Flashback Screeching Strings

[Kiva]

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Date
Streets of Taloba

"Kiva, pay attention."

The young girl looked upwards at the burly man with black skin, sighing at the mound of clay before her, "But I don't want to be a potter. Let me go home." She received a stern glare in response, already knowing his answer. 'Why must we make bowls for the festival?' Pouting, Kiva lowered her eyes back to her work, dipping her hands in the already dirty water beside her, and picked up the clay in her hands. She kneaded it her small palm, struggling to soften it. Sweat built up along her brow and back, even with the shade of thick clouds.

She wanted to throw it down and tell the man to find another child for this tedious labor... And she would've. If she was 15 years older and more of a warrior. Instead she was tall and lanky, nearly about to hit puberty and uncoordinated. So she worked, rolling the clay into a fat ball to hollow out. It was uneven and it took her longer than the other children to get it to a state she was happy with. She groaned audibly, receiving another annoyed look from her instructor.

"Work faster, and you can be done sooner." he snapped, raising his eyebrows with an equal amount of sass.

She rolled her eyes, feeling an attitude forming. Using her hands to smooth out the sides of her ball, she dropped it on the slab of wood in front of her, using the surface to flatten the bottom for a base. Beside her, a girl was nearly finished, and Kiva envied her. She tried to work faster, pushing her fingers downward and out, to begin creating a hole. She carefully worked, but lost interest in a few minutes, having to reapply water so that nothing would start to dry in the Falyndar heat.

And then her eyes began to wander... away from the group and to those walking around the city. Men with heavy packs to sell, an ashta and it's rider. Some warriors. A few women with children on their hip and jagged swords in their hand. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Except the foreigner with white skin and eyes that seemed to dart to and fro. He held something in his hand, something wooden with strings, and he sat beneath a tree with it in his hands. It looked like an instrument she had never seen and the sound of it carried to where they sat. It took a moment for her to see the long stick in his other hand, and she leaned forward to get a better look.

Her hands limp and no longer working on her pottery, she felt a sharp smack against her head, and yelped, her hand flying to the top of her head. "Finish your work, Kiva. Chukumu yala."

The pain still fresh, Kiva clenched her hands into fists, locking her shoulders and threw more water onto her clay. Out of spite, she worked quickly and sloppily, digging her fingers into the brown clay with angry fervor. She hated being scolded.

★★★

[Kiva]

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Kiva's instructor was not a patient man. Stocky and heavy set with tattoos and intended scarring along the left side of his face, he was considered threatening to outsiders. Yet, most days, he was given the task of working with the children and getting them to work when their parents were away. Kiva much preferred her father, a lithe, handsome man with patience and wit. In comparison, this man was dull and stern, and his sharpened teeth made him look like a grouchy cat that was too slow to catch its own prey. His deep baritone voice boomed when he spoke, sounding unnecessarily angry, "Using your wrist when you mold will keep your fingers from getting tired. Keep your clay wet while you work, or it will crack. Good job, Ari."

A little boy beamed, and Kiva continued to work. The mass in her hands was quickly melting. She looked up at the big man, but he was already watching her, "Too much water. You're too rushed." It seemed like forever to get it right. Kiva tried to move slower, running her hands along the side, and slinging any gunk from her fingers. Clay covered her arms up to her elbows and speckles of it dried to her cheek.

The foreigner continued to mess with his strange instrument, and she worried he would leave before she was done. Kiva started pressing the hole more in her clay, pushing it outwards and pinching at the sides to make them rise up. It felt futile, and working the clay was making her fingers tired. She tried to change her movement to her wrists, but she had no idea what she was doing. A bowl was forming, but it was ugly. Kiva wanted to destroy it, and walk away.

'Who cares? Is Myri impressed by pottery?' Kiva ignored her shoddy work, and kept powering through. She received no praise, but she was seeing some improvement. The more she worked, the more it started to look like a bowl... sort of. Her hands ran along the sides, smoothing them out again. She pinched at the sides a bit more, and used her fist to press the bottom of the bowl down. Clay wedged itself under her short fingernails, and she finally held up her work.

"Done!" She scurried to her feet, grabbing a cloth towel that had been nearby and wiping furiously at her hands. "I can pick it up when it's dry." The other children looked up at her, and snickered at her work. Kiva glared only momentarily, but stopped when the older man shook his head.

"Will you not even etch a design?" he sighed, muttering under his breath. Kiva shook her head.

"Nah."

She started to walk away, weaving in between the other students, but stopped as her conviction took hold. Being a perfectionist really was the worst.

★★★

[Kiva]

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Begrudgingly, Kiva returned to her spot, and quickly destroyed her work. She crushed it beneath her palm, savoring the feeling of moist clay squishing slowly between her fingers. She tried to start from the beginning, recalling what grouchy cat-man had told her to do. 'Make a ball, form it slowly. This is your first step. Make the clay moist, but not wet. Care about your work.' Had the last comment been about her? Kiva did as she remembered, forming the ball. She tossed it back and forth between her hands, rotating it and rolling it between her palm.

★★★