A Potter's Cottage (open)

[Hana]

13th of Spring 510

It was just a little cottage. There wasn’t much special about it. If one had a home to write to about this living space, they wouldn’t. Fortunately for the owner of this space, she didn’t have a home to write back to. The cottage was now her home, purposefully away from any of the places a possible tent could arise or pop up.

Every morning she would rise with the sun, just some sort of natural rhythm she’d fallen into as a child. She would drag her trunk filled with nothing out in front of her home. Then would come her table. Then her chair. All of these things would have to be cleaned in order for her to take her evening meal, but she didn’t mind too much. Typically she just sat on the ground to eat since no one was around to find her strange or exotic.

Sometimes she would roll up her sleeves and uncover one of the two barrels in front of her house. She would scoop out the watered-down clay, the slip, and spread it out onto the pieces of linen she had lying out along the ground.

Other times she would be separating the worthless rocks from the clay she was processing to make it usable.

Most of the time, though, in the middle of the day, she would sit in her chair rolling out coils from her perfected clay. She would wrap them into shapes and carefully smooth out walls, keeping mind to avoid air bubbles – Lest the vessel she was making explode in the heat of the fire.

Or she would paint. Spirals. Triangles. Little rudimentary people. Singing. Dancing. Maybe a cow or a camel. Sometimes a goat. These were the things of her old world, but she had yet to learn how to depict things from her new one.

A bowl here or a pitcher there – She placed them in what she thought was an attractive arrangement for those passing by to look at. Sometimes they spread out onto the ground in front of her trunk, but most of the time her inventory only seemed to stay on top of her trunk.

If someone came by to look or talk, she’d acknowledge them. There were times when she actually managed to stop a person coming by, convincing them to buy something. But for the most part she simply worked, letting her mind wander to this and that until the next person wandered by.

That was what she was doing – Working quietly in the midday sun, seeming to pay no mind to the weather or temperature.

[Alistair deGrey]

I confess I often find people without a passion dull. Boring, and whats worse belligerent in their rebuke of an interest. There is always a spark in someone, but whether it has been extricated, inflamed to the burning intensity of an inferno, does one have passion. Even a magician is better than one without passion.

So you may imagine my entertainment when I found a veiled woman, bits and pieces of clay clinging to her arms, quietly creating masterpieces.

Sincerely,
Alistair deGrey


The woman sat alone and silent, eyes downcast on her work. deGrey watched her, contemplating approaching her. Pottery was extremely useful for his line of work, as it could hold many liquids, including metal. He glanced down at his black tunic and pants, smelling the ash and gear grease hidden by the dye. Ah well, an artisan is usually entertaining to speak with anyway. That was what this was really about, a chance to speak with a professional. Truthfully, he did not need any new pottery, but would probably purchase some anyway.

He shuffled through the fluid stream of people on the street, and made his way to the woman's table. Alistair crouched before the table and examined a few pieces of pottery, eyes picking up the lovely triangles and not so lovely animals painted on their sides. To his inexperienced eye, the pottery looked well made, if not always well painted. "Greetings madame. Might some of these be for sale?" Alistair's voice was hesitant to even the casual observer, as if he was unsure of how to go about the conversation. Not only did the man sound awkward, but he looked out of place in the breaking spring as well. Most of the time, entirely black wardrobes were reserved for funerals. Black had never indicated sadness to him, but with a neatly trimmed beard accompanying his clothing, he did indeed look as if he had prepared for a funeral.

The inventor's mind did not miss a beat, even before the woman had responded, he had begun to analyze her work station and formulate questions. He wanted to know so much, but unfortunately had little time.

[Hana]

It was a single movement that took her from pinning her veil away from her face to looking up at her new visitor. Her gaze didn’t remain on him for long, but flittered away like some butterfly to the trunk-turned-table covered in her work. The smile that lit onto her face, though a touch guarded, was friendly enough.

She nodded, bowing her head down as she stood up. Her hands, shamefully adorned as they were, were wiped onto the sides of her fading green gown thoughtlessly. The fact that space around her hips was brown from clay spoke that she’d done that single action countless times before.

It was only after standing that she said, “Yes, sir, they are all for sale today.”

As if yesterday or tomorrow she would decide to keep one for herself. Her voice was hushed, used in a manner that could seem that she was speaking the words only for him to hear. Or perhaps she thought him shy and wished to ease his anxiety a little.

Once she got to the trunk, she glanced up at him, just a little flicker there, before looking back down at the work.

“Could I interest you in anything particular? Or is there something I could help you with?”

It paid to be helpful. If she was lucky it would pay well.

[Alistair deGrey]

“Could I interest you in anything particular? Or is there something I could help you with?”

Yes, you might interest me with some answers. Perhaps pique my curiosity with tales of life in the far reaches of the world. Tell everything, let the information flood forth from open gates. Why Syliras? Where did you learn your craft? Why pottery? How hot must the kiln be? What type of clay works best? Why X? How Y?

Spill it all, and I'll catch it all.

