Amber's earliest memories are of soft fabric underneath her hand, fingers curled into silken, gauzy folds.
"It isn't just a trade," her grandfather said to her back then, "but rather a calling. It is more than just piecing and sewing, it is an art." It is an ideal that she has kept close to her heart from the day that she overtook his business, the cornerstone of what makes something a Lepus original.
She has spent years cultivating her skills, pouring over tweeds, weaves, and all sorts of twill. Amber can source the toughest of canvases or the thinnest of silks. Once they find her hands, they become her medium as she weaves together a wind glider that will speak her words to the world.
There is a process, a carefully honed order of things that Amber walks herself through with every client.
"Listen to them," her grandfather still says, his words warming her ear. "Pick apart their brains. It isn't about what they want, it's about what they need—and that isn't something that they know. But you are their tailor. You know them better than they know themselves."
It is a tricky game at times, listening to a client's monologue and reading between the lines. Amber's enthusiasm leads to her impatience and this is the step that she struggles the most with. The beginning of a journey is the hardest part, but like anything, it's always one foot before the other. She can't get anywhere if she doesn't have a place to begin.
"The materials," her grandfather would say next. "Practicality is key, as is editing yourself. They might want something grand but a simpler fare might suit your client best. That is our job as tailors—we set the rules when it comes to a proper fit."
Those who know nothing about fabrics think that they are experts. It is a careful game of salesmanship and convincing otherwise. Amber is lucky that her cheerful demeanor does most of the bribing for her, even if her reputation is that of a master craftsman.
And finally: "Wind gliders are like fingerprints. No two are the same. Each is as unique as the person we craft them for, just as it should be."
Amber spent her youth absorbing every word that her grandfather told her, every tip and trick that he shared. She spent hours learning to hold a needle, what stitches were used where, and how to wax and prime her thread. Calluses dot her fingertips and knuckles, and she can eyeball measurements with dazzling accuracy.
One day, her grandfather left for sights unknown and without a trace. In his place was a letter, detailing his final tailoring secrets alongside the keys to his workshop. Amber took up residence without a thought, falling into her work like a sinking lure deep in Cider Lake.
It has been long enough that the sadness of his departure has eased into something else. Amber rises in the morning, her fingers itching to get to work. Her joints might ache, and her fingers strain, but she slips into bed at night satisfied with whatever she has created.
Wind gliders are fanciful things, but they only carry as much life as the master tailor breathes into them.
#
Diluc comes to her, as he often does, with a patch job.
Amber never questions it. She just takes his wind glider into her arms, cradling it gently until she spreads it out over her work table.
"You are unnecessarily harsh on your glider," she says, smoothing her fingers over it to assess the damage. Amber tuts, clicking her tongue in disapproval. "I might even think that she doesn't deserve you."
"Don't be ridiculous," says Diluc, his tone clipped. He stands at the edge of the room like a brooding hawk, arms crossed over his chest, face split by a scowl.
Amber gives him a cool, yet acidic look. "I can throw you out, you know. You can find someone else to repair her."
"You're the best," he says.
"So you'll be a little more respectful." It isn't a question, it is an expectation.
Diluc sneers but falls back, rolling his eyes instead. A bit of an improvement.
"You know," continues Amber, moving on to test the frame and joints of the glider, "if one's late-night exploits weren't so adventurous, one might not find themselves in my workshop so often."
Diluc doesn't look surprised. He shouldn't be. Amber is a woman of gossip, as most creatives in Mondstadt are. She has eyes and ears everywhere, and Diluc doesn't do a very good job of hiding his vigilante side.
"How bad is it?" he asks quietly.
"Not as bad as it could be." Amber sighs, leaning against the drafting table as she taps her chin. "I can't fix her overnight, though. She's got some frame damage, so I'll have to go to the smith in the morning. I'll need to patch this spot too—" Amber points to a tear right in the meat of the wing. "—which, while not difficult, takes time and patience. It'll cost you this time."
Diluc pinches his nose, grimacing.
"If you wanted to commission a new one—"
"No," says Diluc immediately.
Amber isn't surprised. She didn't make this wind glider, her grandfather did. It belonged to Diluc's father and Diluc has no intention of letting it go. He'll patch this mess of silk and canvas until it's half-buried in the ground, useless.
She sighs, snorting softly. "Yeah, okay," she says. "Give me a few days. She'll be right as rain." At least, to the best of her abilities. Amber is good but she isn't a god with a needle.
Diluc reaches into his pocket and tosses a bag of gold onto the table before he disappears into the night.
Amber hums softly as she tucks the money away before turning to the glider with soft, cooing words.
#
Mr. Zhongli is an odd one.
