Smooth As Silk

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Oisin Ocasta
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Fri Jun 28, 2019 2:16 pm

Morning - 19th of Hamis, 2719
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Oisin Ocasta had woken at dawn.

That in itself was unremarkable. At times, it might even have been preferable. A few months and a lifetime ago, it would even have been the status quo: though it would have been the sunrise over Mugroba that roused him from his slumber, or perhaps the insistent boot of a mercenary Sergeant if the night's revelries had left him dulled to the gentle caress of Ire's morning kiss.

On such days, however, rising early had come with purpose. There were tasks, duties, and responsibilities that justified being awake in those fledgeling hours of the day. Here in Vienda, here in this new life, there were no such justifications to be found. The lance of sunlight that had pierced through the worn wound in the fabric of his threadbare curtains had been nothing but antagonism, compelling him to consciousness merely so that he could endure the solitude of his newfound existence for a few hours longer.

It was the second consecutive morning that Ire had contributed to his personal punishment in such a way. Thus far, the rainy season had lived up to its name, Oisin's early days in this new city greeted by clouds, mists, and rain. Yesterday, the sun had ambushed him, a sneak attack of stray sunlight creeping over the rooftop opposite. Today, it had struck again, and Oisin refused to allow himself to be a victim of such indecency for a third time.

Oisin's morning routine had progressed as it always did, the schedule merely advanced by the rude awakening. The unfortunate side effect was the vacant time that followed, idle nothingness as Oisin's gaze shifted from disinteresting wall to disinteresting wall within the modest abode he rented. Throughout his childhood and his mercenary years, he had lived with very little, possessed nothing that could not quickly be gathered together in a sachel, slung over the shoulder, and carried to wherever his life took him next. He had not understood the lavish furnishings and decorations on which the more wealthy spent their hard-earned shills, but now he wondered if this was the answer: that such things existed to occupy the gaze when one's attention had nothing better to do.

Finally, time's molasses pace advanced enough that life beyond his apartment began to stir. He heard the shuffling, clangs, and muffled shouts as the bakery beneath him began to stir into life, the progressive decline of the elderly owner's hearing robbing him of any consideration that might have moderated the volume of his voice. Each morning began in much the same way, a repeated argument that Oisin had failed to not overhear too many times: the frustrated lament of the old baker who'd just trudged through the cold and wet to the venue of his life's work; the nagging counter-argument of the daughter that resented the ingratitude in his tone for the care she provided now that he lived under their roof; the patient but frustrated sigh of the granddaughter who politely reminded them both of the valuable boon Oisin's rented room provided to their coffers.

That was Oisin's cue to leave, exploiting the distraction that the conversation provided to escape his room and descend the stairs with the utmost stealth. Like the sun before them, however, the stairway also betrayed him, a creak of straining wood heralding his descent from the floor above. Oisin felt it before he saw it, the rush of dread that preceded his landlady's apparition, suddenly at the threshold of the stairway as if she somehow moved only whenever Oisin blinked or glanced away.

"Good morning, Mr Ocasta."

The greeting was innocent enough, and yet practically drowning in subtext and implication. The daughter's eyes roamed from shoe to sternum as Oisin stood paralysed on the stairway, suddenly feeling an alarming amount of empathy with the livestock at a cattle market.

"G-good morning," Oisin stammered back, experimenting with a single step of advancement down the stairway. The landlady didn't move, though made no efforts to prevent his advance either, merely herding Oisin into uncomfortably close proximity as he reached equal footing and squeezed his way past. "Sorry," he flustered out, scrambling for some sort of platitude to justify the sudden urge to flee that gripped him. "Can't stop, I've important business to attend to this morning."

Undeterred, the gaze of the baker's daughter followed him as he retreated towards the door, stumbling slightly as he shuffled half-backwards, keeping the woman carefully in his sights. "One of these days," she uttered, as if they were the most sordid and carnal words ever heard by living ears, "You must let me have you for breakfast. Or dinner." A smile flickered on the widow's lips, an eyebrow arching with unspoken subtext. "Or both."

A nervous laugh leaked out of Oisin, but before he could provide any sort of response, a staggering backwards step almost saw him collide into the next obstacle in his path. He turned just in time to grasp at the tray of uncooked loaves that the baker's grandaughter carried in her arms, halting their momentum before the two of them sent the unbaked goods toppling to the floor. Oisin's conversation with the youngest of the bakers was entirely unspoken, and yet whatever was conveyed in the brief moment of eye contact left them both flushed, increasingly flustered, and eager to look at anything or anywhere other than each other.

"Yes, well -"

Oisin's eyes darted around himself in desperate hope of a distraction. None presented itself.

"Good morning to you both," he stuttered out, bowing his head and rushing for the door, as quickly as decorum would allow.


