Cool As Air

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

User avatar
Oisin Ocasta
Posts: 69
Joined: Thu Jun 27, 2019 7:00 pm
Topics: 9
Race: Wick
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Amphion
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Sun Aug 25, 2019 1:12 am

Evening - 19th of Hamis, 2719
Image
Oisin listened attentively to every word of Ava's story. It made such sense, and explained so much. It had all the hallmarks of the best stories, as well. Family. Love. Loss. Bittersweet. Most of all, though, hopeful: something positive growing in the tilled soil of a difficult past. It was a good story, and the kind that someone like Ava deserved. He knew her only a little thus far, but even that was enough to give him a sense, to tell an antagonist from a protagonist; good person from bad.

He thought of the platitudes that one might offer in a situation like this: how sure he was that her parents must have been proud, and words to that effect. But in truth, he didn't know. Oisin had little experience with parents, or families, and none whatsoever with the Weavers. They might have been the most loving relatives that had ever lived, or unrepentant monsters that Ava was better off without, a detail excluded from her offered narrative like the explicit details scrubbed from a story before it was presented to a child. Oisin had no desire to speak with authority on a matter with which he was not an expert, and that extended not just to her family, but to her shop as well.

He settled upon a simple response, both honest, and accurate, and delivered with good humour and a smile. "It's certainly the nicest fabric merchant I've ever visited."

Oisin edged them forward as Ava posed her own question, giving it the careful consideration that it deserved. He thought of what Ava herself had shared, and of the kind of answer she might expect to receive in response. Enough to explain, but not too much. Still that careful restraint, that concession to civility without straying too far into familiarity. It was helpful, defining the parameters for their conversation without Oisin needing to determine them for himself. Yet, the question she posed was both easy and hard to answer. There was a simple response that offered nothing, and a more comprehensive answer that shared the very fundamentals of who Oisin was as a person. How to thread the needle between the two?

His attention strayed, but not to the display of pastries spread before them, the often heaving shelves now broken and interrupted by voids and vacancies that suggested it might have been a lucrative day for the Baker's Treat. Instead they settled on the youngest of the family of bakers: on Catomi Bloom, the daughter of Oisin's huge-personalitied landlady, Marla Bloom, and granddaughter of the grizzled old baker Ewart Bloom, who seemed to exist in a perpetual state of dismay at the way his daughter had usurped the business from under him, and stolen away his privacy and independence so that his former apartment could be rented to some strange out-of-towner journalist. All three of them were present, going through the motions of winding down their culinary efforts for the evening, and making the bakery clean and ready for the following day; but it was only Catomi that caught Oisin's eye, deliberately, tucking a single strand of the vibrant explosion of copper curls behind her ear, and offering the smallest, most sheepish of smiles. She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but then her eyes strayed for the briefest of moments, and as they settled on Ava, the prospect of a greeting seemed to fade from her thoughts completely, her attention returning instead to the pan she had been tasked with scrubbing clean.

Something had happened, Oisin was sure of it, but there were too many narratives happening simultaneously in his head for him to consider it now. Catomi was someone he could speak to later, check in on before she went home to be sure that everything was okay. With Ava's question, he didn't have the same luxury of deferring until later.

"I don't know if I have always wanted to tell stories," he admitted, with a furrow of his brow that suggested he wasn't entirely satisfied with his own answer. "But I've always liked stories. Back in Old Rose Harbor, they were like a precious treasure, things that I was told and that I had to clutch in my mind so that they wouldn't slip away. They were these perfect places, these wonderfully simple people and logical events that made more sense to me than the real world ever did. It wasn't until I jouned the mercenaries, and learned to read for myself, that I started to realise that stories didn't have to be as simple as the ones I was told as a child; and then I started to realise that everything was a story, if you looked at it the right way."

He offered a slight shrug, hands seeking the comfort of disappearing into his pockets. "Finding and understanding the story of things makes life a little easier for me. I suppose that by being a journalist, by doing the work of translating the world into simpler stories, I can make life a little easier to understand for others as well."

