| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
This is Qunnessaa's final submission. The crunchy bits and background are in Tsia's profile, but just for fun, since I saw some folks have done similar, I tossed some more words around trying to start finding a character and narrative voice for her, which I figured I might as well add in a spoiler here, just because. Feel free to ignore it, GM, since it's frightfully self-indulgent.
A morning in milady's workroom:
The parlour is almost silent this morning, apart from the soft bite and hiss of needle and thread through fabric as Tsia Troian sits calmly at her work, taking advantage of the best light of the day, though her books are not far from her hand either. As always, regret that it is impossible to focus on both at once flits briefly across her thoughts, even as she reminds herself that she is keeping busy, and can at least consider what is to be done about… That thought is interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by an unceremonious entrance that doesn’t wait for an invitation. The young elf’s brow unfurrows as the impertinence is revealed as belonging to friends, though she does send a mild look expressive of the sense of intrusion. It is largely wasted on –
“Darka, and Seraph. Good morning,” she says coolly. “By all means, make yourselves comfortable.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. You know what this one’s like,” Seraph offers. The young Lebeda has always been the more correct of the two, in Tsia’s dealings with them, as might be expected of someone whose house has a flair for the dramatics and touchiness of duelists.
“Oh, hush, Ser. At least make it Mam’zelle, you know Needleberry hates being ‘ma’amed.’ Makes her feel old,” the irrepressible Darka Vetrovna says, flopping onto one of the other chairs around the table, before taking in Tsia’s work and bending closer to take a look. “Oh! But you’re not working on your dress today! What is it this time? Go on, let’s see!”
“For the doll for Lady Surtova’s youngest. The poor thing’s been feeling a bit neglected what with her mama’s confinement in the offing. I should be able to get this blouse done by today, and the whole thing should be ready before all the fuss, which I’m sure both mother and daughter will appreciate, whether as distraction or acknowledgement, as the case may be.”
“This is Lenor, right, and not another Surtova? Her time must be very near, and I can’t think one would take the trouble for any of the others we know,” Seraph confirms as she settles herself in turn, a slight wrinkle still between her brows at her friend’s familiarity, as if to say, Needleberry? Must be a nickname.
“Mm,” Tsia nods, still stitching away happily. “And how are you two today? I notice your Satiya’s not with you, Darka.”
“She’s not mine,” Darka huffs, skipping directly to the point in Tsia’s mild observation. “And you know her house and milord Orlovsky’s don’t get on, so I’ll thank you not to go bandying such gossip about quite everywhere. But we’re fine, thank you. As a matter of fact, though-”
There’s a pause as the Vetrovna scion catches the smiles between the Lebeda and the elf and rolls her eyes before continuing, “All three of us are fine. But, as I was going to say, before I was interrupted by certain insinuations-”
“We are, but I don’t know what you mean, darling.”
“-what’s this about you, Needleberry? Are you really leaving us for the wilds of the Stolen Lands, at the call of those lunatic swordslingers that Seraph loves so much?”
“And we have something else for you, if you don’t mind. Well, I do. Or, we both do, but I’ll go first, because it’s embarrassing enough, and then we can go back to teasing Darka with … insinuations.”
“I’m afraid needs must. It’s much too good an opportunity to let slip: so much to explore, so very long since my people were last there, safer than going alone, and between barbarians, bandits, and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night, some careful someone needs to keep an eye on things.”
Tsia sets down her needle for a moment with a smile soft enough to take the sting out of her announcement, and, just as she’s about to continue with what she’s heard about the coming expedition, finally notices the small casket that Seraph must have had in her lap this whole time. With a reflexive smoothing of her skirt, Seraph lifts the box onto the table and scoots it over.
“Lovely! Sarkorian, isn’t it? I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that. Some of the poor things did cross the mountains after the Wound opened, to take refuge among their kin, but I’m afraid that’s a bit further than I’ve spent much time in at all, and I’ve no meaningful Hallit.”
