rix_scaedu

I wrote this to lilfluff's request over on Dreamwidth for "...but the one with the one with the weaving based magic...". It follows on from Recovery Action 4.1.

The Weavers’ Guild House was in Bolton Street, a block over from Christ Church Cathedral, which meant another walk, uphill and through several cross streets until they reached the east-facing brick building. The Guild House wasn’t a stand-alone building but an attachment to a house that had a workshop attached to its other side. The workshop had the legend “Joshua Weaverson, Master Weaver” over the main door, while the sign over the Guild House door read, “Weavers’ Guild, 1850”. Briony, flanked by Mr Niwa and Mr Tanaka, went to the unmarked door of the dwelling in the middle and used the doorknocker to rap loudly.

There was an audible call of “Coming, coming, wait a minute,” from inside the house, then a few minutes later as the door opened. “Now, who’s here at this time of night?” The speaker was a middle-aged man with grey hair who was wearing a dressing gown, tightly girded against the night. The dressing gown and its matching slippers were woollen in shades of red, rust and yellow, and held multiple protections against blows and stabbings in the patterns worked into them. He recognised Briony and smiled, “Miss Peters! Your cousin, Alf, said you might come by. He’s sleeping in the guest room after riding down to fetch the doctor for your uncle. But who are these gentlemen, and what do you have there?”

“Master Weaverson,” Briony bobbed her head politely, “these gentlemen are also trying to recover stolen property from our thief, property that we believe he put in here,” she indicated the box she was holding with her chin, “along with the patterns his thugs stole from my family. The problems are that we all want someone we trust to go through the contents of the box to make sure that we get all of our own things back, without any tricks or sleight of hand,” Maser Weaverson nodded in acknowledgement and then Briony added, “and the box appears to be a stolen master weaver’s pattern box.”

“We’d better take this into the Guild House then.” The master weaver stepped out onto the veranda and pulled the door closed behind him. “This way please, everyone. There’s more room for this sort of thing in the Guild House, plus that’s where the records of stolen or missing pattern boxes are.” He looked sharply at Briony at that point, but she kept her eyes downwards on the box.

Master Weaverson unlocked the big double doors, and revealed a small foyer gently illuminated by the light shed from a narrow loom-width of wall hanging. It was more than enough light for him to usher everyone in, close the doors behind them, and then open the large meeting chamber beyond. This room had a pair of the glowing wall hangings but Master Weaverson lit the partly used, yellowish candles in the four candlesticks on the big meeting table to greatly brighten the room. Then he went over to the sideboard that sat against one wall, took a folded cloth out of one of the drawers, and then laid the cloth out on the table.

After that he spoke again, “Now we can all see what we’re doing, and I’ve taken precautions to protect the contents of the box from unexpected damage, do you think you can let me see what we’re dealing with, Miss Peters?”

“Yes, sir.” Briony carefully put the box down on top of the cloth. As she did so, she couldn’t help but notice that there was a cleanliness Utility woven into the square of fabric.

“What do you think?” That was Sir Charles to the Master.

“Oh, it’s definitely a Master’s pattern box,” said Master Weaverson. “Do you have any idea whose?”

“I believe the marks to be those of my grandmother’s grandmother, Master Weaver Enari Midson,” answered Briony. “I wish to register the claim of my grandmother and her cousins to any patterns of Master Midson’s still remaining in this box.”

I wrote this to ellenmillion's prompt which was for more of Revelations and Change, so for 712 words, here we are.

Uncle Lovess had brought two trunks for Kalbae to carry her possessions away from the farm in, and Kalbae didn’t expect to fill even one of them. She didn’t have that many clothes, just the new dress, the old good dress that Uncle Tomkin had found embarrassing at Midsummer, her set of summer work clothes, her two sets of winter work clothes, various underpinnings, a nightdress, a winter night robe that had been made from a blanket left behind when Great-aunt Betra had died and was now a bit too short, and the heavy winter work coat that Aunt Glythera had made her last winter after Kalbae had spent two days and nights helping the reeve find a lost party of clergy. Plus socks, one pair of shoes to go with the dresses, a pair of boots, and a pair of pattens. Given that Kalbae was planning to travel in the better set of winter work clothes, the boots and the winter coat, that left considerable space in the first trunk without even opening the second.

Then Uncle Tomkin started bringing in her tools for her to pack as well. Kalbae hadn’t even thought that she might take them with her because they belonged to the farm, but Uncle Tomkin said seriously, “Well, if you were leaving here to get married then these would be part of our contribution to your new household. If we’re sending you off to another new life, then we should make some contribution.”

“But you looked after me, and these are so expensive,” protested Kalbae, looking at the steel blades. “How will you replace them?”

“We can afford it,” answered Uncle Tomkin with a smile. “Did you think I’d made no thought or provision to you girls’ futures? Besides,” he was serious again, “I understand you’re going off to be some sort of wizard-mage. These tools are who you are, and you might need to keep that in mind.”

