Old Malodorous Munge was an unpleasant fellow. Say what you would of his stench, his manners, his blunt and mishapen face. Although he didn’t exactly have the best of social graces, he left his people to their work when they were at the craft of leatherworking. The stench of the tannery was intense, but by the time Winfreda brought out the leather swatch that she intended to turn into a decorative patch, her olfactory senses had long since succumbed to fatigue, and barely smelled much of anything, which was an unsettling proposition. She supposed overexposure and oversaturation could cripple any one of the senses, however.
Well she wasn’t here to ruminate on the phenomenon of olfactory fatigue, or the cursed face of Munge. He’d allowed her in to work the leather workshop, where most of the finer work was done to tool the leather into pleasing shapes that increased their value. She was doing some of the less glamorous tasks about the place, such as sweeping, shoveling the waste leather into barrels for further processing into cheaper forms of leather and other chemical and alchemical byproducts that were traded to other industries. While she did so, she learned by osmosis the ways the more expert leatherworkers tooled their work.
Within a break of her labors, apparently Munge had tired of seeing her whinge everytime he passed by and dismissed her from the regular duties. Now she could have access to the main leatherworking benches and tools. This was a good exchange, as few places had as comprehensive a tool set as Munge’s own workshop.
She began by pulling out the drawing that Perdita had done for Moseke, the one that went into the stained glass panels of the Glass Harbour House. She reflected that Perdita’s styling of Moseke was quite flattering to the Immortal. Not that her aunt wasn’t a beautiful creature in her own right in person, but there were stylistic flourishes that Perdita had allowed, using Rharnean flora to enhance the overall style of Moseke’s visage. Purples, blues, and gold tones filtered through her hair in the drawing, showing the very particular Rharnean sensibilities and color preferences. They really shone through. She missed Perdita, a little bit. She wondered what she would’ve thought of her suggestion about the fate of Winston. Would she have been horrified by her duplicity? Would she call it cowardice and treachery?
[skilll=Art (Novice)]She shook those thoughts from her mind as irrelevant. Didn’t matter much now. Ymiden’s Dawn celebration would be in a few hours, and she would have to wash up thoroughly so as to make herself presentable to a crowd, as she planned to make a dedication to Moseke.[/skill]
The leather tooling began from the lower right corner, which Winfreda was comfortable with. She began pressing the tool against the leather, starting with a small blossom that trailed off toward the lower right of the panel. The tooling took on a shape eventually, that was simple and not very contoured, but resembled a flower. She continued well into the break, drawing lines as impressions, trying to get the hair flow right, as Moseke had quite a mane of black hair in this panel.
As she continued the work of tooling Moseke’s image onto the leather patch, Winfreda reflected that perhaps she should’ve invested in a printing die of the panel. But then, that would not be as pleasant a dedication to her aunt, and she wanted very much to make her offering count, when she reached the destination intended.
Moseke would surely appreciate the personal touch of devotion of tooling the leather herself, with all the idiosyncracies and flourishes inherent in that. However, Winfreda was no expert, like many of Munge’s apprentices, and wasn’t able to do much more than a very basic filigree along the form of Moseke’s legs, torso, and face. The proportions at least were correct, even if the details were slightly askew from Perdita’s great work.
Even so, Winfreda had confidence that Moseke would honor her efforts by smiling upon them. She sought no reward, indeed, she deserved none for what she sought out to do. She’d of course be busy expanding Woe’s intelligence network, for the purposes of Scalvoris’ good well-being, not to mention her own interests. Even so, it warmed her to think that she was doing something for her adopted maternal figure, in lieu of Sintra’s utter lack of affection and care.
The thoughts trailing toward Sintra brought his mind back to his sister, the Crow. He thought to include her now in this, by placing a small black crow on Moseke’s extended arm, as if standing upon a tree bough. Moseke’s hand at the end of that arm held a small fruit, perhaps a plum, a fig, or a small apple. The type didn’t matter, and anyway it resembled in no way any kind of fruit, given Winfreda’s average ability to tool the leather.
She continued along with the work, now detailing the clothing and robes of Moseke, which were every bit as full of detail as the hair, although a little more linear and less organic in pattern. Moseke’s robes were leaf-patterned, but still less wild than her hair, which trailed down to mid thigh, flowers all in them.
She stuck out her tongue, almost biting it several times as her small hands worked the tooling, lifting here, depressing there, and all the while taking the flat surface of the leather and rendering it into a beautiful embossed shape of the goddess of Life.
She almost wished she could share it with Moseke personally, to give it to her. But reminded of her recent indiscretions during the Tea Party, she banished the thought. She couldn’t face the great mother now that she was disgraced.
Instead, she would be satisfied to deliver it to the chosen holy site, in Yaralon.
Later, when all the work was finished, and the tooling given proper filigree and stitch holes to attach to the intended relic she'd already purchased from the Glass Harbour, Winfreda got ready for the event of Ymiden's Dawn, which would be occurring at... Dawn.
It took much scrubbing and additional soaps and herbs to rinse that stink of the tannery off of her, but when she had done all she could conventionally, she utilized the power granted at the Court of Ornthrus, to project the smell of flowers about her. She chose some Rharnean Blossoms as they were on mind since Moseke's depiction by Perdita contained them in her hair. A sentimental nod to his friend, but perhaps Chamadarst wouldn't care about her lack of neutrality. Winfreda didn't care. There were things in this world that mattered, whether the cost of a living soul was settled or negotiable. He valued Perdita, that was what mattered.
She got back to the shore, where with a needle and thread, she stitched it onto the girdle that was the relic chosen from the collection at the Harbour. She measured, and made sure it was to be the centerpiece on the relic. Once done, she attached it to her waist, cinched and tightened.
She was prepared now for the celebration, which would be a bitter sweet even for her, she thought.