* * *

It took minutes for Oisin to regain his composure. The walk helped. Morning was breaking over the Painted Ladies, and the hustle and bustle that filled the city streets during the day was slowly beginning to yawn into life. What should have been a purposeful stride was instead replaced with more of an amble, Oisin distracting himself by taking a mental inventory of the buildings as he passed: shops, residences, in a rainbow of colours. His mind kept a tally of each, the mere act of keeping track of how many buildings shared the same shade of yellow providing a welcome foxhole amid the battlefield of the morning's exploits. Had he known what lay before him, had he divined what awaited him at the foot of the stairs, he might have escaped to street's soothing surroundings sooner. A solution for another day, perhaps, as well as a potential escape from the lonely solitude of his current home. Perhaps it was merely the familiarity of a childhood spent on similar streets, but no matter how deserted a street like this might be at any given hour, Oisin never seemed to find himself feeling alone.

Four yellow and three blue buildings - and a statistically insignificant assortment of other colours between - separated Oisin's home from the destination that he had set out towards. Woven Delights. He had not made note of the name before now, but the establishment's presence had imprinted on his mind each time he passed. There was something enticing about the array of fabrics that could be glimpsed within, some subconscious urge to experience the texture of each fabric that he had yet to indulge. Not that he intended to do so now either, of course - somehow he doubted that a strange man wandering in and caressing everything would be looked upon favourably - but still: even a partial indulgence was an indulgence just the same.

Oisin's hand reached for the doorway, gently testing to see if it was locked. The soft, musical jingle of bells as it swung open confirmed that it was not, and yet Oisin was hesitant as he stepped across the threshold; some residual aftermath from his escape from the bakery, perhaps.

"Hello?" he called, struggling to find a happy medium between confident and cautious. "Sorry, I hope I'm not intruding before you're open."

Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Sat Jul 13, 2019 10:05 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Ava Weaver
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Fri Jun 28, 2019 3:21 pm

Morning, 19th Hamis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
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Ava woke early, very early. The night before had been blissfully quiet, filled with the careful work of cutting fabric for well-welcomed orders. Silk first, before she might tire; it was a slow, delicate operation that required special shears and weights and the utmost care if she wanted to avoid an unsightly edge or, worse, a waste of even a precious scrap. Cotton and linens next, requiring a careful edge and her attention, but not as difficult as the silk; these fabrics stayed, they didn’t pool or run or try to escape even experienced fingers, but held, soft and light but not too delicate.

Then a pot of tea, brewed from leftover dregs. From long experience Ava knew not to overbrew it; better to have a pot of weak tea than weak and bitter tea. Best of all to have the satisfaction of knowing the tea was all hers, free and clear, bought with her carefully saved coins and used for her own purposes.

Finally, last, when the light was going and her fingers had begun to ache, Ava cut the wool. As long as she got the first cut right, she could grasp the two sides and rip, gently, knowing the thicker fabric was high quality enough to rip smoothly along the straight seam. It was quick and easy work, but she was still tired when it finished, when she could lay the last of the day’s orders aside in a neatly wrapped package.

Only then did Ava leave her shop behind, crossing into the small beautiful room she kept behind it and ducking beneath one of the hanging sheets of fabric that kept the space rich and private. Up a narrow staircase was her space, her very own small room. There she could undergo the long careful process of undressing, slow and easy to keep from damaging her clothing. She could heat water for a sponge bath, washing herself slowly and carefully, until she was every inch clean. There she could wash the kohl and lipstick from her face, brush and braid wet hair, scrub her teeth clean and rub soft lotion into her face and hands.

Then, finally, she could crawl into the small bed she called her own and sleep, the wind whistling in news of the world outside through her white glittering curtains.

As Ava did every day, despite the late night, she rose with the gray-pink of dawn’s light spilling through the curtains. She ate first, boiled water with leftover tea herbs and a slice of toast, then washed again, rinsed any trace of morning breath from her mouth, and dressed carefully, long used to the contortions it took to lace up one’s own gown, the careful management of petticoats and buttons alike. She unbraided and arranged curly dark hair, letting it tumble loose over her shoulders. Next she sat at her boudoir and painted on her face, adding smooth wings of kohl to her eyes and dark color to her lips. Today she wore a tan-colored dress, with sheer full sleeves laced to a close with a small neat turquoise ribbon bow at her wrists. The sleeves ended in smooth cotton of the same color at her shoulders, and the front plunged dangerously, deceptively, because nothing beneath was revealed but a second layer of tan fabric. The dress curved in at her waist, a small turquoise ribbon accenting it there as well, and flared out over her hips, falling with smooth points at the front and back somewhere below the knee. Beneath it, a fuller undershirt in a darker brown mirrored a softer echo of the same shape, falling to just above the floor, small neat ankles only just revealed.

Ava descended the stairs, spent a few quiet moments checking that her books were in order before hiding the precious thing deep within her counter. She turned back the curtains that hid the display at night, and unlocked the front door in preparation for her errand boy’s visit, gathering the parcels for him and heaping then on the counter. She still needed to wrap them in string, a tiresome task with only her own hands.

