Niyati, Arlemond


Niyati and Arlemond meet in the craft complex. In Southern, talk of the weather is never small talk.


It is midmorning of the tenth day of the tenth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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Craft Complex

Expansive and airy, this space, now adorned and decorated with the pride of well over a hundred crafters. A vaulted cavern encompasses two levels, fit with clever skylights from innovative smithcrafters that illuminate tapestries displayed from the bannister of the second-floor: Healer purple, Harper blue, the yellow of the Farmcraft — all the colors and all the crafts are upon display, proudly. The lower level is given to tables and chairs and a hearth stocked with klah; it is brightly-illuminated and a place to study and congregate socially both. The upper level is given to residential rooms, lending the whole atmosphere a pleasant, if somewhat supervised, aura.

It is the seventieth day of Spring and 86 degrees. A passing storm thunders overhead. Lightning flashes and thunder booms.

Niyati hasn't been here overlong, but she's apparently found a perfect place to work. Seated at a table with a small pile of fabrics beside an open book in which she's sketching, occasionally taking a moment to touch a square of material or hold it up to the light. Either there is a huge demand for light and airy or she's determined there WILL be.

Light and airy would certainly be nice, given today's thunderstorms. Windows set high into a raised area of the ceiling provide a bright, if uniformly gray light to the lofty common room of the Craft Complex. Flashes of lightning flicker outside, the booming crash of thunder resonating dramatically in the tall stone hall. Here, it's not unusual to see Starcrafters pouring over tables next to weavers sketching and pinning or even groups of mixed Apprentices at seminars. A burly Smith, Senior Journeyman by his knot enters from the doorway leading to residences in the Smith wing. He's got a half-dozen leather tubes tucked under his arm and a satchel slung across his chest and is whipping an oilskin open with broad yanks that make the thin material crack like the thunder outside as long strides take him towards the door. He pauses at the weaver's table, head cocked, looking at her sketches. "Morning," dark blue eyes go to her knot, and then to the woman's face, "Journeyman." It's a pleasant enough greeting. Delivered in a polite, rumbling baritone. "You're our new Weaver, yes?" Clearly, "Donatien got you settled in?" Sketches get another undisguised perusal.

"Morning," Niyati returns the greeting without looking up at first. That drawing isn't going to finish itself. It only takes a few seconds, however, and she's turning a smile toward the Smith. "I am. Niyati," she supplies. "Oh, yes. I hadn't expected to have so much room." The interest in her book caught, she turns it so that it can be more easily seen. "I'm working a way to create a cooling layer for those of us who have to work in heavier clothing in this lovely weather." And be darned fashionable while doing it, apparently.

"Arlemond, Stonesmith," the Smith offers, oilskin swirled around and tucked under his arm. He nods at the revelation that'd she's happy with her workspace. Shop talk right out of the gate. Excellent. The Smith's eyes flicker with interest, "That'd be most welcome. And healthful." He splays callused fingers over the swatches of cloth, hitching, to readjust the tubes under his arms, "What fabric is this?"

"Nice to meet you. This? It's a blend of linen and sissal. I had to loom them on my own to get the right weight and texture but I imagine that it wouldn't be too hard to teach apprentices to make, or at least to prepare the fibers." Niyati pauses for a moment then tilts her head. "Stone? I imagine you're going to be even busier than usual with the big announcement. Or complaining, depending on which conversations you happen to accidentally hear."

Arlemond's heard of those fabrics before, of course. The former is light, fibrous. The latter, sturdier. Costlier. But beyond that, not much to add. The resultant fabric is light and sturdy. "Looking forward to what you make." At the shift, he agrees, "Busier than a one-armed weaver," as the saying goes. A slight smile. The smile falters a bit, "No complaints from me." His considerable brow furrows, "Ah. Folk are worried about being uprooted." He cocks his head at considers the young woman, "Heard anything specific?" No reason.

