((If you always thought to yourself, "Self, I think I'd like to see roleplay through the eyes of a PC who mostly just does obscenely detailed weaving enviros" then this is the thread for you. Here is the first of a series of day-in-the-life vignettes about Octavia, a priestess of Arkay who spends most of her time hunched over some sort of gorgeous project she's been making. If you definitely want to RP with someone who will emote about complicated lace-knitting or adding reticella lace cutouts to her shifts, definitely come hang out. If you always wanted to RP with someone who absolutely has never been kidnapped and whose biggest drama is whether or not she'll be fairly compensated for her work, then have I got the RP for you! ;-D))

Tiny little stitches trailed along the edge of a piece of linen that had been decorated with an embroidered, stylized rose. With perfectly mitered corners and hem-stitches that were nearly invisible to the naked eye, Octavia probably put too much professionalism in the trifle of a bookmark, but it wasn't in the healer's nature to do a haphazard job at anything.

As soon as the shops opened, she went to buy a piece of stationery and then headed back to her inn-room. She took her time to painstakingly write a note, and, satisfied with her efforts, wrapped the whole thing up and headed out to find someone to take her package to its destination.

Once it all was done, she sat on the bench outside Kvatch's gates to watch the sky brighten and deepen into the brilliant blue she so loved. Octavia finished up the knitting project she was making, and as she did, she recalled making the same design of baby blanket so long ago, for her own much-anticipated child. Far enough from the troubles that had ended so tragically for so many in her hometown, it was nice to be able to think warmly of her son before a pang of loss stabbed at her. Only the night before she and Thomas Elessius had chatted about their long-lost families, fondly recalling their mothers. It was so rare an occasion that the healer discussed the deep past, but there she was, illustrating her mother's officious little walk that told everyone in her path that she had Very Important Things To Do, Thank You! Perhaps it was a part of healing, Octavia thought, to remember those things about lost loved ones, and to laugh about it.

Later in the day, having received the mending work she'd anticipated, she pressed one of the white tunics and analyzed the drape of the fabric, the composition and strength of it, and once she had a plan in mind, she sketched a design around the collar. It was generally advisable to add embroidery before constructing the garment, but she didn't have that luxury so she'd make do with what she had. Once she'd penciled in her design, she stretched the fabric across her embroidery frame and put on her spectacles. She had aged just enough to need the magnification for close-up work, now. On the same bench she favored outside Kvatch, she began to add scarletwork to the shirt's collar and cuffs. There she sat, a buoy anchored in a stormy sea, patiently working as the rest of the city churned.

As she sat there, often invisible to the Very Important People of Kvatch, she noticed things. She saw questionable meetings just outside the earshot of city guards. She wondered about a merchant who wheeled a full cart in every day and wheeled all the same goods out in the evening without apparently selling anything. She spotted heavy-handed husbands and expert pickpockets barely out of toddlerhood. She casually watched it all as she worked, humbly beautifying a shirt with nothing more than a needle and red thread.

As much as the adventurer-types seemed to regard her as a permanent piece of city furniture, the average citizens noted her presence. Sometimes her gentle hands would lay over a break or a cut to soothe it with magic. Sometimes she'd share her meager lunch with someone else who seemed as hungry as she'd been. Sometimes people would bring their babies to her so she could bestow Arkay's Grace, and those were the moments she cherished the most. The actions of Molag Bal's foul servants had long ago made her a childless mother, and so she just loved each child she met.

Even though her recent employment had not worked out and her life was still unsettled, she felt that perhaps the sun would soon peek through the clouds. It was almost as though she could feel the warmth of it on her skin; she was sure things would improve. As confident in her faith as ever, each one of thousands of lovingly-placed crimson stitches a fractional step forward into the light.