The soft tinkling of the bell was no surprise, but the man who entered the shop after it was. Ava paused, looking up at him from behind the counter, one hand resting on a parcel, black-lacquered nails a pleasant contrast to her olive skin and the oilcloth both. For a moment, they both stood there, the man hesitant but not too hesitant, and Ava blinking softly, taking him in.

“No,” Ava grinned at him, bright and friendly, a smile that blossomed on her face and lit her eyes as well. “That is, we’re not open yet, but it isn’t an intrusion. Especially if you might be kind enough to do me a small favor...?”

If Oisin agreed, Ava would beckon him forward, smooth string over her packages, and use his finger to knot around, hands delicate and graceful even as they tied the strings. Six packages in total, but it was as she worked on the third that Ava glanced up at him.

“Did you come here only to help me with my chores?” Ava asked, holding the bow for him to withdraw before easily finishing it, “or were you looking for some fabric as well?” She grinned at him again.

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Last edited by Ava Weaver on Sat Jul 13, 2019 9:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Fri Jun 28, 2019 4:46 pm

Morning - 19th of Hamis, 2719
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There were words escaping from the vision of beauty that Oisin found himself stumbling upon, but there was a delay between them being uttered and the recognition of their content being processed, Oisin's mind sputtering in empty darkness like a lantern dry of paraffin. When understanding slowly, finally dawned, when his gaze prised itself far enough away from the eyes and smile that his mind found so debilitating, and managed to comprehend the waiting packages that the shopkeep stood beside, a spark finally flickered, and his thoughts managed to crackle into life again.

Dutifully, he approached the counter in a few quick strides, positioning himself to face the shopkeep with her awaiting parcels poised between them. Dutifully, he let his index finger rest in place, subduing the errant binding as the shopkeep set about securing the strings. The return of the woman's eyes and smile that she offered threatened his undoing once again, but it was the question that sent his mind and words stumbling once again.

"Yes. No! Yes, I mean -"

Oisin's eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners, his gaze choosing an arbitrary section of ceiling off in one of the shop's back corners to focus on as he arranged his thoughts and words into a coherent order. He drew a breath, paused, focusing on the sequence of sensations as they progressed: the feel of the air, the whistle of his lips, the tightness in his chest, the tug of his waistcoat as it fought back against the motion. It was over in an instant, but it was enough, the wild horses of his thoughts gently relaxing from their stampede into a gentle canter.

"I'm afraid I'm already having quite a day," he apologised, with a faint wave of his hand as if he were trying to usher away the persistent buzz of the morning's earlier exploits, his features adjusting into the faint flicker of an apologetic smile. "I might have left my head behind when I left the house this morning, were it not so firmly attached."

There was a little more confidence - or at least, comfort - in Oisin's demeanour as he continued, a comfort not unlike that which followed regaining your balance after a precarious mishap upon ice. Oisin had successfully constructed a coherent sentence - arguably two, in fact - and that was a foundation he could build upon. After all, he was supposed to be a journalist now, the weaving of words was his stock and trade; allegedly, at least.

"I live at the bakery just up the way -" With all his might, Oisin fought against the urge to raise his hand away from the next parcel, and gesture over his shoulder. It occurred to him, far too late, that he possessed an entire other arm not currently in use that could have performed the same function. "- and I had something of a -"

He winced slightly, realising how petty a grievance it likely would sound aloud. A sigh forstalled his attempts to dress it up as anything but petty.

"I woke up with the sun in my eyes," he stated bluntly, with a slight dejected slump of his shoulders. "The curtains are old, the sun came up, and just -"

He trailed off, not bothering to elaborate any further. There were two kinds of people in the world, as far as he could tell: those for whom shopping was merely a transactional experience, and those for whom it became an excuse to strike up a conversation. Oisin certainly did not consider himself to be the latter, but under the circumstances, the former felt somewhat rude, particularly given how friendly the shopkeep had seemed thus far. He supposed that perhaps this was a different experience to the sorts of shopping experiences he was used to, the same kind of misunderstood luxury that had already eluded his understanding once this morning. Perhaps such transactions came with different rules; perhaps Vienda itself came with different rules from those followed in the shops and markets he had experienced elsewhere in the world. Whatever the unknown specifics, it seemed clear that this was a situation to err on the side of caution, and besides: he was a reporter now. If anyone was going to be that irritatingly conversational second kind of person, he supposed a reporter met that measure.

"I'm Oisin, by the way," he offered, and after a moment's hesitation, awkwardly exchanged one hand for the other in the task of string-holding, so that he could extend it in greeting towards the shopkeep. "Oisin Ocasta."
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Sat Jul 13, 2019 10:05 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Ava Weaver
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Sat Jun 29, 2019 2:49 am

Morning, 19th Hamis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Ava would have had to be nearly blind to miss how flustered the man was - and she was not. In fact, when it came to potential customers, there was very little she missed; she had sized him up immediately, and had she been anyone else, there would have been a pleased smile when he came closer and she sensed the soft pressure of his glamour, clearly marking him as a wick.

But she wasn’t anyone else.

