Weavercraft Hall - Workshop
From this central space, many different work spaces branch off. In the dye room, large vats dominate the room along with a rather pungent smell. Apprentices in all different shades from their work scurry from one vat to another, checking temperature, ingredients, and color. In a cleared corner, journeymen can be seen bent over books with the formulas for various colors or scribbling out new formulas as they work with the apprentices.
In another area, looms are repaired and set up for weaving. In yet another, yarn is being made. Some rooms are for cutting, others for assembling, others for tailoring. Everything happens here.


It's not exactly as if Master Brebain is happy to be back at the Weavercraft Hall. He'd only just left, so far as it feels. He hasn't been gone even remotely long enough to miss the place, yet, with the possible exception of the availability of certain fabrics, and… well, okay, and the way there's more space to work, but other than that.

Regardless, here he is again; and this time he brought candidates, because someone — mumble — pointed out that, as a Master Craftsman posted at Fort Weyr, whether or not anyone was going to ask, it was quietly expected that he'd help out with these 'excursion' things. On the other hand, he's seen glimpses of the candidates' robes, and so he's really not holding his breath that any more than one or two of them have what it takes to work as a weaver, if the draconic shell game doesn't come out in their favor. (He's also placing bets that the ones who can already sew are going to be riders by the end of this candidacy cycle, because that's his luck.) The flight wasn't bad, at least, and he doesn't have to keep track of all of them by himself — partly because he has help, in the form of the riders, and partly because they aren't all here. "And this is the workshop," Brebain says, ushering them into a cavernous and chaotic space full of nooks and danger. "Just — don't touch anything."

"Um," The meddling greenrider in the audience, one Tiye of Haast Wing who carried a few candidates on her (large) green's neck, raises a fingertip up just enough to interject, because she has done this one before. "You are supposed to let them touch things," she points out, whether or not Brebain actually wants the interruption. He got a memo on how this works, right? "Give a demo or a lesson or something? I mean, I'm just saying, sir, how much use is the group if they can't touch anything — " Surely Nyalle and Inri wouldn't have left excursion duty to someone who wasn't actually going to do that. Masters like teaching, right?

Alister, who totally wasn't just about to reach out and get his grody untrained hands on someone's temporarily paused piece of weaving, all jewel-toned and eye-catching and right the hell there, totally nonchalantly pulls his hand back and puts it in his pocket and looks terribly, terribly attentive. What. He wasn't just about to … what. Nothing to see here.

Lucy has stayed at the back of the group throughout the excursion, not hiding per se but not engaging much either. She's merely drifted after the others and let her mind wander, feet taking her through the Hall on autopilot like she's lived there all her life…which, up until fairly recently, she has. She slides Tiye a surreptitious and slightly sour look. This candidate does not want to touch anything.

Senira shuffles in with the other candidates, her shoulders tense and blue eyes wide as she glances quickly around the workshop. She seems nervous. Which might account for her slippered feet taking careful steps this once. Hands are clenched into tight fists at her side, so no worries about her touching anything, either. She's too busy trying to keep her fingertips — already poked mercilessly with needles after a sevenday of attempted robe-mending — safe from all of these scary weaver tools.

Beyrl slides off the ride, and makes a landing slightly more graceful then the last excursion, managing to actually land on two feet, a stumble, and recovery. He straightens up, assuring himself no one noticed (or at least no one cares). He glances carefreely over the tables, with their weavers, and their wares, and all things being woven. A small smile, hidden meaning, creases his face, and on toward a table familiar and welcoming he heads, though stays concious of Candidates proximity, and wanders not far from the group.

"Yes, I'm aware of that," Brebain bites at Tiye, and then gestures as his words were in the nick of time to save a journeyman's work from grubby hands and at how they're trying to wander and "I swear, they're at least as bad as apprentices," he's muttering under his breath, shoving his hands through his now-formerly-well-ordered hair before jerking at his waistcoat to restore a semblance of order within himself. He did actually talk to the Masters still posted here; he does actually have a plan. It involves really poor-quality apprentice-level practice on… things. "I take it," he continues, raising his voice to address the group of hapless fools — er, that is, candidates — "that most of you would prefer to avoid more sewing, for now. Correct?"

Hands crammed further into her pockets, Lucy hunches her shoulders non-committally and slips in behind a taller candidate.