Tags:
User avatar
Ava Weaver
Posts: 303
Joined: Fri Jun 07, 2019 11:17 am
Topics: 11
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: moralhazard
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Plot Notes
Contact:

Sun Aug 25, 2019 11:02 am

Evening, 19th Hamis, 2719
The Baker's Treat, The Painted Ladies
Ava smiled at Oisin’s comment, a quick flash of brightening on her face. It was a look as if his words had swept through her and warmed something inside. She could not precisely tell if he meant it to be a joke - she knew he had said he had never bought fabric before - but then, he clearly meant it nicely. It was either a bit of self-deprecating humor or a genuine compliment, and either way Ava would smile at it, smooth over the uncertainty without having to ask, without having to make it worse. Both jokes and compliments could merit smiles, after all, and she did not want him to linger.

Ava followed Oisin forward, her steps carefully gauged with his; she did not rush after him, did not let her eagerness to see this through and return home make her come across as hasty. She also didn’t linger. She adjusted the basket on her arm, checking the contents inside with a quick downward glance. The eggs would not be any worse for the wear, but the soap...! But the wrapping was waterproof enough for the droplets of rain, and with a quick brush of Ava’s free hand they scattered, dashing themselves against the fabric lining inside the basket.

Ava did not have the luxury of glancing around the shop in the space between her question and Oisin’s reply. To do so might seem rude, as if she were either bored by him or impatient waiting those few thoughtful moments. But Ava was a shopkeeper herself, and she had been to the bakery more than once before. All three of the Blooms were working tonight, and she caught a soft grumble of complaints from Mr. Bloom, aired not so much at his daughter as into the air around her. His hip must be hurting tonight, Ava thought; she had seen the elderly gentleman rubbing it before, but only when his daughter wasn’t watching.

The shelves were dwindling; it looked to Ava as if they too had had a good day, as if the sun had left the Painted Ladies as eager for bread as it had for fabric. The door swung open behind them, and Ava heard the roar of the rain growing heavier behind them; boots stamped against the floor, and there was a shush of liquid, droplets falling from someone’s cloak.

Ava’s gaze had never wavered from Oisin, and she was smiling still when he began to speak again. They edged a little further forward, him leading and her following. While he spoke, he had her undivided attention; Ava knew well the knack of listening deeply. The trick to it was that there was no trick. Someone speaking knew if you were paying attention or if you had pulled away into your own thoughts. Some were more conscious of it than others; some could name it, and for others it was only a tickle of unease, a feeling. And so Ava focused on Oisin, and heard him. She heard a lonely boy in Old Rose Harbor searching for meaning; she heard a young man discovering the broadening of his world. She heard a man in front of her, trying to make sense of what it all meant.

“That’s lovely,” Ava said, and there was no doubting that she was sincere.

“The world seems so complex to me, sometimes,” Ava offered, softly, into the space that followed. They stepped forward again. She glanced at the shelves, letting her gaze wander over the pastries; looked at the Blooms at their work, Catomi scrubbing as if the slightest bit of dirt was a personal offense to her.

They had moved away from the subject of her past, and Oisin had slid through his with a light touch, less revealing than some of what else he had said earlier had been. Ava did not want to give him the chance to go back to her, and she did not want to make him uncomfortable either.

But all of that was easily solved, because in truth Ava did want to know more. She had meant it; what he had said was lovely, and more than a little thought-provoking.

“How do you sort out how to make it simple?” Ava turned back to Oisin, smiled again. “I must admit I don’t understand much about how being a writer works, but that seems, to me, where it would be difficult. I’m sure I would be forever lost in the little things.”