The grin never lessened a fraction as Ava waited for him to catch up, as patient as if it was absolutely normal and nothing remotely embarrassing that he needed a few moments to come to terms with (evidently) the sight of her, before he managed to bring himself to the counter. The quick flustered answer he gave to her eventual question didn’t disrupt her smile either, Ava carefully moving on to her fourth package as she gave him time to think through his response, again utterly patient in response as he searched the ceiling for an answer to the question of why he was there.

Ava was rewarded when he seemed to finally be able to speak, like a stuck door breaking open after a firm tug. He began again with a gentle not-quite-apology, and moved into what seemed like an attempt at explanation. Ava didn’t really need to look to tie the bow at this stage, and so she kept her gaze on him, eyes dark and liquid, her smile shifting into sympathy as he explained the trial of his threadbare curtains.

He shifted hands - Ava held still as delicately as she could, then gracefully extracted one hand from her work to shake his, a pleasant, warm grip that didn’t linger. Her hands were remarkably soft, uncallused, although her name, coloring, style, and distinct lack of a field marked her as human. “Ava Weaver,” she smiled at him again. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Ocasta.”

Carefully, Ava finished the fourth bow, keeping up an easy flow of light conversation. “If you’re looking for sympathy about your poor curtains, you’ve come to the right place.” There was a very slight glint to her eyes, as if she was unable to resist the faintest edge of a teasing tone that curled delicately around her words, “Threadbare curtains are a menace,” Ava moved to the fifth bow now, glancing down for a moment to hold it in place. As close as their hands were, she never actually touched him as she worked, not even the faintest accidental brush of her fingers against his skin.

“I’m not sure I’ve seen you around before,” Ava continued. “Did you join us in the Painted Ladies recently?” She was still smiling, looking back up once she was confident in the delicate motions of her hands.

Although there was no hint of it in her voice or on her face, and the question was a casual one, Ava was very interested in Oisin’s answer. There was something terribly familiar about his face, and worse, the sight of it brought up a flutter of half-remembered emotion in her chest, an odd mix of sadness and - something else, almost girlish. Oisin Ocasta. Ava could have sworn she hadn’t met him in the Painted Ladies before, could have sworn she hadn’t felt that little flash of remembrance before now. She had felt it the moment she entered, and as she smiled and teased and chatted, her mind was working, hard, trying to place him.

Was it possible that she had met him before the Painted Ladies, back in Uptown? She had met so few people then. He wasn’t Resistance, or if he was he wasn’t known to her, and therefore, for safety, he was not. Not that there weren’t wicks in the How, but - not this one, she didn’t think. Before that, then? Again, a wick of his age - it wasn’t likely. As well, if she had met him then, he would know her, and she thought his obvious fluster would be tinged with rather different emotions. She didn’t think he was awkwardly trying to assess how to treat a woman he’d known as a - it didn’t read like that.

That left Old Rose Harbor, a memory from childhood, but Ava couldn’t place it. In a way that was safer; she knew well how much she had changed from those days, and Loshis had brought its own proof of how hard she was to recognize now. If he was new to the Painted Ladies, to Vienda - if she could tease from him a little more about his past - perhaps it might jog loose whatever memories of him seemed to be buried somewhere.

None of it showed, not even to the faintest degree. The smiles were easy enough to summon, and genuine besides - not that Ava couldn’t summon warmth to her eyes when she needed to. But in truth she thought she would have reacted much the same even if it hadn’t been for the odd jolt of remembrance and - honestly - it was remarkably helpful to have someone else for tying the packages. Often she made the delivery boy do it, but he blushed much more than Oisin did.

So, for now Ava would probe gently, in a casual, friendly way, all smooth silken smiles. If she was wrong, if he did present a threat to the lovely, comfortable life of hard work she had built here - then only knowing could help her now.

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Last edited by Ava Weaver on Sat Jul 13, 2019 9:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Sat Jun 29, 2019 1:57 pm

Morning - 19th of Hamis, 2719
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A sense of security had begun to settle over Oisin. Whether or not it was false remained to be be seen, but thus far the exchange seemed to have rules and expectations that he could readily understand. This was how polite conversation worked, wasn't it? Simple questions about incidental things, like the low-effort jabs one threw at an opponent who was still learning the mere basics of boxing and blocks. It was the sort of conversation you had when you didn't know a person, the sort of information that was of little consequence and easily forgettable if you never saw the person again; and that at the same time was the sort of information you never needed to ask of a person you knew.

