Note: This is the same
character from Constants. :)
She sat on a rock in the shade of a tree, one wary eye on her surroundings, the other on her work. A small, woven-rush basket leaned precariously against the stone, filled with tattered linen cloth and spools of rough wool thread. In her hands was a thin silver needle, threaded through with that same coarse wool thread, and a half-finished, undyed shirt. Dark raven's-wing hair fell across her green, faintly glowing eyes. One pale hand brushed it back absently, before returning to steady the linen. The needle flashed in and out, creating precise, even stitches.
She sat on a rock in the shade of a tree, one wary eye on her surroundings, the other on her work. A small, woven-rush basket leaned precariously against the stone, filled with tattered linen cloth and spools of rough wool thread. In her hands was a thin silver needle, threaded through with that same coarse wool thread, and a half-finished, undyed shirt. Dark raven's-wing hair fell across her green, faintly glowing eyes. One pale hand brushed it back absently, before returning to steady the linen. The needle flashed in and out, creating precise, even stitches.
Tailoring was the only activity during which she felt at ease. Concentrating on the pattern, on the constant in-out-in-out of the needle, filled her with peace such as she rarely felt. Everything was pushed to the background. Even her perpetual need was naught but a shadow, easily ignored and even more easily dismissed.
Dextrous hands and nimble fingers moved the needle and cloth in tandem, the physical manifestation of her magical art. It felt like magic, her work; like magic would be without the pain of her addiction. She controlled the materials of tailoring like she worked her magic, and it felt wonderful.
In the hem of the finished shirt she sewed, in tiny, careful stitches, her name: Jathira Shadowspinner.