OOCI’m going to go ahead and get this thread rolling. If the NPC doesn’t get approved you can rest assured that I’ll bury this.
22, Winter 515 AV
Baelin hovered awkwardly outside of the seamstress’ shop, wondering for the umpteenth time if he should just turn around and go back to his apartment. This was a stupid idea.
Stop being a child, he chastised himself, What’s stupid is blowing off every opportunity to learn to read before now.
He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times, felt his clipped nails dig in, and finally released a pained sigh. With a slow nod, Baelin steeled his courage and grabbed the handle. He pulled the door open with a wrench, perhaps just a touch too forcefully. He was immediately greeted with the sweet scent of flowers and a blast of colors, a dizzying contrast to the grays and stale stench of Stormhold.
The half-Dhani took a moment to take in the lively room. There were small pots of flowers arranged around the room, large racks loaded with hanging clothes jammed all together in a haphazard pattern in available empty spaces, a dresser in one corner likely filled with tools of the trade, and an old woman bent over a skirt with a needle in hand.
An elderly woman looked up from her work and turned to Baelin, an inviting smile spreading across wrinkled features. “Hello there, how can I help you?”
Baelin took a step further in, feeling very much like an intruding dark stain in this canvas of bright colors. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and said quietly, “Fredrick McGowan mentioned you teachh reading and writing?”
The woman set her work down on the table she had been hovering over and nodded, her smile still warm and welcoming, “That I do. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the lad, has he been well?”
Baelin nodded wordlessly and she beamed. “That’s good to hear! You’ll have to tell me everything. But all in good time. Please, take a seat.” She gestured to another worn wooden chair resting close to her own. The half-Dhani licked his lips nervously and gripped the top of the chair, pulling it further back slightly before settling into it. The wood creaked as he settled and he focused on that, studiously avoiding the old woman’s eyes.
She was quite for a moment, likely waiting for him to get comfortable and meet her gaze. Yet Baelin kept his gaze fixed on his hands while kneading his palms. He didn’t know why this was such a struggle, but the thought of looking up made him feel queasy.
“My name’s Mariah. What’s yours, love?” The voice was gentle and coaxing. Baelin was hard pressed to think of any time someone had talked to him like that. His instincts urged him to leave. This was some trick. For all he knew she was a serial killer who lured unsuspecting victims with sweet words and comforting smiles. He laid his palms on his legs and rubbed them up and down, one of his many nervous ticks.
Fredrick recommended her. You trust him, remember? Just give it a shot.
Licking his lips, Baelin finally lifted his gaze to look somewhere close to her eyes. “Baelin,” he said firmly but quietly. He couldn’t bring himself to actually meet her eyes. If she really was so sweet, he didn’t want to have that kindness suddenly cut off when she saw his bastard pupils or recognized his sibilance for what it was. The thought of seeing that warm smile melt away and be replaced with revulsion felt like someone was physically stabbing him in the gut.
Mariah was having none of it. She tucked one knobbed finger under his chin before he could realize and pulled his chin up. Baelin sucked his breath in harshly, trepidation freezing him in his chair. She stared into his eyes, brown meeting green, and gave him a warm smile.
“You have such beautiful eyes, young man.”
And godsdamn her, Baelin’s heart clenched and he found he couldn’t breathe. No one – no one - had ever complimented his eyes. They were without a doubt his least favorite feature. She had no right…she couldn’t be honest…she must be blind as a bat. The half-Dhani was torn between wanting to hug her and not let go or to storm out of the seamstress’ shop right then and never turn back.
If she noticed his loss of composure, the old woman gave no indication. She simply patted him on the shoulder and leaned back, her chair creaking loudly with the motion.
“Now, I do believe this skirt can wait a little longer. Let’s see where you’re at.”
22, Winter 515 AV
Baelin hovered awkwardly outside of the seamstress’ shop, wondering for the umpteenth time if he should just turn around and go back to his apartment. This was a stupid idea.
Stop being a child, he chastised himself, What’s stupid is blowing off every opportunity to learn to read before now.
He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times, felt his clipped nails dig in, and finally released a pained sigh. With a slow nod, Baelin steeled his courage and grabbed the handle. He pulled the door open with a wrench, perhaps just a touch too forcefully. He was immediately greeted with the sweet scent of flowers and a blast of colors, a dizzying contrast to the grays and stale stench of Stormhold.
The half-Dhani took a moment to take in the lively room. There were small pots of flowers arranged around the room, large racks loaded with hanging clothes jammed all together in a haphazard pattern in available empty spaces, a dresser in one corner likely filled with tools of the trade, and an old woman bent over a skirt with a needle in hand.
An elderly woman looked up from her work and turned to Baelin, an inviting smile spreading across wrinkled features. “Hello there, how can I help you?”
Baelin took a step further in, feeling very much like an intruding dark stain in this canvas of bright colors. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and said quietly, “Fredrick McGowan mentioned you teachh reading and writing?”
The woman set her work down on the table she had been hovering over and nodded, her smile still warm and welcoming, “That I do. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the lad, has he been well?”
Baelin nodded wordlessly and she beamed. “That’s good to hear! You’ll have to tell me everything. But all in good time. Please, take a seat.” She gestured to another worn wooden chair resting close to her own. The half-Dhani licked his lips nervously and gripped the top of the chair, pulling it further back slightly before settling into it. The wood creaked as he settled and he focused on that, studiously avoiding the old woman’s eyes.
She was quite for a moment, likely waiting for him to get comfortable and meet her gaze. Yet Baelin kept his gaze fixed on his hands while kneading his palms. He didn’t know why this was such a struggle, but the thought of looking up made him feel queasy.
“My name’s Mariah. What’s yours, love?” The voice was gentle and coaxing. Baelin was hard pressed to think of any time someone had talked to him like that. His instincts urged him to leave. This was some trick. For all he knew she was a serial killer who lured unsuspecting victims with sweet words and comforting smiles. He laid his palms on his legs and rubbed them up and down, one of his many nervous ticks.
Fredrick recommended her. You trust him, remember? Just give it a shot.
Licking his lips, Baelin finally lifted his gaze to look somewhere close to her eyes. “Baelin,” he said firmly but quietly. He couldn’t bring himself to actually meet her eyes. If she really was so sweet, he didn’t want to have that kindness suddenly cut off when she saw his bastard pupils or recognized his sibilance for what it was. The thought of seeing that warm smile melt away and be replaced with revulsion felt like someone was physically stabbing him in the gut.
Mariah was having none of it. She tucked one knobbed finger under his chin before he could realize and pulled his chin up. Baelin sucked his breath in harshly, trepidation freezing him in his chair. She stared into his eyes, brown meeting green, and gave him a warm smile.
“You have such beautiful eyes, young man.”
And godsdamn her, Baelin’s heart clenched and he found he couldn’t breathe. No one – no one - had ever complimented his eyes. They were without a doubt his least favorite feature. She had no right…she couldn’t be honest…she must be blind as a bat. The half-Dhani was torn between wanting to hug her and not let go or to storm out of the seamstress’ shop right then and never turn back.
If she noticed his loss of composure, the old woman gave no indication. She simply patted him on the shoulder and leaned back, her chair creaking loudly with the motion.
“Now, I do believe this skirt can wait a little longer. Let’s see where you’re at.”