It was unfamiliar territory for Oisin, in a way. For much of his youth in Old Rose Harbor, he had managed to go unseen, unnoticed, and unregarded; and those times were infinitely preferable and less painful than the occasions when the opposite was true. Back then, Oisin had been quiet and reserved, learning what he needed to through observation, from a safe distance. Those to whom he spoke - deliberately, at least - were those he already knew, at least to some extent. Life was safer that way: you knew going in which people were safe, and which were not; who you could be yourself around, and when you absolutely should not. As a mercenary, that approach had continued to serve him well, particularly when working with the locals in Mugroba, or the soldiers of the AAF he found himself alongside on occasion. There, even more was at stake than the occasional beating. There, it was vital to know exactly who out of those you encountered would be unwilling to suffer a Wick in their presence. Of course, such danger was outweighed by the positives: a band of brothers, his fellow mercenaries, a cadre of souls who knew him, and who he knew. There were no introductions, no casual conversations, no questions where the answers didn't matter. They still talked, of course - often them more than him, granted - but those conversations were different. They were familiar, and comfortable, like being in your own room. You knew where everything was, and what everything was.

Perhaps it was strange that such a profound novice at conversation might pursue a career as a reporter. But what else was there, for a man such as him? To stand behind a bar, or a stall, or the counter of a store such as this one, a living earned by existing within that unfamiliar conversational terrain, seemed like the stuff of nightmares. The manual tasks and menial labour that had sustained him through his childhood and teens was a life to which he could not bear to return. But journalism? A task that required observation and study? A task where conversation, rather than being casual and fleeting, was approached like a mission, with clear objectives, clear parameters for success? That, Oisin could do. Or at least, he hoped, could learn.

"Quite recently," Oisin confirmed, nodding in response to Ms. Weaver's question. His mind slowly began to reconsider and reframe their exchange, rebranding it an opportunity for practice and learning; a training exercise, of sorts. Perhaps even a game. Ms. Weaver had asked how long he had lived in the area: that was a point to her. Divining the reason behind his visit, that was another. His name, and the specifics of where he lived had been given away for free, but Oisin had secured her name as well, and it stood to reason that the store was her place of residence; answers that essentially negated each other. The lead was hers then, two points to his nil. He began to choose his words more selectively, though not with any outward caution, careful of the points he was willing to concede without earning anything for himself. "I haven't been in town long at all. In fact, I think this might be only the second day where I've actually seen the sun - which would a positive thing, were it not for the rude awakening."

He cocked his head to the side, brow furrowing ever so slighty. "I take it the establishment is yours?" he asked gently, echoing the same polite curiosity that Ava had thus far displayed. "Ms. Weaver, Woven Delights; I assume the name is not just a happy coincidence."
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Sat Jul 13, 2019 10:05 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Ava Weaver
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Sat Jun 29, 2019 5:39 pm

Morning, 19th Hamis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
“T
his season, you still might have been here for a month,”
Ava smiled at Oisin. The rains had started early in Loshis, and continued on steadily, with sporadic breaks here and there, occasional dawns when the sun peeped through. Ava couldn’t have said how many days she’d woken up to the sun rather than the steady patter of rain; few enough that she had appreciated it this morning, at least. Soon, she knew, they would miss the rains as the city became hot and sticky in Roalis. But - there was a certain polite amount of weather-related small talk which was lovely and expected, and then always an abrupt moment at which it became repetitive and awkward. Ava hoped they had steered to the right side of that.

Oisin cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow and Ava was awash in memory. Somehow her mouth still moved, her eyes crinkled at the corners. “No, no coincidences here,” Ava grinned at herself this time, faint pale color rising in her cheeks summoned without effort, as if she were ever so slightly embarrassed by the obviousness of the name. Her hands were still moving, almost without conscious volition, tying the sixth bow, pausing and readjusting once before continuing their graceful work.

“Might I ask what brings you to Vienda?” Her eyes lowered to his hands, to the finger holding her last bow in place. She smiled at him again. ”Let’s see - you can’t be a baker, or you would be far too busy at this hour for errands.”

Ava wasn’t, honestly, entirely sure which words had come out. She was all instinct, training, her mind busy elsewhere, more than a dozen years ago now. Her grandmother’s funeral in Old Rose Harbor; Ava remembered it, crisp and clear, the first death of anyone who she had truly loved. She remembered a plain black dress, the white handkerchief her mother had given her, which she gave back later when her mother couldn’t stop crying.

Ava remembered looking up to see her uncle’s eyes on her during the ceremonies, remembered not understanding why they scared her so. She remembered a lump in her throat, escaping to the back during the reception, hiding in a little garden next to the building. She remembered knowing that she needed to cry and feeling the desperate urge to do it in private, away from family and strangers both. And she remembered the young man who had found her there, kneeling and cocking his head in just that way, furrowing his brow and asking her what was wrong. He had been kind to her, very kind. She had looked for him for months, Ava remembered, thinking almost sheepishly of the crush she had had on him. How handsome she had thought he was! She hadn't told anyone about him, wanting, somehow, to keep it hers. At the time it had felt deadly serious, at least for a few weeks. Looking back, Ava could see how sweetly innocent it had been. The memory wasn’t without pain, but she thought it less than it might have been a month ago. It was certainly easier to think of than it had been.

He looked older now - well, naturally, Ava thought. Not just older, but a little worn down too, as if the years between had been hard. He still had the same kind eyes, soft and a little friendly, a little sad too; she saw it more in his face now. Had she seen it then? Ava could only remember the selfish sadness of that little girl, the feeling that the world was ending without any ability to explain why.

