Private Rivers of Practice and Patience

[Iola]

The sound of water coursing could be heard by all who would pass through the path not too far from it. They would also hear the splashing of the water in a rather unusual way, like it was hitting dry rocks or trees that weren't in the water, accompanied by the frustrated growls of a female. With her pale blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, her eyebrows were furrowed over her lavender eyes as she motioned with her hands while trying to manipulate the water before her. She wore a tan tunic that was tucked into a pair of black trousers, and a pair of black boots on her legs. All of her clothes were currently soaked from the water that she was playing with.

"Moving the water is easy. Moving around as I move the water is easy. Making the water thin enough to cut while standing still is easy. What am I missing to try and run with the thing water though... or have more than just two slivers of water?" She hisses to herself as she looks at the trees that had become her unfortunate targets for this practice that she was putting herself through. She ran her hand over her hair, finally feeling how wet she had gotten from her practicing. She looked down to her hand and pursed her lips as she quietly contemplated what she had been doing. By no means was she a master at wielding her magic, but she at least wanted to use it enough to protect herself, and others, in the case of emergencies along with her sword. The unfortunate reality of majority of people. Sometimes she wished she could just use her knowledge to her advantage. Books were much simpler than people in general.

With a huff, the blonde turned on her right heel and away from the sliver of water and shook out her hands as she made her way to a bag that had been placed well away from the water, and hanging on a branch behind her, and pulled out a book. The woods were quiet with only the creatures chittering in the distance as she flipped through the pages to the bookmarked pages. It was an old manual of how to use combat magic, but she wasn't one for much combat with her water, or her light. She sighs as she read the page over again. The former author of the book didn't exactly write instructions out well she noticed, and she would have to figure out what they meant about the feelings on her own eventually. That took time though, a lot of it, as well as persistence and patience. Mostly due to the fact that she would need to stop trying to train herself eventually today, before she used up all of her magic. If she couldn't get it today, she'll have to come back another day after she's rested and try again.

---

Iola's Words: Teal
@Vorston

 

[Vorston]

Plod, plod, plod.

Handkerchief to brow, pat pat. Adjustment of belt and robe to sit correct. Jostle of bag, pokes of book spines leaning further awkward. As if the gnome were hauling hedgehogs keen to learn geometry, clasping protractors, showing their understanding of acute angles to the gnome from behind the material of the luggage.

Atop the bag of books of rebelling spines was a small bundle of lovingly tied blue, riding the vessel of volumes in proper behaviour. String about the parcel, to bind it atop the throne of literature.

At least my brunch isn't rubbing me the wrong way, Vorston thought, a smile at his own internal wit as he replaced his handkerchief to his sleeve. His wizened hand went to his hip, feeling how the book laden bag had rubbed and pricked him so far on his journey.

I suppose it's lunch instead of brunch now, Vorston thought. Hand on the other hip now, a lean back and forth. Eyes on the blue, thinking of triple layered sandwiches, crisp lemonade, splendid cherries and crunchful pickles held within.

Slosh, slosh, swoosh wash, drip, and drain. Growling frustrations, waters that did play at learning ways.

It's settled then, Vorston decided, connecting causal dots to his action. From the path and his journey he had found diversion. He turned, bag swayed careful and wide to keep the bag from making points at him to the direction of the movement of water and exasperations of the learning.

He knew all too well the sound of a journeyman learning the manner of the tides being dashed. Perhaps if it were flames he heard striking stone, he might not have been so ready to venture forth to lend his presence. The beginning embers of pyroweave application were oft full of sparks and short temper. Such needed waivers to safety made in conscientious ledgers to lend an ear or eye or hand or lesson. But with water? Much less liable to combust a gnomish beard in accident or in progress.

So, with what was now lunch atop bag of books that jostled on, did Vorston make slow approach. Old fellow sounds being made as he did heft and contend with his luggage, weighty for virtue of the distance he had carried them awkward so far.

Plod, plod, plod, plod.

Slow but sure did the gnome make his way, eyes going from his feet to the way, eyes to the origin of the sounds of compelled water. To the sight of trees drenched and drying, to waters recent compelled, to branch that had held the knowledge, and student who scoured them for meaning.

