Zibriah
19th of Fall | Laviku's Figurehead | University Quarter | Zeltiva
At first glance, the shop was a confusing combination of furnishings, nautical accoutrements, and various household tools - all crafted from wood. A few craftsmen sat, or stood, as their tasks demanded, and Boris himself could be seen near the workspace, having half of an animated conversation with the owner of a merchant ship. Zib had seen the man before, and could guess at the subject matter: the man wanted a seasons' worth of crafting done in a tenday, and apparently thought that his own energy might be enough to motivate Boris to do the impossible. A smirk slipped across her face; Boris, for all that he was reticent to speak, was not a man who would be intimidated by flailing arms and vehemence: the shipman would either find himself happy to wait the necessary time for the quality work the shop was known for, or he would have to find someone else to attempt the task.
It was this type of environment that the young woman appreciated: the craft took precedence over the mizas, and she had yet to see Boris push any of the tradesmen in his employ to produce inferior work just to adhere to an unreasonable customer. For this, she was more than willing to do grunt work while studying her own craft in her off-hours. Piles of sawdust needed sweeping? Fetch the planks from the back room? Sharpen the chisels, oil the planing tools, replenish the sanding stones? Zib would do it all with a smile and a nod. Besides, it was easier to remain unobtrusive while doing menial tasks, tedious tasks, tasks that no one else was interested in. Tasks like the one she'd been assigned today: sanding someone else's rough cut work.
The sign beneath her hands was no more than a crude outline, the shop name legible but hardly pleasing to the eye. It was considered a good proving piece, the basics were already chiseled out of the wooden plank; letters and a simple, but elegant border already stood in relief, and the tedious task of smoothing away the unpleasant bits was next. It would take bells, contouring and smoothing away the rough bits with abrasive limestone, until it was nearly smooth to the touch. Boring. Just the sort of thing Boris would hate to waste a more skilled craftsman on, the kind of task a novice apprentice would expect.
Still, this one time, Zib eyed her menial task with mild distaste. The Essence of Time. It was the customer rather than the work that rubbed her the wrong way. The proprietress, Zenar Morningsky, gave Zib the chills. The few times they'd crossed paths, the other woman had had a certain way of looking at her, as though she'd suspected - But how could she? Zibriah had been beyond careful since she'd arrived in Zeltiva; she was Benshiran to the bone, as far as everyone in the city knew. Zenar was just an unpleasant woman, most people seemed to hold that opinion, there was no more to it than that. But Zib would make sure she was nowhere in sight when it was time for the delivery of this particular commission.
With a delicate shiver, she bent her head closer to the wood as she forced her thoughts away from Zenar Morningsky and back to the task at hand. Dark hair cascaded down around her face, creating a welcome barrier between the young woman and the rest of the shop, allowing her to focus on each steady swipe of the coarse limestone. In spite of herself, Zib couldn't help but take a deep appreciative sniff - the freshly scraped wood had its own aroma, more pleasant than any that would be found in the perfumery. Earthy and tangy. Bright. It was a smell that clung to clothes and hair, and one that reminded Zib of her childhood, and her father.
It was a good smell, and Zib allowed the memories to come, accompanying her as she smoothed the wood beneath her hands. Her father would often sit by the hearth in the evenings, singing and carving, coaxing her mother with melodies until the woman joined in. Zib and her brother were not as practiced, but their voices were often heard, as well, tinny and light and off-key as often as not. Without conscious thought, she hummed along with her memories, distracted enough that, when a voice spoke up nearby, she started in surprise.
It was this type of environment that the young woman appreciated: the craft took precedence over the mizas, and she had yet to see Boris push any of the tradesmen in his employ to produce inferior work just to adhere to an unreasonable customer. For this, she was more than willing to do grunt work while studying her own craft in her off-hours. Piles of sawdust needed sweeping? Fetch the planks from the back room? Sharpen the chisels, oil the planing tools, replenish the sanding stones? Zib would do it all with a smile and a nod. Besides, it was easier to remain unobtrusive while doing menial tasks, tedious tasks, tasks that no one else was interested in. Tasks like the one she'd been assigned today: sanding someone else's rough cut work.
The sign beneath her hands was no more than a crude outline, the shop name legible but hardly pleasing to the eye. It was considered a good proving piece, the basics were already chiseled out of the wooden plank; letters and a simple, but elegant border already stood in relief, and the tedious task of smoothing away the unpleasant bits was next. It would take bells, contouring and smoothing away the rough bits with abrasive limestone, until it was nearly smooth to the touch. Boring. Just the sort of thing Boris would hate to waste a more skilled craftsman on, the kind of task a novice apprentice would expect.
Still, this one time, Zib eyed her menial task with mild distaste. The Essence of Time. It was the customer rather than the work that rubbed her the wrong way. The proprietress, Zenar Morningsky, gave Zib the chills. The few times they'd crossed paths, the other woman had had a certain way of looking at her, as though she'd suspected - But how could she? Zibriah had been beyond careful since she'd arrived in Zeltiva; she was Benshiran to the bone, as far as everyone in the city knew. Zenar was just an unpleasant woman, most people seemed to hold that opinion, there was no more to it than that. But Zib would make sure she was nowhere in sight when it was time for the delivery of this particular commission.
With a delicate shiver, she bent her head closer to the wood as she forced her thoughts away from Zenar Morningsky and back to the task at hand. Dark hair cascaded down around her face, creating a welcome barrier between the young woman and the rest of the shop, allowing her to focus on each steady swipe of the coarse limestone. In spite of herself, Zib couldn't help but take a deep appreciative sniff - the freshly scraped wood had its own aroma, more pleasant than any that would be found in the perfumery. Earthy and tangy. Bright. It was a smell that clung to clothes and hair, and one that reminded Zib of her childhood, and her father.
It was a good smell, and Zib allowed the memories to come, accompanying her as she smoothed the wood beneath her hands. Her father would often sit by the hearth in the evenings, singing and carving, coaxing her mother with melodies until the woman joined in. Zib and her brother were not as practiced, but their voices were often heard, as well, tinny and light and off-key as often as not. Without conscious thought, she hummed along with her memories, distracted enough that, when a voice spoke up nearby, she started in surprise.
Word count: 741
