust on the floor is no great sin, in her world, and therefore requires little energy. Uillean, however. Now here is someone who, after her self-description, inspires a bit of study. Hazel eyes light with unvoiced amusement as they give the weaver a once over. "Simple, ayuh? You've more frills than a lily, ma'am. The ribbons..." Fingers are waggled to indicate the things. "I'll be Leda. Apprentice Leda. It's nice to meet you." In Uillean's defense, "I'm a weaver. I wouldn't be much of one if I didn't advertise my skills, surely." One hand smooths those ribbons with a certain amount of fondness, adjusting them to be just /so/. "Though I will grant you there seems less call in this place for my particular skills. I am still hoping I can convince a few women that they should start considering formal wear for turnover now, to give me something more interesting to work on." It may seem as though she's bypassed Leda's introduction entirely, but no, now that she's said the /important/ things, she returns to it. "It is, of course, a pleasure to meet you, Leda. A /woodcrafter/. And such a thing appeals to you?" She's studying the apprentice, surprised. "Oh aye?" A frequent refrain from this one. Leda tilts her head while Uillean runs through the sales pitch. Surely that's what it was? She even arranges her features into something resembling sympathy, though no special interest sparks there to hear talk of formal wear. "If there's any here with a taste for such fine things, I'm sure they'll rise to your lure," she says in a tone that intends a compliment. The surprise displayed causes her own eyebrows to lift and another glance is stolen at herself. Woodcrafter? Check. "Ayuh. It was this or the shipyards, ma'am, and I can't say as I mind the working indoors come winter. Spent my time there carving, in any case, when I wasn't mooning about chasing daydreams. You?" If it /was/ intended to be a sales pitch, Uillean shows only a moment of disappointment in the lack of visible interest, and it seems half-hearted at best. "I do hope so," she says, with a little sigh that could well be self-pitying. "It was easier at High Reaches Hold. Perhaps not quite so extravagant, but--" She breaks off, giving her shoulders a little shrug. "Surely you could have chosen something else, had you wanted to? Something--" More ladylike, though she doesn't say it. "My father is a Master Weaver. It seemed an appropriate choice. Having a craft does give one more control, in many ways." Now /that/ summons a reaction. Mention of the Hold has Leda perking like a canine whistled to attention. "You were at the Hold, then? When was this?" Unfortunately, interest also translates into the apprentice ambling closer to the woman. To the woman /and/ her pretty dark dress. "Maybe it's only you need to get your things seen by more people, aye? One lady, only so many eyes can follow her," she adds with an illustrative gesture. Mind the sawdust, weaver. Animation has left Leda quite bereft of consideration. "My father is a 'hand in dry dock, I might've done that as well but the wood speaks to me. I like bringing out the gifts it hides. See?" One hand comes to the other and tugs at a finger, producing a dusty ring of polished wood to be offered over. It's pale, unstained, smooth as glass and cut in a filigree of vines and waves along the surface meant to be turned to the world. The reaction surprises Uillean, who takes a half step back before she can stop herself, and then looks remarkably apologetic for it: she clearly hasn't intended to be rude. Though increased exposure to the sawdust is distinctly dismaying her, if the hand clutching at her skirt is anything to go by. Nonetheless, her response seems even enough."The Hold, yes. I was posted there until-- I suppose it has been two months, now." But she's been distracted from this by the ring, which is accepted, and then turned between her fingers, around and around and around. She seems impressed. "It's lovely work," she tells Leda, sounding-- surprised? "I hadn't thought-- but wooden rings, and so on, that could be /quite/ the fashion statement, couldn't it? And perhaps matched in a gown... the grain." "Two months. You might've walked past my da, or one of my brothers, and never known it." The thought leaves the woodcrafter looking bemused and in no rush to regain the ring. So distracted is she by the whimsy of imagination that Leda tunes out Uillean's own flight of fancy without realizing it. She's summoned back near the end, giving a slow blink and tilting her head to study first the