Had it been a premonition of what was to come? Or only grief? Ava remembered feeling much better after Oisin had left, walking back inside with all the little-girl dignity she could muster. She had kept his handkerchief; faintly, Ava wondered what had become of it.

“All done,” Ava promised, pulling the last package away and making a neat stack of them. No, there was no danger from him; she would be shocked if anyone could see that crying little girl in her now. And while he did still have those lovely eyes, Ava didn’t think she was in danger of succumbing anymore. All the same, there was something strange and a little silly in the sense of warmth she felt in how he had looked at her today, the fleeting thought that her long-gone younger self would be pleased.

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Last edited by Ava Weaver on Sat Jul 13, 2019 9:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Sat Jun 29, 2019 6:16 pm

Morning - 19th of Hamis, 2719
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If any part of Oisin had noticed Ava's moment of recognition, he didn't comprehend it as such, nor understand the thoughts and rememberences dancing away hidden behind her features. His awareness realised that there was something there, subtle and fleeting, but it was private, and he had no desire to unravel that particular stray thread even if he had been able.

Instead, he focused purely on what Ms. Weaver gave willingly, the warm smile, the polite questions, and the courtesy that existed between a shopkeep and customer. Hand now liberated from their conscripted task, Oisin suddenly found it awkward, and surplus to requirements. At his behest it disappeared into a pocket, disappearing from view and from his peripheral awareness. Undignified, perhaps, but he hoped the lapse in decorum would be forgiven. After all, this was the Painted Ladies, not the Royal Palace: it wasn't as if there were Galdori here lurking in the shadows, waiting to leap out and chastise anyone who didn't uphold their ordained social graces.

The adjustment of his posture provided Oisin with a brief moment to consider the best way to answer Ava's question. It was innocent enough, and a natural progression of their conversation, but as part of the contest of inquiry that existed solely in Oisin's imagination, it was a cunning ruse that left Oisin with little room to evade. Though seemingly small, it was a big question, with big answers, a slippery slope down to a sharp precipice before plunging into the abyss of his entire life story. It was a situation where it was all too easy to provide too much of an answer, and yet also one where too little of an answer might seem deliberately evasive. It wasn't that Oisin felt he had anything to hide, at least not in those particular words: more that he had plenty to spare people from. No matter how strongly one might argue otherwise, truth was a subjective thing, and people only needed to know what they needed to know.

"Not a baker, no," Oisin replied with a gentle chuckle, buying himself the faintest scrap of extra time to arrange his words. "One was just kind enough to rent me a room."

A breath was drawn into Oisin's lungs, the furrowed brow returning, his hand escaping his pocket to join the other in folding across his chest. If his answer was to be carefully chosen, then it was far better to do so openly. An honest deception, of sorts, the specifics visibly hidden in what, hopefully, would seem more intriguing and enigmatic than suspicious.

"As for what brings me to Vienda, that's something of a long story. I suppose the short version is that I needed a change? A fresh start in Vienda seemed like as good a place as any."

A moment's pause was all he granted before he reversed the question upon its inquirer.

"How about you? Has Vienda always been home, or did life bring you here as well?"
Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Sat Jul 13, 2019 10:05 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Ava Weaver
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Sun Jun 30, 2019 5:51 am


Morning, 19th Hamis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Oisin’s answer was both honest and vague, and although Ava’s pleasant smile didn’t budge, she noticed and appreciated the response. It was well done, a gentle deflection of a question it would seem he didn't want to answer in a way that still felt genuine. It didn’t make the asker feel they had imposed, but also didn’t easily invite further conversation on the topic.

He doubled down by reversing the question back to her.

For a moment, Ava thought of saying that she was from Old Rose Harbor. She thought it likely he would be pleased; they weren’t rare here in Vienda by any means, but even if one had left long ago many still felt a fondness for that strange rough city on the waters of the Tincta Basta. For just a moment, she let herself imagine a flicker of surprise in his eyes, a bright pleased smile, maybe even a confession of his own history as well, all unknowing of her own knowledge of him. It was a pleasant thought, the idea of connecting with a stranger who wasn’t quite a stranger. Ava doubted it would prompt any recollections - but it might lead to questions. Where in Old Rose Harbor? Did she have family there still?

The habit of secrecy, born of a lifetime of survival through deception, was burned too deep. The less anyone knew, the better. The last month had forced her to bare too much of herself already, to strip away too many of the layers that she needed to stay whole. Those risks she had needed to take; this one she did not. It was a pleasant, idle fantasy, nothing more.

“Oh, yes, Vienda is definitely my home,” Ava said with a smile, as if it were an admission, as if it answered his question. She found the line between the truth and a lie and tiptoed along it, neatly and carefully, as gracefully as she did everything else.

“But you do have me at a disadvantage,” Ava grinned at him, conspicuously studying him. “Not a baker - let’s see - not a tailor, I think, or you would be even more offended by those curtains of yours.” She teased at the edges of a part of her earlier question and teased him a little as well, not asking outright again.

