Thalevia, October 20, 2006
It is a simple and practical enough pass time. An occupation with
viable rewards. A very feminine pursuit some call it. The boys I
had befriended in my once childhood called it sissy girly habits.
As time passes and skill and ability improve, the mundane and
practical items you can produce turn to the artistic. As it is so
I have been doing this for as long as I could hold spindle and
distaff. As long as I have been strong enough to work the loom.
In life my hands, small and nimble, showed this in the caluses
and marks. I bore these proudly though at times wished my hands
were as soft and white as any nobel womens. But that is not what
I was born to, and I would never trade the life I had for one of
privilage and softness. It simply does not suit me.
Now as I sit here before a piece finished I look at hands now
shaped into claws more suited to tearing and murder rather than
the soft work of manipulating thread and needle. A skill relearnt
upon death, enjoyment in art rediscovered. But these hands do not
show the marks as my once soft human hands did. But I find I do
not miss that.
Before me sits a piece on my loom, a riot of colour and cloth.
The simpleness of linen, the richness of silk, the riotous energy
that is runecloth; all mixed and matched to tell the story of
ones rise through the ranks of magic to reach the current end to
my training. My spell books pages are dog eared and worn, my head
is stuffed full of so many incantations and words of power it is
a wonder I can recall anything else.
There are rumours of course that my training will continue soon,
but for now it is finished.
And I sit contemplating the long months since my rise from that
tomb in Deathnell, shuttle still in my hand. Those first words,
that soft voice that called me from my cold rest, from the
mindlessness I had been cursed with. I run my fingers over the
image of myself in the cloth, kneeling down in front of the Dark
Lady, her hand on my head, her voice softly whispering to me my
newest life. Her Dreadlord is pictured in the background, barely
more than a shadow in the image. All over the tapestry, images
play and dance depicting my triumphs and struggles.
Silently I tie off the ends and remove the piece from my loom. It
is heavy and thick. Carefully so as not to snag the cloth with
the tips of my claws, I fold it, wrapping it to protect it.
Gently it is placed in the large trunk with all my other works.
The lid is closed, locked with a heavy lock, the key hidden back
in it's niche in the wall.
I have better things to do now then brood about the past. It is
worth remembering but there is still much for me to do.
Tales of Old.