[P] No one to tell me true now
Cent
#1
Artesano Tier I Wrote:In order to master your craft, you have to have something to craft. Gather supplies, clear out an area, and make yourself a workstation.

Job Fair, WC: 296/1000

If she had known rendering this wool for the umpteenth time would have been as tedious a task as it was, she would’ve declined the job offer when Gramma Dill presented it. It had been treated once – cleaned of debris, for the most part, and then shipped off, or dyed here within Ganglands, but apparently there were still more steps to be done before she would accept it suitable for thread.

The old dog hooked a wad of wool onto a hitch, combing her fingers through it with rough, but practiced and calculated motions.

”You see, little Esperanza, when you don’t have it brushed out thoroughly, you make for shit wool,” she trained, and Esper sat by, nodding off with her chin propped onto her hand, sinking into the warmth of her coat. Dill grumbled, and reached out, snapping her knobbly fingers in front of the girl’s nose until she sat upright again with a start and uttered her apologies.

”Mhmm.” It was a curt sort of acknowledgement, something not unlike Evelyn’s own cadence as those red eyes, shining odd lights with the makings of cataracts with her advancing age, flitted over the girl’s face. ”Pay attention. What I’m trying to say is that, if you don’t take all the shorter fibers out of the wool-“

”What about shorter strands makes it unusable?”

Dill scowled. ”Not… unusable, per say,” she started. But the quality is bad. The shorter strands will stick out the knit-work and pill and get scratchy over time. If you want something that lasts, you best have uniform fibers.”

The brush was pushed into Esperanza’s empty palms, and the woman gestured towards the wad, hanging in a tangle off the hook.

”So get brushin’, dear. I’ll try and find you a helping hand.”

OOC: <: Workin' some wool to prep it for threading! Sorry Cent you're gonna get dragged in by a callous old woman
#2
Location: DCG, Trailside, Debouille Reserve -> DCG, Charmingtown, Charmingtown Storage Date: 7th January Time: Afternoon NPCs: Unnamed mule WC: 1078

[Image: GjPIvpe.png]- "Are stocks looking low for materials? Work with raw goods to make them more malleable for the general use of the Syndicate, or go out to collect fresh raw materials for later. Dig clay up from Moosehead Lake, cut down lumber, shear the sheep, gather feathers from the coops - there's plenty of work to do!"

In her desire to prove herself as being valuable enough to become part of the Ochre Thread, dormant as the syndicate was without a La Mano to guide them all, Cent might've overestimated her own skill, strength and patience to complete a task which in reality was nothing like she imagined it to be.

She had borrowed an axe from the communal stores, big thing that was perhaps a tad too heavy for her grip, but the dog dame believed in her arms' strength. Her mule she saddled the moment she entered the stables (thinking it purely optional to brush and feed it. It would find some grass to chew on beneath the snow on its own, right?) and rode out of town late in the morning, still munching on her second breakfast of boiled eggs and measly strips of dried bunny. The snow had thinned out over the past couple of days, and it was mushed beneath the mule's hooves into a paste of ice and filth, the luperci immensely grateful to God for creating such useful and subservient creatures to carry his righteous children upon their backs instead of letting them trudge trough the dirt.

About halfway up the hills of Debouille Reserve, the mule suddenly reared and threw its rider off and into a puddle of mud and snow. From then on, the miseries just piled on.

Hobbling along in her mud-soaked dress, the El Elegido grumbled and cursed as she climbed up to the more thickly forested area of the Reserve, dragging her mount along by the reins. They went deep into the woods, where Cent assumed the best trees would be, and kept going until the woman saw one she thought would be good for chopping. She left the mule to roam and perhaps eat some bark or however it was such animals fed themselves in winter, but then had to run after it to get the axe she left in its saddlebags. After that little chase, the animal obviously thinking this was some sort of game, Cent returned to the tree, already winded despite having yet to make a single swing.

She thought it would make a deeper cut. She swung again and deepened the indent, but already a groan was building within her as the dog realized she'd be here a while. Again, she swung. And again. And again.

After maybe ten minutes of this she felt a sharp pain in her back and yelped, dropping the tool onto her paw, thus yelping again. Now with two hotspots of pulsating pain on her body the dog didn't know which to focus on and ended up crouching down, curled into a ball of awfulness, but somehow still managing to thank the Lord for not having her toes get chopped off. The pain in her foot eventually subsided, but the backside ache was still present. Thinking that surely it'd fade as she worked, Cent picked up the axe and swung again. And again. And again.

The tree was rotten. This she knew from the moment she picked it, but didn't truly realize it until she looked at it and thought "huh, is it leaning a bit her way?". It was, in fact, and Cent scrambled to get out the way as it fell - not from the cut she'd been working on for so long, but instead uprooting itself as it toppled forward...

And into a neighboring tree.

Such Serbian curses the trees of New Brunswick had never heard before.