Image
User avatar
Oisin Ocasta
Posts: 69
Joined: Thu Jun 27, 2019 7:00 pm
Topics: 9
Race: Wick
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Amphion
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Wed Sep 25, 2019 8:08 pm

Evening - 19th of Hamis, 2719
Image
A faint flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of Oisin's mouth: not at Ava's expense, but at the irony of her question, one that took the vast complexity of the topic that they were discussing, and reduced it down to the simplest of questions. If only Oisin could provide her with an answer that was as elegant and concise; if only he felt in any way qualified to speak on such a topic with any kind of authority. Even if this hadn't been some new occupation that he was still fumbling his way through, Oisin had never been the sort of person who was seen as - or felt himself to be - an authority on anything. Perhaps if you needed an expert on mopping floors, or wasting space, or being a general disappointment -

Oisin stopped his thoughts before the spiral continued any further, and forced himself to reevaluate Ava's question. She'd asked how he approached the challenge, and while her question might have been intended as something more general, he could choose to answer it as if it hadn't been. His own approach, at least, was something he could at least feel somewhat qualified to describe.

"I don't know how real writers do it," he qualified, carefully safeguarding himself as they shuffled one customer closer to the front of the queue, "But all I do is ask questions. That's the thing about stories, as far as I can tell: they always, always start with a question. They have to, because if you began with all the answers, you'd be at the end already. Usually though, those questions are too big, and so you let the question ask smaller ones. You break it down, on and on, until you find yourself with a question small enough to answer: and then, in turn, that answer helps you find the next, and the next, until slowly everything starts to come together."

He dug his hands into his pockets, and shrugged. "But that's how everything works, if you think about it. You can't weave cloth until you've made all the threads. You can't make pastries until you have all the ingredients, and know the recipe. I'm just the oven, or the loom: I take the little answers, and I turn them into what it is people actually want, so they don't have to do it for themselves."

Oisin shuffled a little, uncomfortably, worried that he had sounded too sure of himself, too pretentious in his answer. The last thing he wanted to do was seem full of himself, too confident in a perspective on the world that was, in reality, little more than an uneducated guess. Why he didn't want to seem that way was a complicated question all of it's own: certainly, none of his peers would have had any problems voicing their opinions of the world with unqualified authority, and the same was true of almost everyone Oisin had ever known. It was a cruel joke that life seemed to play on him: that everyone seemed sure of themselves save for him, as if he'd somehow missed out on the essential answers that allowed everything to make sense. Then again, perhaps it was the same for everyone, and others were merely better at acting as if they had more answers and understanding than they did. Perhaps that was the secret meaning of life that poets and philosophers all sought: that life was merely a game of cards, and all it took to succeed was an understanding of when to bluff, when to fold, and when to gamble everything.

Blessedly, the queue advanced far enough that the day's remaining pastries were arrayed before them, providing Oisin with a welcome deflection before he cemented whatever new opinion Ava might be forming of him any further. He adjusted his stance slightly, allowing some of his misappropriated knowingness to blend together with a clearly jestful sage tone. At least here, he felt comfortable pretending to have an expert opinion. "I'm partial to the cinnamon pinwheels myself, or the leira claws. Though, come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever met a pastry I didn't like. Not from here, at least."

User avatar
Ava Weaver
Posts: 303
Joined: Fri Jun 07, 2019 11:17 am
Topics: 11
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: moralhazard
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Plot Notes
Contact:

Thu Sep 26, 2019 11:08 am

Evening, 19th Hamis, 2719
The Baker's Treat, The Painted Ladies
Oisin began by hedging his words, and Ava felt a pang of sympathy for him in her chest. He shoved his hands into his pocket as he spoke, hunching up his chest, closing himself off, and shuffled ucomfortably in place. Ava watched, and listened, smiling still, the whole of her attention on him still. They eased forward in the line a little more.

Just the oven, Oisin had called himself, or just the loom. Ava thought the analogy was a good one, but he had the wrong of it; he was the baker or the weaver, by his own logic. She thought it strange that even in describing his own work, he has needed to put himself in a lesser, more functional role; that he had taken away his own agency, as if some greater force were directing him, and he merely pulled along by it.