"Oh, just the usual. Speculation, complaints, scary stories about people creeping out from the typical shadowy places to create chaos and commit thefts and other unsavory crimes." Niyati doesn't appear bothered by these things at all. "It's either exciting or ominous, depending on the time of day or weather." A glance is given upward and she chuckles. "I'm sure today it will be all lurking monstrosities."

A brief flicker of annoyance, "I can assure you that everyone' safety is of the utmost concern." At least, Arlemond's utmost concern. His expression eases marginally, "Let me know if you hear anything specific." He squints momentarily and then moves along. "If I brought you a dress, how long would you need it to take measurements for a duplicate?"

Niyati chuckles. "I think nearly everyone likes to tell stories to scare themselves and eachother when they're certain they're just stories. If I hear specifics I'll let you know. I doubt there'll be anything more specific than having come from a friend of a friend who knows of a person." The mention of a dress gets her attention and she perks. "It shouldn't take very long at all, a little longer if it's very elaborate. Do you want an exact duplicate?"

A last purse-lipped utterance, tempered by a grudging acknowledgement that the young woman has the right of things, "Naturally," Arlemond rumbles. He straightens, looking off briefly towards the Smith wing. He nods, "It's formal," which doesn't answer whether it's elaborate or not, but hints at some intricacy at least. "I'd like a duplicate adapted to this climate," he looks at the sketches again. "How long is 'not long?'" Arlemond, as Niyati may have noted, likes specifics.

Niyati looks through her book stopping at a simply cut dress and pointing to it. "Something like this would be seven days." Another dress, this one much more elaborate is displayed next. "This could take fifteen days, depending. Of course, if you're in a hurry and it's important…" She grins, closing the book after putting a slip of fabric at the place she'd been working. "I could do it quicker by putting off other projects. So it depends on the dress and the urgency."

"To make or to plan?" The Smith shifts, his weight from one foot to another, readjusting the long parcels. Outside wind howls across the hollows in the roof, rain slashing a steady, drumming roar. "There is no urgency to get the dress made, only for you to use and return the original." Why the secrecy?

Niyati thinks it over. "Oh, a day to copy. The planning is already done in the original, I just need the color for the fabric and the rest is all stitching." Apparently it's all old hat. "I take it this is an ask no questions request… shall I not mention it?" She's sharp. Not subtle, but sharp.

"A surprise for my wife. With summer coming I'd like to have this remade for her," Arlemond nods at the estimation of time. "She shouldn't miss it for a day, but, yes, should anyone ask - it's an experiment. Of your own." He tips a head at the junior journeywoman, "And it is at that," his hand drops to the breezy fabric. "Use this, if you would. I find that I'm interested to see if this will make the weather more bearable." A flash above and booming thunder. Dark eyes flicker upwards and down, "Some of the weather, anyway."

"If I could find a way to make that bearable to wander in, I'd be well past mastery and onto running things myself." Niyati grins as she makes a note in her book on the fabric to be used. "I take it you want it in the same color? Don't worry about dye time, that can be done overnight and the fabric can be worked as soon as it dries from washing." She falls easily into 'all business'.

"Deal. You make that," he corkscrews a finger at the ceiling, "Bearable and I'll do what I can to get you promoted." Smiths can promote Weavers, right? Donatien, weigh in here. Arlemond's nod is brief, "Same color. I'll get the original dress to you in the next seven or so." He hitches again at the tubes bundled under his arm. Speaking of rain and getting around in it, "Journeywoman," despite his best efforts, the phrase is awkwardly said, "Niyati, welcome to Southern." He dips his head in a nod of farewell and moves off to the entryway to don an oilskin so he can brave the rains.

Niyati does the best to stifle her laugh. "I'll make sure the shades match," she promises and gives a nod of her own. "My thanks." There's no hint as to whether or not she noticed the awkwardness and she's already making a note to have the material available before closing the book once again.

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