Sincerely,
Alistair deGrey

"Oh, yes. I mean, no. I am not looking for anything specific at this moment..." But Alistair tried to be as fluid as the stream of information that entered his consciousness. As the woman stood, so did Alistair rise from his crouch, the pottery falling into his peripheral vision. He tried to make eye contact with the woman briefly, but her eyes were downcast at the work she had been attending to. So deGrey's silvery eyes fell with hers, examining the fruit of this woman's labors.

"Rather, a question if you would. What inspires you to make your pieces? They are quite lovely, and if your other customers are any clue, you are not making them on other's whims." Alistair ran his finger around the rim of a pot decorated with triangles. Isosceles. His hands were calm, but within the confines of Alistair's head one would see his brain fairly gyrating with anticipation of her answer.

His eyes flitted up to the stand's proprietor. She was exceptionally beautiful, as many exotic women were. The clay that stubbornly clung to her hips diminished her beauty none at all. She was clearly not a Syliras native. In deGrey's single season here he had found a noticeable difference between Zeltivans and Sylirans. If the difference between those two was noticeable, then any other people stuck out like a sore thumb. But this was a very pretty thumb.

As thumbs came to mind, hands came to eyes. The woman's hand had what looked like a snake tattooed to it. It was interesting, he had never really paid much attention to body art. "That is a fairly interesting tattoo, madame." The statement was blunt as brick, interjected into the conversation as subtly as one might insert a bull into Inner Fire Glassworks. But Alistair did not realize this, for he was busy recalling other rudimentary social graces, "Oh yes, I am Alistair deGrey. Who might I have the pleasure of speaking with?"

[Hana]

"Oh, yes. I mean, no. I am not looking for anything specific at this moment..."

As he spoke those words she nodded and then shook her head… And then she went back to nodding. Finally she smiled, glancing up at him again with a flutter of lashes. Then away again as if she had some sort of modesty about her as she listened to him.

Her hand moved to press a finger to the rim of a tankard. That single finger double and triple checked for smoothness that she already knew was there as she seemed to think over his question.

“Thank you… I suppose what inspires…” She paused, looking up at him. It was strange. Her face screwed up as she realized no one had ever asked her that question before. “Well, sir, I suppose what inspires me is simply a longing to connect to a home I’ve not had for many years now… This is what the women in my tent, in my family, did in their free time. They made things of clay.”

She looked up at him, clearing her throat. She wasn’t one to really talk as she was, but the poor fellow didn’t know that. He’d just caught her off guard with his question, which was really at the end of it more about her than the vessels she made. It was barely noticeable, but underneath the copper of her skin rose a blush.

“When…” Her blue eyes locked on him then, not traveling away for the rest of her statement to him, “people buy my work, they invite me into their homes. A little part of me has a place to live. A home.”

She nodded then. Part of her was truly relieved that he didn’t know the meaning of the marks on her. That was the safety of dealing with people not of her kind. Well, most of the time. Sometimes they thought she was a prostitute. That was always a fun time.

Still she smiled.

“Pleasure to meet you, Alistair deGrey. My name is Ha’na.”

[Alistair deGrey]

Ha'na. It rolls off the tongue. It is an interesting name for an interesting individual.

But I confess, as eloquently as she phrased it, I'm still not entirely comfortable inviting her into my workshop.



She animated before him as a golem stirred to life, her head moving up and down, back and forth, and everything in between. Alistair found himself surprised by the sudden wave of motions the woman engaged in. He eyes flickered to Alistair's, back to the pot, nods, blushes, Ha'na seemed subtle with her motions.

Tents. Tents... Where had Alistair heard of people that lived in tents before? His mind gave an inch, and he asked for an ell. deGrey recalled that they lived in deserts, but the name escaped him for the time. So instead he just eluded naming the mysterious culture, "I see, so you are continuing a tradition of sorts." Alistair began to rummage in his pocket for Mizas, she had given a good answer.

But then she continued, informing Alistair of a peculiar custom. The inventor faltered for a second, "Err, Well. I suppose you may..." Suddenly the inventor blushed, but far more noticeably than Ha'na's red tint. "Ahh, I see what you mean now." deGrey pulled out his coin purse and set it on the table, pulling at the cords.

His eyes returned to Ha'na, "I appreciate your work, and your answer, immensely madame, so now I am interested in something in particular. Please, show me your best."

[Hana]

“My best?”

She turned to pick up a platter. It took both hands, but fortunately it was light enough that she didn’t need to balance it on her knee. She held it up, turning it until she could present to him the top side with its blues and browns working in various shapes and sizes. There were lines and dots. Circles. Triangles. Squares.

She finally turned her eyes to land fully on him, and for the moment they seemed to content to peer at him. The smile she had plastered onto her face only grew, the intensity of it brightening like the noonday sun, as she pressed her chin down onto the platter.

“This is my best in both structure and design. Do you know much about ceramics, Alistair? About how to gauge if something is good in structure or what the designs on it say?”

[Alistair deGrey]

And that was when she put her chin onto the platter. Safe to say I was bemused. Is it a custom or a trick of the trade? Either way it was curious, she was curious. She probably still is as well.



