Burning Like Wildfire

Daemon Argyris · 06-14-2011, 06:15 PM

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Daemon took notice of the bag, and assumed she carried things to trade, as he should; he would have to make a belt for himself, one of these days, and start carrying around his bag again. It was hardly ever that he thought to make something for himself, unless one of his masks needed to be repaired or re-dyed--he had so many of them, now, that he often did that, in the dead of night when Fion was asleep and he didn't think he could stand to work on anything else. This was, mostly, because he simply didn't consider himself as important as the people he traded with. Only his masks were the things he really cared about; his masks were his children, pieces of himself; he was proud of each one. As he entered the house he'd chosen, this became immediately apparent, as the masks littered nearly every surface, some hanging on walls and some simply laying on tables and chairs. The room was dark enough that this wasn't plainly visible; with pelts blocking all the light coming from the windows on either side of the room, as well as the ones upstairs.

On the far end of the room, between the two staircases leading to the second story and the tower respectively and beneath the landing, a table with the things he and Fion made daily lay, the belts and pouches laid out as well as several bags and a few purely decorative pieces. He nearly skipped over there, and began picking through the belts, finally coming up with two; one with several large patches already attached and ready to be filled, and the other with hoops that tightened and loosened at a pull for tools. They were some of his proudest works, these little inventions for belts; the one with pouches was just another with loops, although they loosened more easily so that fingers might slip into the pouches without them falling.

He turned, holding them both out proudly, his fingers working the leather just beneath the buckles nervously. It was high-quality work; both of them were plain, still white hide as they had been when they were cut, but they could still be dyed or painted, and tooled; he wasn't opposed to any of that. He was simply nervous that they wouldn't be good enough. He was in a pack full of crafters now, and he'd never seen Fion do a trade; those usually happened during the day, and he was--usually--sleeping then. But now he wondered if they were even worth what he was offering them for, and he became slowly more nervous, working himself into a frenzy. She could probably do better; he'd spent a year working on his craft, but he would be the people in this pack knew better than he did.

Image courtesy of Watchsmart@Flickr; table by the Mentors!

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