Frost 61, 119
There was saying Foma couldn't quite recall that was, in essence, "a plan made is a plan made to fail". Meaning that while he had so carefully metered out his prospective time to make certain he'd have enough of it to complete the master's request, he had not taken into account that his schedule would not remain void of anything else. In fact, the day he'd ordered all the necessary fabrications, upon return, he was met with Miss Holzknecht at his workbench, a pile of dragonshards, and an etching tool. He'd spent the rest of that day preparing the crystals with all the necessary pictography for them to be turned into cores, only to find that the next day, he was to imprint them.
Fortunately, they were all meant for simple projects, and it had only taken him half the day, which he'd then believed left the rest of the day for him to start work on the several lures he'd decided place in the artificial scribe's major joints. But again, his plans fell through, and he spent the next four hours carefully carving out an exceptionally complicated shroud for an absurdly complicated golem Miss Holzknecht had been experimenting with for the last handful of weeks. He wasn't even entirely sure what it was supposed to do, but by the time he'd finished what she'd asked of him, the workshop had already emptied.
Finally time was his again, and he was very much behind schedule. He waved farewell to Miss Holzknecht's retreating, bouncing curls then, at last, set to work on his own project. He didn't have time to be frustrated with what was most definitely a sort of sabotage on Miss Holzknecht's part; nor could he argue for "fairness", as he was well aware all of the apprentices had their own personal projects to complete, their own personal schedules to adhere to, and their own collective work for which all of them were responsible to complete.
It was more so that it was the first time he had his own work on top of everyone else's, and he had to admit to himself he struggling.
So, while it would have been lovely for Miss Holzknecht to not give him quite so much work, he understood that that too was part of the test. Could he handle himself as well as the others did? Better, even? Currently that answer was very much a crystal clear and resounding: "No." But it was only the beginning, and Foma was not one to give up in despair.
Weary as he was, he didn't want to waste his time on petty irritation nor hesitation. He knew what needed to be done, so he set about it the moment the door closed behind Miss Holzknecht.
To limit the potential of unforeseen developments after the golem's activation, he'd been careful to select shards that were not only similar in size but in their element as well. The idea, at least, was that if the shards did for whatever reason present their elemental affinities in some way, they would at least be in accord.
He'd sanded hundreds, maybe even thousands, of shards into smooth surfaces, careful to collect the dusty power such ministrations produced and store it small leather pouches. So, with the familiarity of endless repetition, he gradually filled away the rough edges and sanded down what remained until he was left with three smooth, ovular dragonshards.
Inscribing the proper pictographs took about twice the amount of time it had taken to sand them though more so due to how slowly and carefully he worked with the small, needle-like tool, etching into the surface and murmuring under his breath to help focus his thoughts. Around the time he'd finished the second of the sanded shards, Master Wagner's office door opened up and the man himself ambled through.
"What're you still doing here, boy?" He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he was entirely unaware of the project he'd saddled Foma with in the first place. "Surely Miss Holzknecht released you already?"
"She did, sir," Foma nodded, setting the second shard to the side but not bothering to pick up the third yet. While Mister Dohman seemed to possess some sort of preternatural ability to properly apply his pictomancy while simultaneously carrying on a conversation, Foma was neither quite so talented nor nearly so foolish as to risk wasting one of his dragonshards. That, and it was far more polite to give one's full attention to whomever one was speaking to; one of the many lessons in etiquette Miss Holzknecht was so quick to give but slow to practice. "But I wanted to make certain I finished all of this before retiring for the night. There really is no telling when I might get another chance."
"Hm." The wizened old man leaned against Foma's workbench, spectacled eyes peering intently at the two finished lures, even picking one of them up and carefully examining it. "And how are you faring? How's progress?"
"Slower than expected, sir," Foma began, blinking back the first inklings of weariness now that he'd been all but forced to sit and simply speak without filling his mind and hands with what needed to be done. "But I've taken care of the body and have only this last lure to complete."
"Copper for the body?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"And for the hands?"
"Cypress, sir. For the arms as well."
"Ah," the word was more than half a contented sigh, "Lightweight. Interesting." Master Wagner set the lure back down next to its cousin. "I assume you'll be using a shroud for the fingers?"
"Yes, sir," Foma nodded.
"Well then. I won't keep you any longer, boy. I'll notify Mister Bancroft to lock up after you leave. Try not to linger."
The exchange was more interaction with Master Wagner than Foma had had since he'd, more or less, forced his way into the old man's private office months ago.
"Thank you, sir!"
"Mm."