Was it easier for him to think of himself that way? Ava thought that only those who had had choice - even if it had not been much - would ever think themselves without it.

They stepped closer to the counter again, and again, and Oisin perked up, a little more confident in making recommendations about pastries. It would have been easy, Ava thought, to let it go; wise, also, she suspected. She should find something easy to say - oh, yes, that makes sense. What a nice analogy; such a good way of explaining it.

Something self-deprecating? That would be another way of going about it; oh, you make it sound so easy! I’m sure I couldn’t manage... something in her quailed at the thought.

Nice and neutral, then, as if she had listened and understood only the words he had said, and not the deeper meanings beneath them. Nice and neutral, because a man who asked questions to find more questions was not someone she wanted interested in Ava Weaver; she didn’t want to know whether her defenses could hold against him.

But Ava thought again of the boy who’d found a little girl crying in the cemetery and comforted her; she thought of the man standing outside in the rain, lost in thought and squinting at his curtains.

“Given the choice,” Ava said, turning back from the display case and smiling at Oisin, “none of us would eat raw flour, and spoonfuls of sugar don’t sound so pleasant either.” She glanced around the bakery, studying the display case, then looked back at Oisin. “But,” Ava said, gently, “it’s the baker who takes those raw things and weaves them together into these lovely creations. Don’t sell yourself short, Mr. Ocasta.”

Only once she had spoken did Ava turn her attention fully back to the pastries in front of them, admiringly. “A cinnamon pinwheel sounds delicious,” she said, and she did not need to think any more about it. “Thank you.” She smiled again at Oisin.

Ava found the bread as well, checking; yes, there were fresh baked loaves from the afternoon, and a few left from the morning, marked down just a little. A little more stale than the fresh baked ones, but a little cheaper too, a few more coins that she could save for her business, that she could hold against the emergencies that would inevitably arrive. She didn’t say anything about the bread; she didn’t want to give Oisin the chance to buy her an apology loaf as well. Better to buy it herself after he’d finished the transaction with the pastries.

Image
User avatar
Oisin Ocasta
Posts: 69
Joined: Thu Jun 27, 2019 7:00 pm
Topics: 9
Race: Wick
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Amphion
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Post Templates
Contact:

Mon Sep 30, 2019 2:28 am

Evening - 19th of Hamis, 2719
Image
Perhaps this was just Ava mustering something nice to say again, but Oisin appreciated her words none the less; or at least, the intention behind them. It must have seemed like he was selling himself short, he realised, relegating himself to the status of a mere tool or implement, rather than the part of the equation that possessed any agency. But that was it: he simply did not. It was not modesty, nor deprecation, just the realisation that he was not the author of the stories he told: merely the scribe, the book-binder, the printing press that arranged the words for others to consume. The world was the author, the baker, the weaver; the lives, and events, and people were what created a story that he merely interpreted and conveyed. There was skill involved yes, there was complexity to his task; but there was complexity in a loom as well, an ingenuity and sophistication not readily understood.

Likewise, an oven was no mere hole of fire: it had no mind of its own, but then, neither did a good reporter. His task was as complicated and simple as any good machine: to take in the raw materials, and output the desired result, consistently, and reliably, without changing or twisting, without slipping stitches, without bias from one side to the other. And yes, ovens and looms were designed, engineered, manufactured, created - but was that not true of people, too? Were they not all manufactured by their experiences? Engineered by their influences? Created by their parents? Designed by their gods?

In truth, it was a conversation that Oisin would have been fascinated to have; but it was a far cry from the pastries and platitudes that he and Ava had exchanged thus far. Besides, it had been conveyed as a compliment; it would have been rude to protest and disagree, and would have robbed Oisin of the warm feeling that Ava's words had inspired.