Alistair chuckled quietly to himself as the woman pressed down on the platter with her chin. While the soft laugh most likely didn't reach the ears of many, surely the woman before him had heard it. He could not help but abandon his usually neutral nature in the face of this radiant woman's smile, and he in turn smiled.

"No, I have not a clue about ceramics. Other than that they are made of clay, and put in a hot furnace." deGrey had more of a problem confronting a new person than he did being wrong. It was something that had taken great effort, but eventually he simply ceased caring about being wrong. All that mattered in the end was that he had learned something new.

It seemed as if Alistair had struck gold when breaking open this person. Often times he mucked up the entire conversation, ruined any chances of even speaking at a later time. But for some reason this woman was becoming more brilliant, like a waxing moon, as the conversation progressed. This was new.

A smile lit deGrey's face, framed by the cleanly trimmed beard he wore. His mercurial eyes examined the plethora of designs on the platter. Not only was the pattern of lacadaisical lines, dots and triangles extremely pleasing to deGrey's eye, but it was a near sensory overload of mathematical information. Thought Alistair was unsure the woman knew that.

He shook his head, and spoke with a playful smile, "No, I know nothing Ha'na. Please teach this poor unfortunate soul the secrets of the clay."

[Hana]

“Okay. I will teach you anything which you’d like to know then. The furnace you speak of is called a kiln. When I was perhaps twelve or thirteen, we finally had one imported from some place I can’t remember the name of. Until that point, though, how I learned was the traditional method of using the fire pit. That is the technique I use now. I don’t have a kiln yet, but fortunately the type of clay in the soil around the city does not call for a very, very powerful heat.”

She put the platter down once again. Leaning back just a touch so that she could look over her work, she selected two small jars.

“Here…” She leaned over, taking his hand in her own, and making sure that she didn’t move too quickly or roughly. Her finger maneuvered until she had his hand wrapped around the lip of the jar, thumb on the outside and index inside. Very slowly she pulled the pot down so he could feel the thickness of the fired clay.

She was standing rather closely, seemingly unbothered by it. She smelled of the earth she worked with, but underneath there was some exotic undertones – Spices, sweet floral, and perhaps a touch of honey.

Her mother would have thrown a tantrum. Her grandmother would have chased her with a camel crop most likely. Fortunately neither of them were around to witness what appeared to be… Well. It was about that point that Ha’na realized that she was in fact flirting. It wasn’t the first time, but she couldn’t really remember when the last time had been either. She just typically wasn’t prone to flights of lash batting.

She made a note of all of this to reflect on later. He seemed harmless, and he wasn’t hard on the eyes. While it was innocent enough, she still felt her cheeks get a little hotter as she turned her gaze back up to him. Somehow, amazingly, she didn’t drop a beat. Even more of a miracle was that she was able to not lose track of where her thoughts had been going in regards to the quality of pottery. Her next trick? Walking on water or perhaps lifting her own cottage over her head. But for the moment she was content to share her knowledge.

“Do you feel that? The way it changes thickness slightly?”

[Alistair deGrey]

I am weak, oh so weak.

It had been several years since a woman had taken Alistair's hand, and the sensation was both pleasurable and guilty. Ha'na gently took his hand to the pot, expertly positioning his fingers and pulling down the piece. But her soft touch, her warm hand, cleared away the debris covering forgotten gates. The gate crumbled, and an abyssal emptiness reforged itself from the flame Alistair now felt. Memories of Magnolia whirled about the chasm, taunting the Inventor as they resurfaced with a vindictive, gurgling laugh. You love it. You desire her. You are a traitor. A bitter tincture was tasted at the back of Alistair's mouth, as he recalled his departed lover Magnolia.

deGrey meekly allowed himself to be guided by Ha'na, staring at the place where her hand had touched his, becoming red as smelted iron. She spoke, but her words fell upon catatonic ears. Never once since Magnolia had been swallowed by Cedany's insanity had Alistair considered himself attracted to another woman; yet there he was, betraying his beloved.

Despite the roiling concoction of guilt and desire that flooded Alistair's senses, he did not want to put off Ha'na. There was a percentage of the emotional philter that did indeed flutter at Ha'na's touch, and it urged him to keep it secreted away beneath his skin. "I-I'm sorry. W-what was that?" He blinked a few times, recalling the time. Time never did this, I should have fallen in love with Time.

"Oh, yes. Yes I see, it changes thickness. Yes." Alistair began to regain control, reorienting himself even though the emotional thunderstorm Ha'na's hand had summoned still reverberated through his system. deGrey did not want to leave, despite the fact that he suddenly felt tired. He had not purchased anything from Ha'na, had not discovered the meaning of the chin and platter, and most importantly, had not entirely relinquished the warmth remaining from her touch. "What is the significance? You still bemuse me." The statement rung of truth in so many ways. He was unsure of whether he should keep his hand on the pot, or if she had intended for him to retract it. However, Alistair kept his fingers lightly cinched around the rim, this time actually noting that the thickness did indeed change.

Oh Magnolia, what have I done?