Chapter 3 of his leatherworking this season.
The "City of Slaves", sitting amidst the jungle terrain of the Crescent Peninsula, is a hotbed of simmering hatreds between the oppressed humans and their arrogant, winged avriel overlords. With each free citizen or visitor a potential slaver or sympathizer, and with the veiled presence of the cruel Cult of Valtharn, how long before rebellion erupts?
- Approved Character
- Posts: 67
- Joined: Thu Jul 18, 2019 2:23 pm
- Race: Avriel
- Profession: Leatherworker/Warrior
- Renown: +50
- Character Sheet
- Plot Notes
- Wealth Tier: Tier 1
Vhalar 9th 719
-‡-It was another day, the sun glamorously filled the lands surrounding the behemoth of rock and stone with a brilliance of light that drew out the favored tones and shadings of green along the landscape. There was of course the more prominent presence of brown in their aged states of turmoil that they were afflicted with through their lengthening's of growth. Similar to that of many who walked upon two feet. Some grew hardened and uglier. Whilst others found themselves women of the greater beauty to share their lives with, and in so doing, grew handsomer as such beauty had a way of reflecting upon their mates.
Coroth was still young to notice if his weave would become corrupted by his life's lessons, or grow into a magnificent structure that would rise from his founding years. Nor was he aware in truth, just how prosperous he could become in his distant future. A future which he might not reach if he died in even the coming weeks. For he was a warrior, wielding blade and bow alike against obstacles that were to be killed if he was to continue to sprout further into the weavings of his life's' story.
Today though, he was of a mind to work further with his crafting of leather. His awry hands were drawn away from the thin barrier of stone that rose up along the cliff side. The expanse of the earthen floor was walked upon with an agile nature that was becoming practiced during his nightly excursions with the shadow faction, and his handful of brethren whom were becoming truer kin to him. He loosely wore an overture of fur around his shoulders that hung about his wings behind him before it'd overlap and fall over the youthful spanning of his chest. Keeping his lungs warm, and the air that flowed through them to blither through the rest of his anatomy. For the winds were still bearing the crispiness of the seasons weather. Yet the magnificent orb high within the skies beyond any avriels reach poured down its' rays of heat that seared through any embracier of cold that loitered in the air.
He made his way over to a platform of wood that he had roughly constructed from fallen tree branches. There were apparent lengths of vines and roughly braided lengths of bark that had been woven into short lengths of rope that were keeping it together. It wobbled if pressed upon, but served its' purpose for the time being. Upon it was his shield, for he had a mind to work on it.
Ravenous orbs of ochroid hues passed over a pile of leather that had been obtained upon a recent hunt. The leather had been doused in oils and dried in a stretched out state for the sun to have its way with. Another rack of such leather was further along the wall of the spire of rock nearby. It's poorly cut skin was still stretched out and kept taught by a framework of wooden branches. The scent of the raw flesh was still in the air, tainted with the drying of oils that would sink into the under-flesh that he was told was part of the process of curing it.
The shield was grasped by it's edge, his palm meeting the rougher edge of it that had been stripped of the poorly fashioned strips of canvas that had been glued to it's edging by its' prior wielder, or creator. He eyed it one more time, noting the scrapes his blade had put into the edgings surface that echoed the work he had done before his little break to remove anything along the shields edging. It was lowered back onto the table so he could take up a length of leather. The length of it he set upon the bottom of the shield, and led the uncurling end along one side of it's heightening length till it reached the top. Measurements were stared at for a moment. For he knew little about being precise, or if it was even important.
A shrug of his shoulders shifted the layer of furs upon his shoulders before he picked up a cutting knife from amongst the pile of tools in their kits case also on the table, but out of the way. He began cutting at a length of it beyond the corners. Figuring that too much was better than not enough*. Diminuating eyes narrowed to the judgement call of logic, as if perhaps he had heard such a saying from some older mans lips at some point in his history
The length was then fitted over the shields edge, wrapping the length of it along the side to determine, or see if he could figure out how much would be needed on both sides, front and back. He figured he'd have to make a hole through the shield, and the leathers to keep them together along the length of it, and figured an inch from the edge at least would be needed for that. Then, perhaps another two along the inside would suffice. He though, was no geometrical mathematician, and picked up a piece of chalk to mark lines upon the surface. Then, remembered to flip the leather over to expose the underside instead. After spending moments realigning the leather to how he had it on the other side, he began marking away at where he chose to cut away at the pelt of leather. For it was not bought off of someone else, and weaved in and out with numerous natural angles from being on the rack for so long.
After several moments of cutting, the length of it was put on the shield, fitting it into place. A movement of his lips criticized his own work before he figured it would do. He was no perfectionist he reminded himself. He then took up something of a drill with a handle on the end, and began drilling holes into the leather, then further into the wood of the shield beneath. Waiting for the slow process of the end of it to pop out of leather, then grate through wood. There was a brief moment of satisfaction each time the drill came through the other end of each. For it began to weigh upon the strength of his arms, and wrists to keep it up continuously.
Before he'd finish even half of it, he needed another short break. His arms were shaken out of their grind of work. The taint of warmed wood was scenting the air as well as the discreeter scent of leather that was cut away. Eyes of a dormant mood shifted about before they'd fall upon the quiet entrance of Lola. An apple was in her hand, a small one that she was favoringly biting into. The juices were eyed in how they glistened at her clutching fingers. He fed her as best be could he thought. He was no cook, but knew enough from others that she favored the sugars in fruits and the taste of a particular few that he obtained for her from the markets every so often.
"Hail lola, apple, good?" Coroth was still working on his common with her, for he still only knew a handful of words it seemed. For there was the vastness of thousands to learn and identify still. It seemed a vast void to figure out and understand. So for now, he kept to the basics. His tongue sought the favor of a water skin that was taken up for his own thirst to be quenched. Recessive eyes kept his attention upon her though, not arguing with the plight of looking upon a young woman in her epitome of beautifully young years in her life.
"Yes Master, it is…delicious!" The word was spoken with the residue of the fruits flavor still upon her tongue and announced in the way she spoke the syllables adding a perking up of mood as if it was being most enjoyed and wanted to greet him with her gratitude for bringing them to her. She lowered onto her knees upon a pile of fur near the entryway to the cavernous abode he shared with her. The softness of the few layers were nestled in with particular edgings nearing the word grace in her movements. Movements the avriel eyed as such flesh was something to view and mesmerize himself with. There was little else to entertain his eyes with if he did not create something himself.
A roll of his eyes drew his attentions elsewhere as she merrily smiled at him with a hidden taunt. Knowing full well what he was gazing upon as she thought upon the same linings of his visage. She though, spoke not further as she munched further upon the snack that would be her lunch. Coroth meanwhile took another sip from the water skin in his clutches before he set it down upon a stone outcropping nearby. He then headed back to the table, a sigh of reluctant breath coming from the depth of his lungs to be sent forth from parted lips as he looked at the work ahead of him that day. And set about returning to its completion. -‡-
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