"I'm really bad at it!" Alister volunteers with a raised hand and the kind of self-possessed cheer usually paired with bragging about how good one is at a given task. "Got my seams to stop curving, finally, but sewed my robe to my sleep pants couple nights ago." Alister is, like, best friends with the tiny knife he uses for seam-ripping. Best. He's still grinning when he glances over at Tiye, scrunches his nose up at Lucy, and directs the majority of the attention to himself, for the sake of shuffly Senira and wander-footed Beryl. "So, I mean, less that I don't want to do more sewing, more that you don't want me doing more sewing." It might cause an apoplexy.

If only Tiye hadn't already betrayed Lucy, because she's kind of ridiculously tall and would've been a good person to hide behind. Even Ingan hid behind her at an excursion — might've been Healer, so he didn't get poked, though it's not as if he would ever admit it. Brebain gets no comments, but an impressed look from the greenrider and eventually a soft "Sorry, sir," because he has a terribly good point. And Alister is hilarious. She lets out a sigh and shakes her head, but she's smiling, so that's clearly not true disdain at the guard-candidate's sewing incompetence. Unless it's just his scene-stealing in order to cover for everyone else.

Beyrl grins like a kid during turnday, glancing here and there, picking out threads in mind, needles and forms and.. Giving eyes to the leader, of the pack of the Candidate creatures, he speaks in opposition to the one who talked before. "IF allowed, shall I obtain a joyous outing with needle and with thread. To stitch and weave stories, into tapestries well spread." Hopeful for the answer affirmative he looks on with attentive gaze.

Lucy returns Alister's nose scrunch with a sulky version of her own, awfully unappreciative of his possible diversion-creating, before moving on to use another candidate as a screen…it really is a pity that Tiye cannot be trusted.

Senira nods vigorously at the Master Weaver's words. Yes. No more sewing. Ever. "I'm really bad at it, too," is noted with none of Alister's good cheer. Expression becomes one of confusion as she tries to follow Beyrl's words. "Well, you could weave tapestries as well as stories, Beyrl. You're good at it." He even took pity on her and finished hemming her robe. Senira could pay it forward by being a human shield for Lucy. She's both discreet and tall.

"… Right." Brebain goes from staring at Beyrl to blinking at him, a few times, and then glancing at everyone else who came with the kid because does he always talk like this? (Nobody warned Brebain that it never shuts off.) He resists the urge to ask if he's actually any good at sewing, figuring that if he is it'll come up sooner or later. (It'll come out in the wash?) "Those of you who are feeling brave are welcome to take a lesson in how to sew basic seams; the rest of you get to learn about different weaves, seeing as how looms don't generally require the use of needles." And it's really difficult to screw up plain-weave fabric. "So if you're going to try sewing, Journeyman Marlin, here, is going to be teaching you most of that," not that he'd actually given that journeyman much notice of that, but at least the poor man knew he was going to be teaching something… as of half an hour ago, "and if you're going to learn about weaving, and eventually about dyeing, because everyone dyes in the end, line up over here in front of me."

"Shouldn't the dyeing come before the weaving?" Alister asks, pointing (touching, ugh, Alister, stop touching) the multi-hued example left on the loom. "Otherwise it doesn't do — this." Is he rubbing it between his fingers? He totally is. Is that a loose thread? Is he inquiringly pulling on the loose thre— oh, he is. Damn it, Ailster. He at least has the dignity to looks somewhat cheerfully abashed as it partly unravels, and steps away quickly. No-one … saw that. Right? Right. (Menace.)

Lucy's screen steps forward to volunteer for the sewing lesson, leaving Lucy temporarily exposed before she slides over next to Senira and whispers hopefully, "Are you going to do the weaves?" She casts an exasperated gaze skyward at Brebain's failed joke because she speaks Weaver humor even if she doesn't appreciate it.

"I'll — supervise," Tiye tries, hoping that Brebain doesn't try to actually make her participate in anything. She's a dragonrider who is also wearing a senior apprentice knot, and it's for a different craft! Plus she's doing dragonhealer studies on top of all that, even though it might be considered a logical progression for some Healers who Impress — either way, Tiye is hoping she can get away with not being put to work and just hanging out and watching candidates do things. Considering she's already annoyed Brebain … maybe not.