Glasses thumbed up to proper place upon his bridge. A squint, a blink or two. A knowing hum of the sage issuing, and bemused smile. While the gnome was old in his marrow, his eyes did recognise what work was being scoured.

A sound of a clearing of a throat, the way that old fellows do in bumbling manner not to cause a startle to the younger. A gesture in the student's direction.

“Ah! A work of Thumblebark's, as I live and breathe! I swear that scholar would have made a better maker of mazes than of instructions. In fact,” Vorston, said, scrunching his brow in memory, adjusting his glasses a little better as if to help his noggin to recalling, “In his later years I think he did build one. Or was it that he got lost in one, and the Guild had to fish him out? Hm.”

Vorston ruminated a moment. Befuddled with names and gossip past. Then clarity at the thought of pickles and manners.

“Oh, I hope you don't mind my intrusion. I thought the sound of water might help digestion. But goodness me, digesting that particular book you have is quite the challenge even the best of us. Brilliant weaver, quite startlingly good. But never was one to be pithy. Weave knows I was mystified when I heard that work became a common hand out to learners. Quite mystified indeed.”

His bag was lowered to the ground, ever so careful and slow. Vorston made effort not to make a grunting sound. He gave sigh as he felt the loss of weight. A smile at the relief of finding a spot for lunch. Eyes to the woods, breathing deep of the woodland smells. Eyes back to the student, smiling on.

“How are you finding it? And are you stopping for lunch, like I have, perchance?” Vorston asked, his face friendly, his frame clearly worn out from hefting his bag, but his cheerful and helpful manner beaming through his words. Clearly a conspirator of learning in any form, as if he were all too used to giving glad help to friends and peers, and those just beginning their journey into weaving ways.

"Don't worry, I have enough to share if you're without. I'm Vorston by the way," Vorston said, as he checked the clasps of the bag to ensure what books were within his bag weren't want to reshuffle themselves into an even spikier mass of knowledge.

@Iola

 

[Iola]

The noble daughter heard the sounds of the older gentleman, originally thinking that they were on the path that was nearby. But then she noticed that they were getting closer to the location that she was at. Her lavender eyes glanced up from her book as she was curious about who would approach her at this time of day? She was sure she sent the maid and knight, that her father assigned to her, away to not bother her training for a while. She had instructed them to come get her an hour before dinner was to be served, and there was no way it was dinner time yet. She was surprised to see the elderly gnome approach her, and she quickly closed her book to go and attempted to help him as she noticed him struggling with the bag of books. But when he spoke of the book that she was attempting to learn from alone, she paused.

“You’re familiar with the author’s works?” She calmly asks, smiling softly to the gnome before she approaches to help him lower his bag off of his shoulder and to the ground. “I don’t mind the intrusion. I just wasn’t expecting company if I’m honest though. You seem to know quite a deal about the book…” She glanced back to where she had placed the book on the ground and slowly went over towards her book, bringing it back towards the gnome who was now offering her lunch as he also asked how she found the book. She had also grabbed her bag and brought it with her, but placed it a couple steps away from them as it wasn’t important to her at the moment.

She puts a knuckle of her right hand softly to her lips before she looks up and smiles at him. “The book is proving to be a bit… challenging to understand, unfortunately. So I fear I’m not having a splendid time figuring out the ‘feelings’ the author has been saying in his instructions. And as for lunch, I didn’t intend to stop for lunch, but I don’t mind doing so now that I have company.” She muses sweetly to him. She gingerly pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and placed it on the ground for herself to sit on her legs on it. She set the book on top of her legs, gingerly holding it with her hand. “I appreciate the invitation. I am Iola Floieth. It is a pleasure to meet you, Vorston.” She smiles as she slightly bows towards the man in respect from where she sat. She was leaving out the fact that she was the daughter of count Floieth. She wasn’t here in a formal setting, she was off out in the woods trying to practice magic without assistance.