“Winged-eye Tribe, Father tells me. But … um, what I was going to ask was if you could open it, please?”
The hand raised to her mouth does nothing to stifle Darka’s giggle, earning a mock glare from Seraph, to whom Tsia returns a quizzical eye for an explanation. Seraph sighs, bowing to the inevitable.
“I use it for some of my baubles, that’s all. Or it would be, except this morning, just when I was putting in my earrings, I got distracted, and so, when I was putting everything else away…”
Oh, no. There’s only one way this tale could be tending, so Tsia rises to find the case holding several other tools beyond more needles and silks as Darka exclaims, with a not unsympathetic titter, “She scooped up the key along with bangles and rings and brooches, and locked herself out! I’m sorry, Ser, but you have to admit it’s a bit funny. Annoying little sisters can be a disaster even when they don’t mean to be. I should know, since I am one.”
The lanky elven woman nods her acknowledgement of this piece of sagacity, as she unrolls her new case while examining the lock on Seraph’s casket, assessing the quality of its steel and the likely intricacy of its mechanism. As she chooses her tools, she asks, with a show of asperity belied by the evident good humour in her tone, “And you, Darka? I understand that my morning just got busier.”
“I actually am here for Sati, in a manner of speaking. You do read Dragontongue, right? Well, her brother – older, in case you’re wondering – is being particularly obnoxious now that their parents have decided to try to get some poor devil to drill some magic into him and he can swan about showing off his big, mysterious books and be all smug about the ‘secrets of the Art,’ and all that. Of course, the sisters have to make do with keeping up their Skald, and your own lovely language, Needleberry – don’t get me wrong! – but they’re not encouraged to preen about it, without mastering so much as a … as a cantrip yet. Ridiculous. The dragons are gone, and the Rogarvias are gone. Who are they trying to impress, or to take in?”
It does sound like there’s quite a bit of acrimony brewing among the rising generation of Lodovkas, with their parents’ having a clear favourite, and quite apart from the possible implications for the balance of power within one of Brevoy’s great houses and thus, by extension, among them all, the delight of gossip is enough to hold a significant part of Tsia’s attention even as she patiently feels out Seraph’s lock with one of her stranger “needles.” It’s rather comfortingly like wiggling room for another thread in a spot where the back of one’s work is heavy with other colours running to and fro, although nowhere near as satisfyingly productive as the creative act of embroidery.
Before too much longer, her communicative friend reveals, “Anyway, the strange thing is, he’s not boasting of anything in particular. Which, even if he’s a prat, wouldn’t it at least make sense to promise that we’ll all see, soon, and he’ll … gods, summon his own dragon, or whatever? Apparently not, which makes it that much more frustrating. So, Sati managed to, oh, let’s say, liberate a scroll that looked important, but not so much that it would be missed soon.”
Tsia produces a hum that falls somewhere plausibly between noncommittal and affirmative, just as her hook releases the last pin and she’s able to spin around an opened jewelry box for Seraph.
Inclining her head in thanks, the young Lebeda pokes around briefly among her trinkets until her hand closes around her key. “Wonderful! Abadar be praised for mysterious embroiderers and their odd bodkins! Thank you, Silver Dawn. Did you say you had dabbled in jewelry-making? How did you say you learned the trick?”
Seraph is cleverer than some people give her credit for, and there’s a bit of weight behind her casual questions and the slightest, just barely perceptible narrowing of her curious eyes. There’s no malice that Tsia can detect, but still. Under circumstances I hope you never have to encounter, she muses. Aloud, she demurs with a slight shrug, “Something like that. It was some time ago, but now that I think of it, I think it must have been the hinge of, let’s see – yes, a particularly unfortunate locket. It’s surprising how often one’s pins and needles come in handy.”