And soon he was alone again. The brief break, the first in what felt like two days, had provided his eyelids ample time to grow heavy, and he very quickly slapped himself away, both hands on either cheek and eyes squinted shut. "Stay awake," he muttered to himself, rising from his chair. He circled his desk several times, forcing his heart to work just a little bit harder than before, and sat down once again. Another couple of slaps then he picked up the final shard and set back to work.
Then in the next moment, he was gruffly shaken awake and drawn into consciousness to the very familiar, very annoyed tone of one Mister Bancroft.
"You have any idea what time it is?" He spat the words out, frustrating dripping off of every syllable. "Four in the fucking morning is what. And you're curled up here, having a nice little nap? Enjoying the vermin free lodgings, hm?"
"Wha-" Confusion. Disorientation. Gradual realization that, at some point he'd dozed off. Rather than addressing Mister Bancroft directly, Foma suddenly jerked awake, dark eyes wide open, and stared down at his workbench. The third dragonshard was only half finished, meaning he dozed off right in the middle of it meaning it was now ruined as far as lures were concerned.
Several quick snaps from Mister Bancroft's fingers pulled Foma's groaning frustration away from the wasted shard. "Up here, Nameless."
"I'm- I apologize, Mister Bancroft," he stuttered, trying to find his tongue, "I-"
"Don't need it, don't care for it. Keep your apologies to yourself," the guard snarled out, "Up and out. You can count on Master Wagner hearing of this."
There was no doubt in Foma's mind that would be the case. Never taking his work home with him for fear of it being stolen, he quickly cleaned up his station, all under the watchful and increasingly impatient eyes of Mister Bancroft, before he was very nearly quite literally kicked out of the workshop.
The chilly evening air seemed to have the opposite effect Foma had imagined it might, and instead of biting through the comfortable warmth of his sleepy body and forcing him into alertness, the chill was too gradual and only served to sap his already waning consciousness. It made for a very dreamlike walk home, one filled with the sounds of his own uneven footsteps, the steady and slowing rhythm of his heart, and the vague sense of shame over having wasted one of the most expensive parts of the golem.
If he'd only waited until he was more alert, more awake, more better able to focus... the thoughts kept getting lost, dripping off of the rails of his mind as if they were made of whipped creams and viscous jellies. Drip, drip, drip and... drop. Right into his bed. He couldn't remember if he'd closed the door or not, but that was the very last thought his mind managed before welcome unconsciousness overtook him at last.
There was saying Foma couldn't quite recall that was, in essence, "a plan made is a plan made to fail". Meaning that while he had so carefully metered out his prospective time to make certain he'd have enough of it to complete the master's request, he had not taken into account that his schedule would not remain void of anything else. In fact, the day he'd ordered all the necessary fabrications, upon return, he was met with Miss Holzknecht at his workbench, a pile of dragonshards, and an etching tool. He'd spent the rest of that day preparing the crystals with all the necessary pictography for them to be turned into cores, only to find that the next day, he was to imprint them.
Fortunately, they were all meant for simple projects, and it had only taken him half the day, which he'd then believed left the rest of the day for him to start work on the several lures he'd decided place in the artificial scribe's major joints. But again, his plans fell through, and he spent the next four hours carefully carving out an exceptionally complicated shroud for an absurdly complicated golem Miss Holzknecht had been experimenting with for the last handful of weeks. He wasn't even entirely sure what it was supposed to do, but by the time he'd finished what she'd asked of him, the workshop had already emptied.
Finally time was his again, and he was very much behind schedule. He waved farewell to Miss Holzknecht's retreating, bouncing curls then, at last, set to work on his own project. He didn't have time to be frustrated with what was most definitely a sort of sabotage on Miss Holzknecht's part; nor could he argue for "fairness", as he was well aware all of the apprentices had their own personal projects to complete, their own personal schedules to adhere to, and their own collective work for which all of them were responsible to complete.
It was more so that it was the first time he had his own work on top of everyone else's, and he had to admit to himself he struggling.
So, while it would have been lovely for Miss Holzknecht to not give him quite so much work, he understood that that too was part of the test. Could he handle himself as well as the others did? Better, even? Currently that answer was very much a crystal clear and resounding: "No." But it was only the beginning, and Foma was not one to give up in despair.
Weary as he was, he didn't want to waste his time on petty irritation nor hesitation. He knew what needed to be done, so he set about it the moment the door closed behind Miss Holzknecht.
To limit the potential of unforeseen developments after the golem's activation, he'd been careful to select shards that were not only similar in size but in their element as well. The idea, at least, was that if the shards did for whatever reason present their elemental affinities in some way, they would at least be in accord.