Uncle Lovess, who’d been regarding Kalbae’s assembled possessions with something that could have been disapproval turned and said, “Trainees usually spend their first few years finding their centre and working out who they are. From what your Uncle Tomkin has been saying, it seems to me that you’re likely to have done much of that work already, and that is important to deciding what sort of magic you’ll concentrate on. Wizard-mage,” he added apologetically with a glance at Uncle Tomkin, “is only one of the options. We’ll go into the subject more thoroughly when we return to my home. After we’ve been to Northcote.”

Kalbae looked at him and asked, carefully because she didn’t know her father’s brother well yet, “Why are we going to Northcote, sir?

“My supplier of Deadman Redcaps is in Northcote,” replied Uncle Lovess. “It’s time to renew my stocks – it’s a useful component.”

Kalbae asked curiously, “And you use it dried, or pickled, or something?

“Not precisely,” answered Uncle Loveless cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

“If it’s the red and white spotted pink toadstool with orange gills that I’m thinking of,” replied Kalbae practically, “then the person in Northcote won’t have their fresh supply yet this year. They don’t come up until the third day of the winter rains on the place where they grow.” Her uncle just looked at her, dumbfounded, so Kalbae added, “And the rains haven’t started yet this year.”

Uncle Lovess was quiet just long enough for Kalbae to worry that she’d made a mistake, then her uncle laughed. Between chuckles he said, “Oh, my dear, I can see you are going to be a treasure and formidable in your own right someday. Did you know that I’m so used to getting them this week of the year that I’d forgotten that about them? I’m sure that right now the price is five times their weight in gold instead the usual equal weight.” Uncle Tomkin’s eyebrows rose at the casual mention of gold. “Perhaps we should stop in Millward for a few days on the way, and order some of your learning materials? It sounds as if the delay will pay for itself, thanks to what you’ve learned here.” Over her head, Kalbae’s uncles nodded at each other - both pleased that things seemed likely to work out well.

From kunama_wolf's prompt "What are the angels of the Third Swordlord up to, now that one of the deity's mortal paladins died protecting a Sister of Hasnor?" we have this piece which follows on from A Staff With A Knob On It.

Pharial had been summoned to the holy presence. Even for an angel of his rank and time in the Third Swordlord’s service it was a great privilege, a rare event for individuals among the Phalanxes of angels that served his holy master. Even more surprisingly, when he rose from his obeisance he found that he was almost alone with the god: the Choirmaster was absent and none of the Flight Generals were present. Clean, sparkling light filled the sanctum, and the Third Swordlord himself, Heraclaid by sacred name, stood on the other side of a large map table from both the entrance and Pharial. The only other angel present was one of much his own age who was also currently assigned to the care, guidance and support of their god’s paladins. Elekiel had brown wings that were permanently mottled from the effects of a vardbeast’s breath weapon that he’d survived during a battle of the Death War.

“I have summoned you here,” said Heraclaid in a quiet voice that Pharial felt throughout his being, “because my human servant, Sempleticus Lorax, has died in unusual circumstances.”

“I did not know him,” admitted Pharial humbly.

“I didn’t expect that you would, because he was on Elekiel’s roster,” Heraclaid answered quietly. He turned to the other angel, “Were you able to glean anything from his soul, Elekiel? From my point of view he was suddenly dead, and that’s all I have.”

“I don’t think he even saw me,” replied Elekiel carefully, “and neither did the priestess of Hasnor he was travelling with. From what I could tell, they could see and hear each other perfectly, but I and the angels of Hasnor who were there, four of them, couldn’t get a flicker of acknowledgement out of either of them. If I didn’t know it shouldn’t be possible, I’d say they were almost dissociated.”

“I know it happened in a temple of Hasnor, and that’s why I don’t know what happened,” admitted Heraclaid. “Pharial, Ordestia Prima is on your roster and she’s been praying to me about this. She’s there, she’s seen the bodies, and she and some religious of Hasnor’s seem to have found how the killer got in to the temple. Go there, talk to her, and find out what happened. If Hasnor decides not to let you enter his temple, then we will have to rely on her observations.”

“We have not, hitherto, been close, she and I,” admitted Pharial. “She has not required personal guidance or intervention from me – her mortal preceptors have been sufficient for her.”

“Ordestia Prima is a steady and steadfast soul,” agreed Heraclaid. “I should not like her to feel unappreciated or overlooked because she does not require as much cultivation as some of her fellows.”

Pharial bowed, chastened, and replied, “My lord, I will do my best to cultivate her acquaintance during our time together on this assignment.”

“Good,” said Heraclaid. “I’m glad we were able to cover this subject – I would not like to lose my little armoured lily because she became exhausted by a heart broken through unrequited love.”

The angel looked up, startled. “Unrequited love, my lord?”

“My paladins come to me from love, Pharial, and you are part of my response to that love. If you spend all your attention on others because she ‘doesn’t need you’, how will she know that her love is reciprocated? After all, she cannot hear me as I hear her.” The god smiled for a moment, then went on grimly, “I have already sent a messenger to Hasnor, asking his permission for you to enter the temple where Sempleticus died. Elekiel, I need you to return to the Hall of Judgement; see if you can make contact with his soul and find out what happened. Off with you both now, I have implications to consider.”

The two angels bowed and left their divine master considering a map of shifting and phasing elements that was too complex for an angel to understand.