She must have said “locket.” Probably overcompensating on the last syllable to soften her Iobarian-accented Taldane. Hand resting on the back of the still-open lid of Seraph’s casket, though her fingers itch to take up her hoop and resume her work, Tsia turns a wide smile to both her friends even as she addresses Darka specifically. “I’m glad to help. Well, then, shall we see what’s so special about this scroll?”
“Darka, and Seraph. Good morning,” she says coolly. “By all means, make yourselves comfortable.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. You know what this one’s like,” Seraph offers. The young Lebeda has always been the more correct of the two, in Tsia’s dealings with them, as might be expected of someone whose house has a flair for the dramatics and touchiness of duelists.
“Oh, hush, Ser. At least make it Mam’zelle, you know Needleberry hates being ‘ma’amed.’ Makes her feel old,” the irrepressible Darka Vetrovna says, flopping onto one of the other chairs around the table, before taking in Tsia’s work and bending closer to take a look. “Oh! But you’re not working on your dress today! What is it this time? Go on, let’s see!”
“For the doll for Lady Surtova’s youngest. The poor thing’s been feeling a bit neglected what with her mama’s confinement in the offing. I should be able to get this blouse done by today, and the whole thing should be ready before all the fuss, which I’m sure both mother and daughter will appreciate, whether as distraction or acknowledgement, as the case may be.”
“This is Lenor, right, and not another Surtova? Her time must be very near, and I can’t think one would take the trouble for any of the others we know,” Seraph confirms as she settles herself in turn, a slight wrinkle still between her brows at her friend’s familiarity, as if to say, Needleberry? Must be a nickname.
“Mm,” Tsia nods, still stitching away happily. “And how are you two today? I notice your Satiya’s not with you, Darka.”
“She’s not mine,” Darka huffs, skipping directly to the point in Tsia’s mild observation. “And you know her house and milord Orlovsky’s don’t get on, so I’ll thank you not to go bandying such gossip about quite everywhere. But we’re fine, thank you. As a matter of fact, though-”
There’s a pause as the Vetrovna scion catches the smiles between the Lebeda and the elf and rolls her eyes before continuing, “All three of us are fine. But, as I was going to say, before I was interrupted by certain insinuations-”
“We are, but I don’t know what you mean, darling.”
“-what’s this about you, Needleberry? Are you really leaving us for the wilds of the Stolen Lands, at the call of those lunatic swordslingers that Seraph loves so much?”
“And we have something else for you, if you don’t mind. Well, I do. Or, we both do, but I’ll go first, because it’s embarrassing enough, and then we can go back to teasing Darka with … insinuations.”
“I’m afraid needs must. It’s much too good an opportunity to let slip: so much to explore, so very long since my people were last there, safer than going alone, and between barbarians, bandits, and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night, some careful someone needs to keep an eye on things.”
Tsia sets down her needle for a moment with a smile soft enough to take the sting out of her announcement, and, just as she’s about to continue with what she’s heard about the coming expedition, finally notices the small casket that Seraph must have had in her lap this whole time. With a reflexive smoothing of her skirt, Seraph lifts the box onto the table and scoots it over.
“Lovely! Sarkorian, isn’t it? I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that. Some of the poor things did cross the mountains after the Wound opened, to take refuge among their kin, but I’m afraid that’s a bit further than I’ve spent much time in at all, and I’ve no meaningful Hallit.”
“Winged-eye Tribe, Father tells me. But … um, what I was going to ask was if you could open it, please?”
The hand raised to her mouth does nothing to stifle Darka’s giggle, earning a mock glare from Seraph, to whom Tsia returns a quizzical eye for an explanation. Seraph sighs, bowing to the inevitable.
“I use it for some of my baubles, that’s all. Or it would be, except this morning, just when I was putting in my earrings, I got distracted, and so, when I was putting everything else away…”
Oh, no. There’s only one way this tale could be tending, so Tsia rises to find the case holding several other tools beyond more needles and silks as Darka exclaims, with a not unsympathetic titter, “She scooped up the key along with bangles and rings and brooches, and locked herself out! I’m sorry, Ser, but you have to admit it’s a bit funny. Annoying little sisters can be a disaster even when they don’t mean to be. I should know, since I am one.”
