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Nov. 1st, 2013 09:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pegunicentZeke carefully set his thimble to the needle and pushed. His fingers were already aching. The needle slid slowly through the paired leather pieces, supple soft sued refusing to easily join. For all that leather was beautiful, strong and weather worthy it was an utter trial for the inexperienced and untrained to fashion. Each time Zeke worked with it he swore to leave it to the tanners next time and each time he somehow got it in his head to do the work himself to save a few coins.
Once through, the waxed cord slid easily. An awl would have made things much simpler, he never seemed to remember to buy one however. The satchel wasn't required to be aesthetically pleasing, thankfully. It's job was to hold his trinkets, bits and bobs, random flotsam, quill feathers, important papers and sometimes cheese.
A Wizard without a satchel didn't bear thinking about, honestly. How would he get anything done?
Setting the needle he tried to keep the stitches small, put his thimble firmly to the end and pushed again. Whoever said that 'rending flesh' was an easy task never applied to be a tanner.
Zeke pushed a hand through Decimate's fur, feeling for the heat of infection or strain. The wounds had knit themselves together overnight, but his familiar was still sluggish. The fur remained warm under his hands, not hot. Decimate's heat was comparable to a man's most days, perhaps his blood was cooler but with all the hair and feathers to insulate him.
"Why don't you just buy a new bag?" Andria asked, watching the fearsome magus swear as he slowly patched his satchel again.
"Do you also ascribe to the notion that Wizards are universally wealthy?" The man griped. His words got longer the more frustrated he got. Andria found it a charming quirk.
"All Wizards? Of course not, but *you* have coin to spare." Though it wasn't obvious by looking at him. Zeke's hair was thick and beautiful, black ringlets he mindlessly tied back and treated like a mop atop his scalp. His clothes were rough-spun layered over padded wool knit by unsure hands, patched agaain with the same leather as his satchel. Tunics and trousers hung baggy and loose, smelling of man, dirt and faintly animal musk. A thick hemp rope served for a belt. Even his cloak, his badge of office and rank, was oil-skin dyed before hemming and painted in Colored pitch rather than the more typical layered linens and silks.
The only thing Zeke had that looked remotely expensive were his boots.
"I'm sure I have no idea why you would assume such, but my finances are not your concern." Zeke muttered, a fair bit of warning in his tone. Andria blithely ignored it. Rankling Zeke was the only fun she got out of his company.
"You forget I'm a Bard, we know things. Such as your family name and where it stands in the ranks."
A Wizard had no family once he had his Colors. For all intents and purposes a Wizard of that caliber was a free agent, bound only by the laws of magic and whatever Lord of the Land they served under. That was the way things were *supposed* to work anyway. Everyone who knew real Wizards knew that family and nepotism were as prevalent political forces as they were with Bearded folks.
"You don't know near enough then, Bard."
This time the warning was dark, angry, and edged. Zeke's eyes remained on his task, but the low huff and distinct shift of *weight* in the air said more than any ugly look.
For a moment Andria tried to imagine what it felt like to be the younger sibling, the unfortunate spare heir. She thought about years of walking in another's shadow, constantly falling short of expectations, always a disappointment, only to one day be thrust into the light and scrutinized because the figure casting that unasked-for darkness was violently removed from the scene.
Had the cloak of silent torment become an air of heated anger? Had his parents finally *seen* him?
He had strong, well-tended boots. The soles were thick and cut to clomp, stitched on by a cobbler who knew his trade. The cobbler probably knew that specific pair of boots as well as old friends who often don't get along. Those boots knew their business, they had seen and stomped over miles with miles yet to claim.
No, she decided, for once keeping her observations and wit to herself. Parents who discovered the revelation that their children were *people*, would never condone boots that let those children wander so very far from home.
Once through, the waxed cord slid easily. An awl would have made things much simpler, he never seemed to remember to buy one however. The satchel wasn't required to be aesthetically pleasing, thankfully. It's job was to hold his trinkets, bits and bobs, random flotsam, quill feathers, important papers and sometimes cheese.
A Wizard without a satchel didn't bear thinking about, honestly. How would he get anything done?
Setting the needle he tried to keep the stitches small, put his thimble firmly to the end and pushed again. Whoever said that 'rending flesh' was an easy task never applied to be a tanner.
Zeke pushed a hand through Decimate's fur, feeling for the heat of infection or strain. The wounds had knit themselves together overnight, but his familiar was still sluggish. The fur remained warm under his hands, not hot. Decimate's heat was comparable to a man's most days, perhaps his blood was cooler but with all the hair and feathers to insulate him.
"Why don't you just buy a new bag?" Andria asked, watching the fearsome magus swear as he slowly patched his satchel again.
"Do you also ascribe to the notion that Wizards are universally wealthy?" The man griped. His words got longer the more frustrated he got. Andria found it a charming quirk.
"All Wizards? Of course not, but *you* have coin to spare." Though it wasn't obvious by looking at him. Zeke's hair was thick and beautiful, black ringlets he mindlessly tied back and treated like a mop atop his scalp. His clothes were rough-spun layered over padded wool knit by unsure hands, patched agaain with the same leather as his satchel. Tunics and trousers hung baggy and loose, smelling of man, dirt and faintly animal musk. A thick hemp rope served for a belt. Even his cloak, his badge of office and rank, was oil-skin dyed before hemming and painted in Colored pitch rather than the more typical layered linens and silks.
The only thing Zeke had that looked remotely expensive were his boots.
"I'm sure I have no idea why you would assume such, but my finances are not your concern." Zeke muttered, a fair bit of warning in his tone. Andria blithely ignored it. Rankling Zeke was the only fun she got out of his company.
"You forget I'm a Bard, we know things. Such as your family name and where it stands in the ranks."
A Wizard had no family once he had his Colors. For all intents and purposes a Wizard of that caliber was a free agent, bound only by the laws of magic and whatever Lord of the Land they served under. That was the way things were *supposed* to work anyway. Everyone who knew real Wizards knew that family and nepotism were as prevalent political forces as they were with Bearded folks.
"You don't know near enough then, Bard."
This time the warning was dark, angry, and edged. Zeke's eyes remained on his task, but the low huff and distinct shift of *weight* in the air said more than any ugly look.
For a moment Andria tried to imagine what it felt like to be the younger sibling, the unfortunate spare heir. She thought about years of walking in another's shadow, constantly falling short of expectations, always a disappointment, only to one day be thrust into the light and scrutinized because the figure casting that unasked-for darkness was violently removed from the scene.
Had the cloak of silent torment become an air of heated anger? Had his parents finally *seen* him?
He had strong, well-tended boots. The soles were thick and cut to clomp, stitched on by a cobbler who knew his trade. The cobbler probably knew that specific pair of boots as well as old friends who often don't get along. Those boots knew their business, they had seen and stomped over miles with miles yet to claim.
No, she decided, for once keeping her observations and wit to herself. Parents who discovered the revelation that their children were *people*, would never condone boots that let those children wander so very far from home.
