Warp and Weft

[Sivan]

67th of Frost, Year 124 of the Age of Steel

no need to be hateful
in your fake Gucci sweater.

"...anyway, everything is in my notes, but that is the gist of it," Sivan concluded.

The elf set a sheaf of parchment pages down on the table in Filaurel's shop and immediately straightened his posture and his clothes. Filaurel had made them and Sivan always felt as though he ought to present them well, even though he had been told that the clothes were meant to adorn the man, not the other way around. Still and all, he appreciated it when his own creations were treated with respect, and wanted to reciprocate that.

As for the accessibility of his notes, they were light enough to peruse easily with a touch of kinetics. He would have bent over backward to make everything easier for the tailor, but if the tailor himself didn't bring up his disability, Sivan wasn't going to do it. But he didn't exude discomfort. There were moments, but they were forgotten when the two of them got to talking about making things. It was nowhere near the simpatico he had developed with Torin, but he and his business partner spent a great deal of time creating things together, their thoughts overlapping in a sense via the resonance of their Runes of Semblance.

He rested a hand upon the swatches of test materials.

"And these are the samples for you to examine. If any of them seem of particular use, I can make more of them for more testing." His mouth opened once more, but he thought better of rattling off on a long explanation when his notes were more complete and Filaurel would have his own criteria and modes of testing, which would be excellent feedback for him. "I won't be able to work on another round until Glade, however. I'm in the middle of defending my master thesis in alchemy so..." He sighed. "And then the New Year, I'll be in Kalzasi for a bit. So, you have plenty of time to work with them at your leisure."

He smiled faintly. The alchemist enjoyed the collaboration, but both of them were lowborn artisans who had to work to earn their keep as well. They couldn't devote all their time to these side projects.

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

The tailor regarded the notes carefully; they shuffled themselves quickly as he scanned the formulas and test results. If he'd had the concentration to spare, he might have raised a hand to his chin in contemplation- as it was, his expression had to suffice.

A competent tailor was no stranger to chemistry, for the kinds of fabric which required no treatment to prepare were few and far between. Although the Hapertas itself did not generally use the kinds of mixes and bleaches a weaver's shop would keep on hand, Filaurel had studied them to ensure he would understand the processes which informed the creation and maintenance of each piece of fabric.

"These are complex processes you have outlined here..." Filaurel remarked, "Which is good and bad, in turns. Bad, because it means that the product will always be expensive to manufacture. Good, of course, because expensive manufacture will enhance the value of the product."

Since he'd given Sivan the fabric for testing and analysis, Filaurel had spared no effort in trying to learn more about the sailcloth's origin. It was Gelarian, of course, and produced in their military manufactories for the purposes of outfitting the navies of the sea and air, that much he had known. He had also known that the process there was an involved act of chemistry, taking many hours and many vats of unknown provenance to produce. What was more interesting-

"Apparently the genesis of the particular polymer used in this fabric is the sap of some sort of tree native to Ecith, which was transplanted to southern Gelerand after their invasion. I have always wondered why great Aedrin saw fit to bestow so many unique wonders upon a continent so disinterested in exploiting them." Filaurel didn't have any particular dislike for the Orkhan, but he had been steeped in the Hytori's polite bafflement as to their existence. Like so many of his fellows, he lacked the hubris to openly question the choices of the Dragon Gods, but simply assumed there was no real purpose to some of them.

But the real purpose to this observation was twofold; first, that it would probably be easier to manufacture this at scale if he had access to that sap. Second, that he wasn't likely to get it. Filaurel certainly lacked the wherewithal to attempt such a trip, and the Ecithians made aggressively poor trading partners.

"Well do I thank you for your efforts here. I will examine these test swatches and write you with my conclusions- I tell you now that I think there will be demand. I mentioned before that the fabric has clear military applications, but I have also confirmed that it makes excellent material for certain sorts of dress, and I have reason to believe that it may become quite popular if a supply can be found."

The tailor didn't mention Princess Akantha by name; that would have been unprofessional and presumptuous. Still, he'd noticed how taken she was with that dress. If she did deign to wear it, and was seen wearing it, Filaurel had no doubt that there would be people looking for the like across the whole of Silfanore. And they would not find it, not anywhere else but here.

...well, they wouldn't find it here, either, if he couldn't solve his sourcing problems.