The lanky elven woman nods her acknowledgement of this piece of sagacity, as she unrolls her new case while examining the lock on Seraph’s casket, assessing the quality of its steel and the likely intricacy of its mechanism. As she chooses her tools, she asks, with a show of asperity belied by the evident good humour in her tone, “And you, Darka? I understand that my morning just got busier.”
“I actually am here for Sati, in a manner of speaking. You do read Dragontongue, right? Well, her brother – older, in case you’re wondering – is being particularly obnoxious now that their parents have decided to try to get some poor devil to drill some magic into him and he can swan about showing off his big, mysterious books and be all smug about the ‘secrets of the Art,’ and all that. Of course, the sisters have to make do with keeping up their Skald, and your own lovely language, Needleberry – don’t get me wrong! – but they’re not encouraged to preen about it, without mastering so much as a … as a cantrip yet. Ridiculous. The dragons are gone, and the Rogarvias are gone. Who are they trying to impress, or to take in?”
It does sound like there’s quite a bit of acrimony brewing among the rising generation of Lodovkas, with their parents’ having a clear favourite, and quite apart from the possible implications for the balance of power within one of Brevoy’s great houses and thus, by extension, among them all, the delight of gossip is enough to hold a significant part of Tsia’s attention even as she patiently feels out Seraph’s lock with one of her stranger “needles.” It’s rather comfortingly like wiggling room for another thread in a spot where the back of one’s work is heavy with other colours running to and fro, although nowhere near as satisfyingly productive as the creative act of embroidery.
Before too much longer, her communicative friend reveals, “Anyway, the strange thing is, he’s not boasting of anything in particular. Which, even if he’s a prat, wouldn’t it at least make sense to promise that we’ll all see, soon, and he’ll … gods, summon his own dragon, or whatever? Apparently not, which makes it that much more frustrating. So, Sati managed to, oh, let’s say, liberate a scroll that looked important, but not so much that it would be missed soon.”
Tsia produces a hum that falls somewhere plausibly between noncommittal and affirmative, just as her hook releases the last pin and she’s able to spin around an opened jewelry box for Seraph.
Inclining her head in thanks, the young Lebeda pokes around briefly among her trinkets until her hand closes around her key. “Wonderful! Abadar be praised for mysterious embroiderers and their odd bodkins! Thank you, Silver Dawn. Did you say you had dabbled in jewelry-making? How did you say you learned the trick?”
Seraph is cleverer than some people give her credit for, and there’s a bit of weight behind her casual questions and the slightest, just barely perceptible narrowing of her curious eyes. There’s no malice that Tsia can detect, but still. Under circumstances I hope you never have to encounter, she muses. Aloud, she demurs with a slight shrug, “Something like that. It was some time ago, but now that I think of it, I think it must have been the hinge of, let’s see – yes, a particularly unfortunate locket. It’s surprising how often one’s pins and needles come in handy.”
She must have said “locket.” Probably overcompensating on the last syllable to soften her Iobarian-accented Taldane. Hand resting on the back of the still-open lid of Seraph’s casket, though her fingers itch to take up her hoop and resume her work, Tsia turns a wide smile to both her friends even as she addresses Darka specifically. “I’m glad to help. Well, then, shall we see what’s so special about this scroll?”
A bit more Austen (nay) than Radcliffe (yay!) so far, but something like a quietly social sage is starting to emerge, I hope. For now, the courtly, Game of Thrones side is at the forefront of my thoughts, but if Tsia ends up on the expedition I'm sure there will be ample opportunity to feel out how her weird, fey magic might work, in addition to gossip and "the best sweeteners of tea." :)
Good luck, all!