A few quiet words were exchanged with Marla, and the appropriate coins changed hands; but little else, something Oisin found surprising. Normally the Blooms were a deluge of conversation, but for now Marla was a consummate professional, offering only as many words as were necessary, and no others. Perhaps it was merely the end of a long day, and the Painted Ladies had inexplicably drained her of everything she had to say. Perhaps she realised that with a little patience she would have Oisin all to herself, able to corner him with small talk as she always did when he returned at the end of the day. Perhaps she was merely conscious of the fact that Oisin was not alone, and was making an effort not to interrupt whatever conversation he might be having. Whatever the reason, Oisin wished he understood: the restrained nature of the exchange was a welcome one, and one he would almost certainly find himself wishing he could replicate in the future.

"The trick with a cinnamon swirl," he explained, as Marla carefully retrieved the pastries from the glass-fronted case, and slid them into individual papers, "Is to tease the swirl apart, and spiral your way in. A little messy on the fingertips, perhaps, but you get a little of everything with each taste, and you savour the swirl for as long as possible." He offered Marla a small flash of an unreciprocated smile as she handed him the pastries, and passed one across to Ava. "A lot of people just take a bite out of the side like it's a biscuit or a pie, and trust me: that way lies madness."
User avatar
Ava Weaver
Posts: 303
Joined: Fri Jun 07, 2019 11:17 am
Topics: 11
Race: Human
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Writer: moralhazard
Writer Profile: Writer Profile
Post Templates: Plot Notes
Contact:

Tue Oct 01, 2019 11:41 am

Evening, 19th Hamis, 2719
The Baker's Treat, The Painted Ladies
Ava accepted the cinnamon twist pastry from Oisin with a smile, careful to keep her fingers on the paper. She held it, delicately, her basket still balanced on her arm, soap and eggs nestled into the side of it. “Thank you,” Ava said, glancing down at the pastry, at her clean, smooth hands. She could see the black-lacquered nails that capped her fingers, the edges perfectly kept – not a single chip marring the lacquer, each of her nails flawlessly smoothed. She smiled, faintly, and was not sure she entirely succeeded at keeping the wry twist from it, lifting her gaze back to Oisin. “I’ll be sure to remember that,” She smiled at him again, a little more genuinely.

Ava turned back to the counter, and smiled at Mrs. Bloom. “Could I get one of the morning loaves, please, Mrs. Bloom?” She asked. “They look lovely today.”

Ava handed over her own coins, and took the loaf of bread from Mrs. Bloom, wrapped as well in a sheet of waxy paper to protect it from the rain outside. Ava set it down in her basket, on top of the oilcloth that lined the bottom and sides, and stepped out of the way of the line, letting the customers behind her approach.

“Thank you again for the pastry,” Ava said, smiling at Oisin. She settled it down in the basket as well, tucking it against the bread, and then adjusted the oilcloth along the sides, unwinding a gentle flap of it and settling it over the contents; from the increasing roar of the rain outside, even that might not be enough to protect her purchases if she delayed much longer.

“I should get back to the shop,” Ava said, the faintest tinge of regret in her voice balanced with firm necessity, as if she were sorry not to be able to linger, but simply unable to stay another moment. And it was true; back to the shop, Ava thought – back to a bite of dinner, a pot of tea brewed from the day’s dregs. Back to all the orders that awaited her attention, to silk first, then cotton and linen, then wool, when her hands had grown tired and threatened to cramp. Back to the quiet dark of her upstairs room, cold by the late evening because she could not waste coin to heat it, not in the rainy season; back to the privacy she so cherished. If it had become a lonely place too, of late, Ava did not let herself think on that too much.

“Good evening, Mr. Ocasta,” Ava said, and smiled again. This time, she did not let Oisin stop her; she grasped her things, eased the hood of her cloak up to cover her hair, and made her way out of the bakery, out into the thrumming rain outside, and disappeared into the growing darkness, down the street and back home.

Image
Post Reply Previous topicNext topic

Return to “Vienda”

  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 8 guests