"I suspect your profession's road to mastery is rather more involved than mine." Filaurel admitted, "To finish being a journeyman, I simply produced a very nice pair of stockings." This was an exaggeration of sorts- the stockings in question had been more than very nice. They had been fit for a king.

[Sivan]

Sivan listened attentively and considered slowly. His intelligence wasn't in question, but his mind certainly worked in a different way than most. He found some kinship in Filaurel: they were both creators. They took what they found in the world and wondered how those things might cleverly be turned into other things for new and improved uses.

"I have actually been to Ecith," he admitted. "And I might know people who could set up a steady influx of the sap. It might never be inexpensive exactly, but perhaps not prohibitively so." The trips to Ecith had been with Destyn via his artefact of traveling, but he supposed he could ask his fellow Kindred if they knew anyone in Ecith willing to trade. It had been some time since he had let the edges of his identity blur into those of the Kindred, but he knew from experience that they were all keen to help each other. And the Kindred weren't fans of Gelerand. Their Grove might be safe, but they were mostly Zaichaeri born and didn't appreciate the Imperium's imperialist tendencies so close to their borders.

"But, well... I think now is still the time to ideate what is possible rather than worry about potential obstacles. Mithril is still prohibitively expensive, but that doesn't stop the wealthiest of elves from commissioning new works." He was in the process of learning at least part of that process—the alchemical bits.

He nodded.

"I know you have your military contacts, and I assume you have others as well. If you can develop a market, I can develop more product. Whether my supply can fit your demand, I cannot say. But you will be the one setting your terms. I will just try to give you a fair price for what I can make. I'm a terrible businessman, as I'm sure you know by now, but I am fortunate enough that I shan't starve if I don't corner the market on any particular thing."

As for stockings, "I wouldn't even know where to start when it comes to weaving or knitting or anything of that nature. I could suss it out with Semblance, but that isn't the same as knowing how to make it. I'm certain I couldn't afford your masterwork stockings, in any case." He smiled. "My poor feet must remain envious."

He lifted his foot and wiggled his toes, making the tip of his boot bend.

"I ought to be recognized a master at alchemy by the end of the season, and then I can focus on artificery. I was wondering if you might like a semi-sentient loom. My prices will be quite low while I remain an apprentice, and I have been considering ways of making a loom that thinks it's a spider, and I would teach it how to make various silks you might need..."

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

Filaurel's eyebrows rose at that last suggestion. A loom which thought itself a spider? Well, it sounded handy for silk, certain enough, but who could say how far such a thing might go? Images of his shop cloaked in silken strands of spiderweb filled the tailor's mind, then of the loom sneaking up behind him in the dark and trying to bite him ineffectively...

"There are various makers in Silfanore who have used enchanted looms over the years." Filaurel offered, "But I confess that I worry how the whole of the art might suffer from such automation. Do you know how my master taught it to me?"

It hadn't been all that long since Filaurel's apprenticeship, as the Hytori reckoned such things. He'd chosen his course late in life, by the reckoning of the younger races, though elves were prone to take greater leisure in making their long-term choices. Well, after all, he'd intended to be a soldier for life.

"She said to me that a craftsman collects inspiration throughout the day, as they work and walk and speak to others, and that this is why the best makers were those who spent time out in the world to find the beauty which the Dragon Gods placed within it. Then, as the master sleeps, they are guided by the whispers of Great Thiovan to understand how that inspiration fits together, and eventually blessed with a new design, something never quite seen before upon Ransera, a gift from the world beyond. So, in dreams the master finds the art, and then his body and mind become the conduit by which the sublime is made mundane."

He realized that it must seem he had gotten far afield of his original subject, so Filaurel cleared his throat and finished, almost lamely: "Thus my concern- if I short-cut the time and work I put into the cloth, does that mean less of the inspiration will soak in?"

Well, that all sounded a little silly and superstitious, when he put it like that. But who was he, a man whose life was upturned by a family curse, to pooh-pooh superstition? Perhaps he should ask one of the more learned elves for their thoughts on the whole procedure of creation the next time there was a public festival? He would hate to turn down so useful an innovation merely because of his master's superstition.

"...but such a thing would be quite useful, I admit it."

[Sivan]

The younger elf wasn't laughing at him when Filaurel came out of his brief reverie, but rather he wore a soft smile of appreciation.

