strings and things

Sa'adat al-Masri · 07-31-2011, 05:25 PM

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Set outside of the mansion, midday. She's got her loom set up, attached to the archway -- she uses a back-strap loom, for reference. Optime form. Please note: Though she's feeling better, Sa'adat is still sick, and contagious. Also, she still doesn't speak English well. But w/e.

Four days had passed, blurred together by medicine and sickness and sleep. Four days stuck in the confines of her temporary home. Four days in stifling air, in feverish conditions, in pain. Four days. She knew she was still sick, she could feel the illness heating her blood — the healer had called it malaria, something she hadn't understood at the time. She still didn't, not really, but at least it had a name. Malaria. Well, Malaria wasn't going to stop her from getting the fresh air she so desired — even at the risk of infecting others. Her head clearer than it had been, the fever waning even if only for the time being, she'd quietly taken her possessions out of the building she'd been housed in. Though the border had been unsettling, so similar to her personal beliefs of what duat would look like when she died, the area she'd found herself in was much more comforting. Surrounded by forest, the garden and pathways of the mansion brought a smile to the features of the jackayote woman.

A sigh escaped her as she tumbled into the grass, relieved to be in the sunlight again. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the healer's attention — she doubted she would have found anyone skilled back home to tend to her — but buildings were just so drab. Anyways, she wanted to be away from prying eyes as she worked in the moments while the fever was at bay. After a moment of relaxation, she returned to her feet and searched for something suitable to hook the bundled fabric-and-sticks to. Green eyes settled on the honeysuckle-wrapped archway — it would do. Her fingers carefully attached the lighter side of the loom to the arch, kneeling on the ground before it and spreading what she'd been working on out before her. It was plain, she didn't have much in the way of color left, but the simple swatch of blues and oranges and browns would eventually become a blanket, albeit a small one. Fingers worked with ease to throw the shuttle through the warps, skillful eyes continuing to craft a simple pattern in the fabric. The wedjat eye, a symbol she had seen many times during her life in Cairo. For all he was doing for her, she was determined to give something back to the healer.

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