Her lavender eyes spied the bag and the books in it, and she seemed to perk up in interest in the collection of books he possessed. “My… where are you going with all those books? Do you need a second bag to carry those books easier?” She glanced towards her own bag, wondering if it would be big enough to be of any assistance. The messenger bag was a blue dyed fabric with leather accents for straps and buckles. It was big enough for her book she possessed, a notebook she had for trying to figure out pieces of the instructions better, a few pens, a well of ink, a towel, and a change of clothes for herself for emergencies.

---

Iola's Words: Teal
@Vorston

 

[Vorston]

Vorston did listen as his hands did gently set about the ceremony important to all people of Plumhollow - providing picnics and space for talking. Although all Plums worth their jokes took great pride in the former, the latter was often overstepped unwittingly by enthusiastic host than those attending. Such was the indulgence of the sandwich socialite, Vorston mused as he fished out plates to serve from their wicker nestling places. For of course, Vorston was always prepared to share a picnic with proper crockery, else he could be scarcely called himself a Plum at all.

Two cups, two plates, none chipped and much adorned with swish paint of juggling crabs and tumbling fish, a circus of the sea serving picnic bites to feed, laid on blanket that rushed forth as easy as a magician's handcherkief from sleeve. Blink and one might miss that it had indeed been produced from such a place.

A simple act of cantrip that no Plum did tire of making look easy. Vortson being no exception.

The blue of the tea towel that had protected the basket reminded him at this moment of the colour he had wanted his bed of Larkspur to appear this year. He laid it out as was right of fingerfood to have on hand to dab at. He knew he had dashed too far into the domains of the alkaline with his experimental soil treatments to have flowers of such blue, and listened with appropriate nod and hum of acknowledgement to his company. A Plum who did not spin as many plates within their mind was making poor use of their platters, or so some Plums did remark when they might clatter.

Small miracle they grew at all after such a litmus failure, Vorston thought as he gave the content of the basket time to be appraised by those of lunch. Plucked free the lemonade bottle. Did thumb away the clasp which bore condensation, the seal priming with wisps of coldness the citrus pop as it was freed.

Vorston poured crisp lemonade of refreshing zest, all pop fizz and crisp and cold, into cups with similar circus antics across them. The picnic set all the more complete for being used for two instead of just himself. Vorston gestured that all was to be had at whatever pace felt rightful.

He took a sup and gave small murmur of being pleased by the fizzle. Felt his shoulders set into proper place from such cold comforts, and replied with good cheer.

"I'm more familiar with students' frustration with Thumblebark's than Thumblebark's writings, but I know them well enough to encourage reading outside his box of books. Some folks can click with it immediately, but then some folks click with fountain pens over quills and inkwells. Such gadgets become mandatory by the more frilly avant garde scribe houses, leaves us who think in quill strokes scratching our heads at silver nibs and cartridges."

Vorston made a playful sour face at the thought, and took a sip of citrus pop to alleviate his expression.

"Hm, yes, having a splendid time with Thumblebark's work is a rare aligning of star and moon to illuminate his thinking in the dark. Most circuitous. Most. But fret not, I've untangled his thinking before for folks in your position, and I know what he is fishing for in teaching. Won't be the first nor last time I've had to shine a light on his rather dim sense of guidance, for those seeking to know his lessons. Would be glad to untangle what Thumblebark shouldn't have bungled in the word to begin with, if you'd like that string of murky words to better tie together," Vorston did say with a smile.

The tripled layered sandwich could not be resisted any longer, and he did take a plate with one laid out for himself, the other awaiting fetching by his company.

He held it as if part of picnic ceremony, and provided explanation as to his luggage, casting a warding eye at it as he savoured his appetite.

"Those books need their special bag because those books bear a special kind of binding. I only had the one, and I dared not leave a trace of a spine of the collection. And so lugging the whole caboodle I did and am. The conclusion of a week or so of intervention to a troubled sort you see. Who used a particularly awful sort of fountain pen that sparked all those books into being rather a nuisance to the writer. Who, I'm glad to report, are much glad to be back to using quills again."

A bite of sandwich, a pleased as punch expression, a picnic and a conversation. All was right in Plum logic.

The bag seemed to shift as if the contents were turning cold shoulder at all of the pleasantness.

@Iola