Mother Illish was not happy. But then again... was she ever?
With a desk piled high with papers and littered with broken pieces of equipment, there was hardly any room for her to work. A couple stacks of books perched precariously on the edge closest to the door; though it looked as if they had been dropped in the first empty bit of desk to come alone, they were nonetheless placed there with extreme care. They the casual passerby, and those searching for the Flightleader, from peering in and spotting the ornery redhead hunched over her desk. The makeshift division had worked all morning, but even the best plans fail eventually.
"Mother Illish?" The whisper was faint and timid, barely reaching the Endal's ears before the sounds from the bustling hallway drowned it out. The small young woman was left standing in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot as she waited for a reply. Just when the woman had turned to go, shuffling back out into the crowded corridor did Illish speak.
"Here," Came the irritated grunt, followed by a rustling of papers. The woman whirled at the sound of the rough voice, hastening back through the doorway before pausing at the wall of books, tentatively peeking around the side until the older woman came into view. Illish was still hunched over the desk scribbling away.
The quill scratched a messy scrawl right to the end of the parchment; another was pulled from one of the desk's draws and laid flat, the inkwell holding down the curled top of the paper. This two was filled with the Flightleaders scratchings, and then another, before those fierce yellow eyes finally lifted from their work to regard the intruder.
Her shoulders had bowed in onto themselves as she waited, her hands restlessly rubbing together as her weight was shifted from foot to foot. An apron, torn and smeared with something dark and brown covered equally dirty venti and bryda. The womans hands showed traces of the same dark material, the spaces under her nails caked with the dried matter. Frankly, the girl was a mess. And clearly Avora.
"Well, what do you want?" The woman started and her wide eyed gaze flew from where they had been trained on her toes, meeting Mother Illish's intense stare for half a breath before darting away and focusing on anything except the Flightleader.
"I...uh... I have been sent." "By who, child." An exasperated sigh and the chair creaked as it's occupant shifted her weight backwards, sliding down until that fiery head rested upon the backrest. Ink stained fingers rubbed at weary eyes before falling back into her lap, loathing the day she got stuck with an office.
"Mya." Came the peep, referring to the Crafts Galleries elderly caretaker. The Avora's voice a couple octives higher than it had been a few seconds ago.
"Let me guess, something is wrong?" Illish had little tolerance for the old woman; Mya came running to her whenever she did so much as stub a toe, clearly misunderstanding the Flightleaders jurisdiction.
"She knows that I have nothing to do with the Avora Caste. Why must she insist on doing so?" "She...she needs materials, ma'am." Another squeak, spoken quickly enough that the words almost ran together.
"What materials? And why am I supposed to get them?""The clay, from the forest. It's disappeared, again. M-Mya, she said you'd know.""Priskil above, I don't have time for this." A deep, weary sigh and a moment of silence followed, stretching between the two women.
"Alright. you may go. I'll take care of it." The scared woman didn't have to be told twice, fleeing from the office as a deer would a wolf.
§ § §
"PYCON!" It had taken Illish over a bell to locate the odd creature. Word of mouth had sent her on a wild chase around the entirety of Wind Reach, following various citings before being pointed in the direction of the Sankias Road... or what was left of it.
Though Spring had blown the remainder of Winter away, but the wind still cut through the mutliple layers the Inartan's still wore, making it
just cold enough to be uncomfortable. This did
wonders to improve Illish's mood as she pulled her Katinu closed, her arms wrapping around her torso.
The Dek were everywhere, overflowing the construction site with bodies and the smell of man-stink. Wrinkling her nose, Mother Illish stopped on the outskirts of the site, raising her voice once more over the crash of tools and stone.
"Pycon! HALF-PINT!"
by Half-Pint on May 16th, 2012, 1:37 am 