"I came here to visit an old friend," he says cryptically when Amber asks. He sits in her shop, dressed to the nines in a tailored suit that seems crisp and new. Zhongli, however, feels as though he's anything but. There's something about him that seems old, ancient even. A raw sort of power clings to him like a second skin.
"You have a Vision," says Amber after staring at him for several moments too long.
Zhongli blinks, his head tilted to the side. "Ah, yes. A Geo one." It is a well-rehearsed answer. His subtle grin creases the skin on his face but doesn't quite reach his eyes. Amber doesn't know the reason for his lie but it doesn't seem to be for a nefarious purpose. Despite the oddity, Mr. Zhongli seems genuine in his intent and means no harm.
Amber goes to the fabric bolts that line her wall and begins to pick through them. "And so," she says, "you came to Mondstadt to visit your friend, and what—decided to pay me a visit as well?"
Zhongli chuckles softly. "Word of your talent has spread as far as Liyue. I was intrigued, and so…" He gestures vaguely.
"Most people don't come to me out of mere interest, Mr. Zhongli." Amber drags her fingers over bolt after bolt, considering. "Usually, it's for a reason."
There is hesitation on Zhongli's end. Long enough for Amber to turn back to him.
"I…" He thumbs his chin as he chooses his next words carefully. "My life has taken a major turn, I suppose. I've retired, you see, and perhaps it is because I'm nothing but an old dragon, but I find myself yearning for a change. Out with the old, in with the new, or so a friend of mine likes to say."
Amber blinks at his words. Zhongli looks reminiscent and when they meet gazes, his eyes flash golden in a distinctly inhuman way. It clicks, then. Amber has read enough books to know that it isn't only mortals who live within Liyue.
"You don't look a day older than me," she says with humor. Her feet carry her to the far end of the wall and her fingers curl into a well-spun silk satin. A subtle material that speaks of high class and wealth. She doesn't know much about Mr. Zhongli, but he seems to be a man of taste, and this would suit him quite well.
Amber is just about to pull it from the shelf when the door to her studio is thrown open and a man with a shock of red hair steps in.
"Xiansheng," he mutters, "here you are. How could you ditch me with—Oh. Hello."
Amber makes a face when she meets his dull blue eyes. "Another customer?" she asks, teasing.
"No, I—" He coughs into his hand. "I'm Childe, and I've been looking for my associate all morning." Childe nudges Zhongli with his elbow. "You promised me a spar this morning."
"Did I?" Zhongli's gaze turns half-slitted. "I had hoped you wouldn't remember."
Childe drops to the chair beside him with a whine. "You're killing me," he says. "It's bad enough to be stationed temporarily here. It's boring—"
"Which is why I accompanied you." Zhongli tugs at his waistcoat.
"Are you sure it isn't because you're broke? And now, with the Mora shortage, it's bad enough that you have to tag along for me to keep paying for your—"
"Later," cuts in Zhongli. It's good-natured. "You'll get your fight."
Childe's gaze glints at the prospect, an expression that speaks volumes. Amber looks to Zhongli once more, reassessing her evaluation. Something simmers there, something that lurks just underneath his skin. Her hand leaves the silk and she pulls a roughspun, khaki canvas from the shelf instead.
"It is ugly," she says bluntly, smoothing her palm over the flat length of the fabric bolt. "Perhaps less refined than you are used to. But it's sturdy, and it will last a long time if you take care of it." Amber's gaze flicks to Childe then, her mouth splitting into a grin. "I think you might need that."
Zhongli, at least, looks amused in return.
#
The joints of Amber's hands ache from holding pins and needles for days on end. Her back is sore from leaning over and her knees hurt from all the kneeling she does to ensure a perfect fit. The work of a tailor can be grueling at times. Rough on the bones and muscles, painstakingly meticulous.
Amber loves it, though. She loves the way that she feels her efforts in her tired body. She is weary because she has filled her day with old-fashioned elbow grease and carefully measured stitches. Her nerves tingle with satisfaction because her clients go home happy.
Wind gliders are family, meant to last generations and be a lifeline. They aren't mere artifacts, they are part of a person's being.
Amber designs extensions for strangers she meets on the street. She breathes life into them, and with every glider that leaves her doors, a piece of herself goes with it.
When she settles into bed at night, Amber remembers something else her grandfather once told her.
"Amber, we are not magicians, but we come close with what we can do with our fingers. Never forget that."
She thinks, perhaps, that her grandfather was wrong. Amber knows magic when she sees it and feels it in the tips of her fingers with each pull and tug at a length of thread. It is devotion as strong as Celestia herself, sewn by her articulated and masterful hands.
Amber allows herself to fall asleep, proud.