“Ms. Weaver!” The door to the shop flew open and a panting boy rushed in. “I’m real sorry I’m late madam, I -“ he stopped abruptly just inside the doorway, staring at Oisin at the counter in bewilderment. His expression shifted quickly to disappointment, and then he swallowed hard and mastered it, drawing himself up in the most adult way he could manage. “You had some packages today, I think?”

“Good morning, Will,” Ava smiled at him, ignoring his awkwardness with the same easy grace she had Oisin’s. “Yes, please! Six today. Do you think you can manage them all?”

Will stood a little straighter, shoulders pulling back and chest squaring. “Good morning Ms. Weaver,” he repeated obediently. “Oh yes madam, don’t worry about a thing! I can.”

Ava smiled at Oisin. “A moment, please, Mr. Ocasta?”

Ava gave each of the six packages to Will, describing to him where to take them one by one, whether to the homes of pleased new owners to to tailors who would transform them into something even lovelier. He repeated each one back easily, his young memory flawless, and capped it with a quick touch and repetition of each. Then he trotted back out of the shop carrying all six packages, clearly a little overloaded but successfully enough, clinging to his dignity through the work. If he shot a slightly longing gaze at Ava from the door, she did her best not to see it.

“Benea light your path,” she called cheerfully, wishing him well.

“So,” Ava exhaled as the door closed, leaning forward on the counter for a moment, face smoothing out into stillness. She straightened up and turned the full warmth of her attention back on Oisin, gracing him with another smile. “Thank you for your help - you made an unpleasant chore much simpler. But I don’t want to take up too much of your time, I - Would you like to see some curtain fabrics?” She managed to sound a little reluctant, faintly to, but coming to businesslike at the end, her smile growing a little more professional.

Maybe he was more dangerous than she had thought; Ava worried a little about the faint feeling of nostalgia this conversation had brought to life in her chest, the warmth of it. Better not, she told herself. Better not.

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Last edited by Ava Weaver on Sat Jul 13, 2019 9:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Oisin Ocasta
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Sun Jun 30, 2019 1:24 pm

Morning - 19th of Hamis, 2719
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It was an answer as carefully chosen as Oisin's had been, and delivered with far more grace and elegance than his own. To say that Vienda was home told him nothing. Worse, it almost goaded him to enquire, to pry, to overstep that indelible line that went unspoken, but that social graces made resolutely clear was there. Perhaps for some, it could have been shrugged aside, but for Oisin it was like the aroma of fine food, enough to wet his apetite and set the stomach of his curiosity rumbling.

But the indelible line persisted, and Oisin could find no justification within himself to cross it: no right, no excuse, no plausible deniability. There was no journalistic intent to hide behind, no bond of friendship, no mission or cause. The question and curiosity rolled by like a cottage beneath an aeroship, noticed but required to persist in mystery, unless one was willing to grab the controls and sharply alter course.

The brief interruption was a welcome one, and one that provided Oisin with much to consider and observe. It offered him context for Ms. Weaver, the same pleasant demeanour offered to the arriving child as had been granted to a prospective customer: and Will - Oisin took care to note the name - had not seemed surprised by it, which suggested such a manner was somewhat typical. Not a glimpse of Ava's deeper nature, of course, for one's personality and demeanour was as much a choice as the clothes one wore or the words one chose: but it was an indicator of who Ms. Weaver chose to be, and how she chose to be seen, a paragon of elegance in surroundings where such choices were not strictly necessary. Certainly, the butchers and bakers of the Painted Ladies made no pretence towards such civility, but then they were necessities, basic needs of life and survival. The fabrics that Ms. Weaver sold, and the clothes and fineries they could be sewn into, those were luxuries, of a sort, elements of a better life than one might currently be living. Perhaps the acquisition and transaction of such things was an essential part of the process: perhaps how it felt to buy such things was as important as how it felt to own them.

The boy himself was of interest, too. Someone who made deliveries in exchange for coin was a useful resource to be aware of in itself, but there was a greater value too, the prospect of what someone like that might see and hear as they went about such business. He carefully committed the boy's features and dimensions to memory, reminded himself of the name, and made a point to keep an eye and an ear out for him in the future: to gauge the kind of access he had, and perhaps to eventually strike up some sort of mutually beneficial arrangement.

Oisin was almost disappointed when Ms. Weaver returned: not disappointed to resume her company, but perhaps a little that she steered them back on course towards the real reason for Oisin's visit. He had braced himself for the sparring of their inquiries to resume, wanted it, even, but instead here they were, back on the path that would advance towards his eventual departure. "I write," a stray thought interjected, surging from his lips without permission, like a liberated rodent bolting from the room. "Not a tailor, nor a baker," he added for clarity, to pad the words with an afterthought of context. "And yes, seeing some fabrics would be -."