Cent retrieved her axe which she had so intelligently dropped near the base of the tree that could fall on her head any second now, which at least would get it down where she could cut it up, if still alive to do so. It didn't fall, because the Devil had pissed on it at some point and now it hated good Christian women. To make matters worse, her back ached more, and her mule had wandered off somewhere out of sight. Grumbling, the dispirited lumberjane, still muddied and wet, went on to look for her deserter mount, and hopefully a tree that wouldn't be as maliciously compliant with her.

[...]

Finally, she found one that didn't look like it'd fall awkwardly if felled, and was thin enough that it wouldn't take too long. It was growing out a slope, so Cent would be the one needing to position herself in an awkward way to chop it, but if it fell it would roll down into the clearing below, just not too close to her properly parked mount. Still her back hurt and her arms were tired, but this needed be done, lest she wished to retreat to town with a tucked tail and blunted axe.

It took God-knows-how-long, but at last the damnable plant fell and Cent let out a "yippie!" as she watched it roll down where it was supposed to. She might've wept a bit, out of sheer joy and relief.

[...]

They had left that morning, when the Sun was still rising, and now it was steadily descending as Cent od Pepela - muddy, tired, aching, moist - returned to Charmingtown with her hard work's results in tow. The saddlebags of her mule were heavy with the chopped up logs of a tree she didn't even know the name of (it was black ash), but the The Chosen was a tad too tired to feel a sense of accomplishment. In fact, she passed by the storage building twice before managing to remember where she was going.

And by God, her back hurt.

There, before the stores, were two Ashen women she knew, one young and mousy, the other old and sheepish - in that she looked and smelled of sheep, not that she was shy. Obviously, they were busy with something, but in that moment what the dog wanted most was a word of praise for her efforts. She led the mule towards them, letting out a weak bark and smiling in a very, very tired manner.

"G'day, Missus Harland, young Miss Tejada." She nodded towards each. "Hows your mama?" Mrs. Escuella she knew from when the dog worked the job of quartermaster, and got the impression that she was a stern but altogether respectable woman, if obviously having been dealt a rough hand in life. "'Sdat wool ahm smellin'? Ah don' meancha Missus Harland." 

OOC: took the liberty to define the location, will change if needed
[Image: ver_11.png]
#3
Artesano Tier I Wrote:In order to master your craft, you have to have something to craft. Gather supplies, clear out an area, and make yourself a workstation.

Job Fair, WC: 808/1000

She combed, and combed, and brushed, and plucked the uneven fibers from the brush to add to a separate pile, and then she brushed and combed all over again. Not too much time had passed into her task when she finally felt she understood as to why Dill had foisted this task often off on others -

Aside from the monotony, it was surprisingly difficult on the joints. Esperanza sat rigidly upward on an unforgiving wooden stool, and if she let the brush get too clotted with uneven wool, it became unruly and became counter-productive towards her efforts – and Gramma Dill had, instead of departed to find help as she’d promised outside the overhang of the Pasillo Gris, taken to instead hover over the young Tejada’s shoulder. She pointed a knobby finger out to the handiwork each time it started to falter. Despite the low-key nature of the chore, Esperanza had not expected to feel so high strung and stressed.

The voice caught her off guard, and she spared a glimpse upwards towards the Serbian transplant, her soft doggish features weary and pink-ringed eyes not faring much better. There was a small, little huff of a chuckle – good natured as it was, as Esperanza turned her attention back towards the clump of wool, now brushed out into a longer, almost uniform tuft reminiscent of a horse tail.

”Miss od Pepela,” she answered in kind. ”Mama’s well – busy as ever, workin’ on some new moonshine infusion.”

It was a vice that the woman had shared with her children – there was no time for introspection or grief or trouble, provided they kept busy. It was due time, now that Esperanza was maturing, that she start adopting these creeds and finding comfort in labor.

”Gramma Dill,” the old dog had corrected with a wink, passing a look to the champagne mule just aside, laden with the fruit of Cent’s efforts. Her flinty gaze returned towards the young dog, and she roped her hands around Cent’s shoulders, ushering her under the overhang and towards a stool. ”Sit, sit, sit, you look as though you’ve had a busy, busy day.”

”I’ve been brushing wool for the better part of uh,” Esperanza’s gold eyes flickered towards the sun, and down towards the shadows to measure their creep along the thoroughfare, before she knit her brows. ”Well, a while.”

She flashed a smile towards Cent, and set down the brush but a moment to pop her knuckles, only to push them into her lower back as she arched and stretched the ache with a grunt.

”Not too long, there’s still a great deal left to brush,” Dillon warned, wagging a finger to the coyote, who’s smile took on a subtly pained quality, and she took up the brush again.

”Miss od Pepela – do you know anythin’ of makin’ thread?”

And so it started.

Esperanza’s sideways glance was cautionary towards the dog, quickly giving a quick and – hopefully understated – shake of her head. Dillon, however, saw this, and scoffed.

"Don't mind her none, a little work never hurt no one."

OOC: <: Workin' some wool to prep it for threading! Sorry Cent you're gonna get dragged in by a callous old woman


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