trinket and then the woman holding it. "I suppose. Sometimes that's what the wood holds, the little trinkets. Rings or bangles. Made a neck chain once to see if I could, all of one piece but with links like metal. Keeps the hands busy while I wait for sleep...it'd be nicer with a stain but I'm poor with them," she explains, "And it might mark the skin anyway. You can keep it if you like, I've more in my 'press." Uillean's distracted enough with the ring that she manages only a 'mmm' sound that may well be confirmation, but, if so, is not terribly encouraging. Her gaze lifts with more interest as Leda continues, however, and she gives the apprentice an appraising glance. "Bangles, too," she repeats, as if in a thoughtful daze. "And a neck chain. Yes, yes, that could work. Do you think it would be possible to embed stones into them? Perhaps not you, but-- a Smith might be able to, surely? And then..." The ring gets tucked into her little purse, and only then does the weaver manage, "Thank you. It has-- I have some ideas. Thank you." In the intervening time, Leda has shifted her weight from one foot to the other, untroubled by the wait. Her hands make their way into the pockets of her trousers to leave her posed for comfort, rather than posture. "Suppose they could be, with the right setting and maybe some glue. I never thought of it before but with the right stone and the right grain, they'd be sweet to look at, wouldn't they?" And yet her smile remains a small and gentle thing, untouched by excitement. Inspiration does not burn in her with the same fire. "Like dew on a branch. You're welcome, lady. If anything comes of it, let me know. Doesn't take too long to make those up, it's the sanding down to that finish takes up most of it." "Dew on a branch," repeats Uillean, with almost reverence, her eyes gleaming. "Yes, yes, exactly. That could be the /theme/." Clearly, the ideas are tick-tocking merrily through her pretty head. For a moment, it half looks as though she's intending to swing in and hug Leda, but something - quite possibly the sawdust - stops her, and instead, she flutters her hands excitedly. "I will-- of course. I may want to commission you for a few pieces, after all. To pull it all together. A collaboration. After all," and she beams, "is that not what this whole complex is about? Encouraging us to work together." The weaver lost her after theme. Whimsy such as the coastal lass has does not follow /theme/. But Leda nods in agreeable fashion, lips quirked in a smile caught somewhere between amusement and speculation at Uillean's fluttering. "Oh aye? I'm not so trained that commissions are like to not raise eyebrows with the journeymen, lady, but we can speak on it if you'd like. A collaboration, that very thing. Might be fun..." And let's not forget lucrative, although there might be doubts to be had over whether Leda recognizes that concept. She is at least mannered enough to understand the back and forth nature of such associations, for she does add, "If I'm ever in need of finer wear, lady, I'll be sure to speak with you first." Should that day ever come. Uillean accepts this after a moment's though, nodding her head firmly. Somewhat grandly, she declares, "Perhaps between you and your Journeymen-- some kind of agreement. I am sure they would be equally pleased. If all went well, it could turn into /quite/ an important thing for your career." An appraising up-and-down glance at the Apprentice has her adding, "I would look after you well, should you need something, I promise. We could-- there is a lot we could do." Which she probably doesn't /intend/ to be an insult, even if many would take it as such. "If you'll excuse me? I have some ideas I really ought to put to paper." "Ayuh, kept you talking too long and me with dust to sweep." Not to mention a bath to take. Leda tips a finger from her temple in a rough salute of the woman. Her eyes, so bright in her dirty face, speak the amusement that goes unvoiced. There is no insult taken from those words though she recognizes the implication within them. "It was nice meeting you, lady weaver." Talk of careers and negotiations to be had with journeymen is put on hold. Back towards the workshop she goes, no doubt intent on fetching a broom to undo the damage done the floor by her careless exit earlier. There is a distinctly brighter air to Uillean's step as she bobs her head once more to Leda, then departs the corridor for the rest of the complex beyond. Such a successful evening! |
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