"I would agree with your master," he said carefully, "but I do believe some of the processes can be delegated, the same way the master alchemists delegate many basic functions to me and to other apprentices so they can focus their greater skill and invention upon the functions that require it. For example, if you know you want a simple, uniform weave of silk, the loom could do that for you... under your direction... and free you up to work on the parts that aren't so repetitive. It would be a more sophisticated tool, but still a tool, still requiring your oversight."

He paused. Then, "Unless I were to make it quite sentient, and then it would be more of an apprentice than a tool. Or, if I master artificing, I could make you a partner."

But even if the masters at Tavárinoikos named him a master artificer, he wouldn't think himself so until he could revive IX, the Awoken whose grief over their master's death had led to a fugue state. But he wasn't thinking on that now.

"Actually, such a loom might help me create the sailcloth..." he mused. "While it does the weaving, I could apply the alchemical agents at the correct times and in the correct manners. Hm." A thought for another day, perhaps.

"I know it is boring to speak of the weather, but I had forgotten how mild a winter is in Silfanore compared to the Great White North. I suppose I should put my orders in for spring attire..."

[Filaurel]

•───────── Gloaming Hapertas ────────•

"To speak of the passing seasons is not passé, but prudent." the tailor volunteered, "It sounds as though you will have an onerous schedule in the year ahead of you- but did you not say that you hoped, in Silfanore, to connect somewhat to your heritage? If you would know Sol'Valen, meet the people at the heart of their respective journeys, then you simply must come to more of the festivals."

Filaurel moved over to his calendar, the paper lousy with inked scribbles and carefully-lettered notes. It was his genuine view that those things which a polity met for in celebration outlined best the universe of things that people found worthwhile. They were the skeleton of the collective soul, a cheat-sheet for cutting through the otherwise overwhelming complexity created by a study of history or sociology.

"Ordinarily I would say to you that this is Silfanore; miss a party and you will have a hundred chances to attend it next year, or the year after that. Some of these celebrations have repeated without fail since before the fall of the Empire. But... a fey mood has taken many in the city, myself included, ever since the sun did not shine. In any event, I intend to go to as many as I can make."

The tailor did not add that his own worries from the Eclipse had been magnified when he'd lost the ability to use Kinetics for so long. It had been like a decade of struggle had been erased overnight, like he had just begun to tread water before a great hand had plunged him back beneath the surface. It had been terrifying.

But more than anything else, it had reminded him that he could not rely upon the world to remain as it was forever. Eventually, the magic would fail him. He'd spent much of the last year trying to recover his finances from the Great Eclipse's ruin that he had been unable to continue his fruitless quest to find some cure for his condition. He would try to get back to that this year- but more than anything, he was determined to actually live life while he had it. There was no guarantee of success that he would ever find a real cure, but he could certainly spend as much time as possible enjoying himself before it happened.

"In fact, let me make you an offer. I will design you an outfit for each of the city's major festivals this year--no, don't speak yet--and if you do not attend one, you will feel the waste of it then, eh?" Filaurel gave Sivan a wicked grin, "It is small repayment for what you have already done, but it would please me to do it."

[Sivan]

Sivan laughed again. It was a testament to the quiet collaboration they had built that he felt comfortable being unguarded.

"Even the royal family doesn't attend every festival," he reminded the elder elf. "My father used to take me to those that were entertaining for children before I moved away with my mother. May I remind you that you have seen me at festivals already. But... I suppose I ought to accept your generosity gracefully... and then begin figuring out how to repay you in kind."

The virtuous circle of gifts was a common theme in elven relationship-building. If Filaurel was kind and generous to that degree, he would have to accept reciprocation lest he create a debt and refuse to let it be paid. He was going to end up with a friend whether he liked it or not.

"From what I understand, the royal wedding will last several days leading into the season change from spring to summer. Most of that, thank the Gods, I am too common to attend, but there will be the the public celebrations, too. I suppose I can model your clothes for you again." He paused. "I have received compliments and countered with your name and address because... I don't actually know how to gracefully receive compliments. I hope they do find themselves in your shop."

While Sivan's Semblance was too strong not to notice the flicker of Filaurel's feelings when he thought about the Eclipse, he wasn't focusing on the man's aura, not attempting to suss out what wasn't more or less obvious to those with greater emotional intelligence than he owned.

While it seemed they were building a friendship, he daren't yet ask impolite questions of the man. Filaurel was hardly ancient, but Sivan surmised he was a solid two decades younger than the tailor. Respect was owed.