He trailed off. Would be lovely? That sounded as if it was the way the words intended to end, and yet those did not sound like words that belonged to a voice like his. They sounded meaningless, a platitude, the sort of thing you said when you didn't care either way. Oisin did care. Certainly, it was not something he felt deeply invested in, but Ms. Weaver was gracious and accommodating, and deserved better than empty, formulaic responses. Oisin allowed himself to smile instead, reciprocating Ava's professional smile with one of his own that was warmer and more genuine than he might have intended. "Well, I suppose that is why I'm here, isn't it?"

Oisin surrendered himself to Ava's guidance: after all, this was her establishment, whereas he was here in unfamiliar surroundings, not only unsure of where to start looking, but also of what it was he was even looking for. "What exactly does one look for in curtain fabric?" he asked aloud, the question directed as much to himself as to the comparative expert beside him. "The intricacies of home decor could not be further from the scope of my understanding, and curtains? Well." A politely amused chuckle at his own expense managed to escape. "If I've ever owned curtains before now, I certainly haven't ever been consciously aware of it. They've always just sort of been there."

Last edited by Oisin Ocasta on Sat Jul 13, 2019 10:08 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Ava Weaver
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Sun Jun 30, 2019 5:32 pm

Morning, 19th Hamis, 2719
Woven Delights, Painted Ladies
Ava felt a strange mix of emotions as Oisin’s abrupt, blurted comment. She let one creep over her face - a soft faint pleasure that he had wanted to tell her what he did, in the end, even when she hadn’t asked. There was a curling smile and a very quick flush of color in her cheeks, gone almost before it had appeared.

Deeper than that was curiosity. A wick, grown up among humans in the Rose or at least there perhaps twelve, thirteen years back, where reading was common enough but hardly a specialty, taught to most quietly at night, without any schools to speak of. Ava herself had learned with the other children of Kong’s Court, at night in the kitchen of a neighbor. She had loved it, herself, and devoured everything she could get her hands on. Even as comfortable as they had been then they hadn’t owned a single book. Only later - for a time, Ava had at least had access to books, and she had devoured all she could in the long hours that were open to her then, reading them as many times as it took for the strange, academic words to make sense.

So - what did Oisin write? Ava’s lips parted slightly to ask, but he didn’t leave her time; he was already moving ahead to the question she had asked about the curtains.

Ava grinned again at his answer. How like a man, she thought. They hated to profess to ignorance of any sort - unless it was in the domestic sphere, where it became like a badge of honor to know as little as possible. The desire to giggle rose up in her and Ava didn’t suppress it, a soft little laugh emerging, deliberately softened by a smile in an attempt to avoid making Oisin feel she was laughing at him, inviting him to be in on the joke.

Privately, Ava made her own guesses about him. A bachelor, unless some of that sadness in his eyes was for a dead lover or wife. Either way, if he had one he didn’t now - Ava thought Marla Bloom, the daughter of the elderly baker who owned the Baker’s Treat down the street, much more likely to rent to a single man than anything else. She didn’t let herself smile at the thought of Oisin managing with the woman; in fact, she rather hoped he would enjoy himself. But most likely a lifelong bachelor, most likely someone who had never lived in one place long. Not, she thought from his hands, someone who had always been a writer.

“Of course,” Ava smiled. “I’ll try not to overwhelm you with options.” The laugh still in her chest lent her voice a rich, warm depth. Now, for the first time she stepped out from behind the counter, skirt swishing softly at her hips as she made her way across the shop, her tan dress a soft contrast against the range of colors and fabrics displayed on every inch of the walls.

“Curtains can be made from nearly any fabric,” Ava glanced back over one shoulder at Oisin, beckoning him after her with an easy little smile. “There’s velvet, if you want something warm and heavy,” fingers with black-lacquered nails brushed a bolt of the stuff, lightly. “In the winter, if you have a large window, it will help keep the warmth in. There’s even lace, if you want something airy and light, lovely for hot summer weather but not so easy to clean.” She stopped for a moment at a bolt of the delicate stuff, not touching them.

“But,” Ava turned away from it. “For you I would suggest voile or cotton,” Ava stepped crossed to one of the shelves. “You’ll want a lighter color, a white or perhaps a pale green or blue, as the sun fades fabrics over time. A bright color will look lovely at first, then a pale imitation of itself before long.”

Carefully, Ava stood on her tiptoes, easing a bolt of a sheer, almost gauzy fabric in white off a high shelf and holding it easily in one arm. She pulled another bolt of a more standard white cotton from the shelf, and carried both to the counter, almost gliding back across the store. From each bolt she unfolded a careful length of fabric, smoothing it out over the hard surface and taking a half step back.

“Feel free to touch them,” Ava offered with a smile, hands resting lightly still on the edge of the counter “Cotton will block the light a little better than voile, but both will still drape nicely. Neither will keep the sun entirely out, but two layers of cotton should keep the it from waking you, and even voile will help considerably. If you like one of them, I can show you some choices for colors and patterns.”

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Last edited by Ava Weaver on Sat Jul 13, 2019 9:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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