He'd sanded hundreds, maybe even thousands, of shards into smooth surfaces, careful to collect the dusty power such ministrations produced and store it small leather pouches. So, with the familiarity of endless repetition, he gradually filled away the rough edges and sanded down what remained until he was left with three smooth, ovular dragonshards.
Inscribing the proper pictographs took about twice the amount of time it had taken to sand them though more so due to how slowly and carefully he worked with the small, needle-like tool, etching into the surface and murmuring under his breath to help focus his thoughts. Around the time he'd finished the second of the sanded shards, Master Wagner's office door opened up and the man himself ambled through.
"What're you still doing here, boy?" He sounded genuinely surprised, as if he was entirely unaware of the project he'd saddled Foma with in the first place. "Surely Miss Holzknecht released you already?"
"She did, sir," Foma nodded, setting the second shard to the side but not bothering to pick up the third yet. While Mister Dohman seemed to possess some sort of preternatural ability to properly apply his pictomancy while simultaneously carrying on a conversation, Foma was neither quite so talented nor nearly so foolish as to risk wasting one of his dragonshards. That, and it was far more polite to give one's full attention to whomever one was speaking to; one of the many lessons in etiquette Miss Holzknecht was so quick to give but slow to practice. "But I wanted to make certain I finished all of this before retiring for the night. There really is no telling when I might get another chance."
"Hm." The wizened old man leaned against Foma's workbench, spectacled eyes peering intently at the two finished lures, even picking one of them up and carefully examining it. "And how are you faring? How's progress?"
"Slower than expected, sir," Foma began, blinking back the first inklings of weariness now that he'd been all but forced to sit and simply speak without filling his mind and hands with what needed to be done. "But I've taken care of the body and have only this last lure to complete."
"Copper for the body?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"And for the hands?"
"Cypress, sir. For the arms as well."
"Ah," the word was more than half a contented sigh, "Lightweight. Interesting." Master Wagner set the lure back down next to its cousin. "I assume you'll be using a shroud for the fingers?"
"Yes, sir," Foma nodded.
"Well then. I won't keep you any longer, boy. I'll notify Mister Bancroft to lock up after you leave. Try not to linger."
The exchange was more interaction with Master Wagner than Foma had had since he'd, more or less, forced his way into the old man's private office months ago.
"Thank you, sir!"
"Mm."
And soon he was alone again. The brief break, the first in what felt like two days, had provided his eyelids ample time to grow heavy, and he very quickly slapped himself away, both hands on either cheek and eyes squinted shut. "Stay awake," he muttered to himself, rising from his chair. He circled his desk several times, forcing his heart to work just a little bit harder than before, and sat down once again. Another couple of slaps then he picked up the final shard and set back to work.
Then in the next moment, he was gruffly shaken awake and drawn into consciousness to the very familiar, very annoyed tone of one Mister Bancroft.
"You have any idea what time it is?" He spat the words out, frustrating dripping off of every syllable. "Four in the fucking morning is what. And you're curled up here, having a nice little nap? Enjoying the vermin free lodgings, hm?"
"Wha-" Confusion. Disorientation. Gradual realization that, at some point he'd dozed off. Rather than addressing Mister Bancroft directly, Foma suddenly jerked awake, dark eyes wide open, and stared down at his workbench. The third dragonshard was only half finished, meaning he dozed off right in the middle of it meaning it was now ruined as far as lures were concerned.
Several quick snaps from Mister Bancroft's fingers pulled Foma's groaning frustration away from the wasted shard. "Up here, Nameless."
"I'm- I apologize, Mister Bancroft," he stuttered, trying to find his tongue, "I-"
"Don't need it, don't care for it. Keep your apologies to yourself," the guard snarled out, "Up and out. You can count on Master Wagner hearing of this."
There was no doubt in Foma's mind that would be the case. Never taking his work home with him for fear of it being stolen, he quickly cleaned up his station, all under the watchful and increasingly impatient eyes of Mister Bancroft, before he was very nearly quite literally kicked out of the workshop.
The chilly evening air seemed to have the opposite effect Foma had imagined it might, and instead of biting through the comfortable warmth of his sleepy body and forcing him into alertness, the chill was too gradual and only served to sap his already waning consciousness. It made for a very dreamlike walk home, one filled with the sounds of his own uneven footsteps, the steady and slowing rhythm of his heart, and the vague sense of shame over having wasted one of the most expensive parts of the golem.
If he'd only waited until he was more alert, more awake, more better able to focus... the thoughts kept getting lost, dripping off of the rails of his mind as if they were made of whipped creams and viscous jellies. Drip, drip, drip and... drop. Right into his bed. He couldn't remember if he'd closed the door or not, but that was the very last thought his mind managed before welcome unconsciousness overtook him at last.