Beyrl takes the answer, short as it is, as permission to commence. And thus, after chosing fabric to sew, he takes fabric chalk in hand, and traces out firelizard silhouette. With free hand, his fingers play with thread in muted and vibrant color. Shall he chose something bright and grand? Or shall it be of background form?

"I'm going to do anything that isn't sewing," Senira whispers back clumsily to Lucy—which is to say that she hardly whispers at all. "Dyeing sounds much safer for the fingers." She wiggles her own bandaged ones to emphasize the point. Blue eyes widen as she watches Alister… …be Alister, and she adds almost quietly: "Also I don't want that to happen." Weaving seems far beyond her abilities. Dyeing seems to her like it would be similar to doing the laundry. And that she can do. Sort of. Well, with only a few mishaps, anyway.

Like herding catbeasts, or the really young apprentices, Brebain manages to scoot everyone over toward the Loom Room, where strange-looking wooden creatures congregate and festoon themselves with thread. Thread everywhere. The lesson itself is pretty basic — a loom's parts, where not to stick your hands if you want to keep your fingers, the difference between warp and weft (utterly failing to explain why those particular words are used)… the usual, really, for a first-timer's lesson in weaving. And then everyone gets settled in at a small loom, pre-strung with plain white cotton, and spindles of more of the same plain white cotton — enough so that someone who is a really quick learner would probably have a few yards by the time they switch to the dyeing. Brebain has only shown them plain weaving; on the other hand, most of the looms have enough switches and doohickeys that it would be really easy to end up with a much fancier stitch, whether or not someone was doing that on purpose…

Lucy dimples at Senira's reply and sort of steers towards the group forming around Brebain. "Dying's definitely fun. But it's also hard to hurt yourself with the loom, unless you're working with the jacquard ones, and I very much doubt he's going to let us near one of those." She snorts softly as Senira references Alister's antics. "Someone'll come howling after him when they see that unravelled bit," she predicts and then, once settled with that plain cotton and simple loom, sets right to the task. Plain weave, it seems, is not entirely beyond her.

Accidentally end up with a fancier stitch, you say? If by fancier stitch you were to mean mild and inexplicably baffling tragedy, then sure. Alister is the king of accidental fancy stitch, yo. He's even ostensibly proud of it, because he does manage to produce some length of fabric after a few false starts and some ridiculous in the middle. "Hey, supervisor!" He's grinning; he doesn't add a rank or anything, so it's probably not beleaguered Master Brebain whose attention he's calling for, "Look at this." Maybe one of his sisters will take pity on him and turn his trash party into clothes for a doll, or something.

Beyrl has strayed from the flock (by ironically not moving. Perhaps the flock strayed from him?) Engrossed is he in weave and stitch that the party left caught not his attention. When absence goes noticed, a good start he'll have on a firelizard image.

Plain weave, unfortunately, seems to be joining sewing on the list of things that are beyond Senira's abilities. Brebain's instructions fly right over Senira's head, so she tries to carefully follow Lucy's example. She manages to get a few workable lengths of woven cotton done after a reasonable amount of time, but she pauses to look over Lucy's work admiringly. "You're good at this," is noted simply, but probably not as quietly as Lucy would like.

Lucky for Lucy, it's the same thing one of the other apprentices is saying to Beyrl, at the exact same time, over on the other side of the giant workspace. And it is, at least, a really giant workspace; even just in the immediate area, the looms themselves aren't exactly quiet, when they're working. Brebain, meanwhile, is swooping around behind them, and happens to be over by Alister, where he's staring in horror and dismay at the catastrophe currently on the ex-guard's loom. He's also incredibly grateful that it isn't his loom, so if the kid breaks it, the Weyr is responsible, not Brebain. All good things must come to an end, however, and eventually he ends up looking at Lucy's fabric, and then looking at the side of Lucy's head, and the fabric, and her face, and — "Don't I actually know you from here, before being at the Weyr?" is asked quietly, as a shriek of pained dismay is heard back near the entrance, where Alister had destroyed so much of someone's work.

Alister manages, through sheer force of will and stubbornness, to unweave like half an inch of progress by shoving everything backward through it's paces; sorry, Weavercraft, the Weyr will probably pay for that. Then he narrows his eyes and picks his way slowly back to semi-respectability with his next few passes: the pattern's god, there, solid and workmanlike, if the cloth produced is a bit oddly pinched together. He looks up again for someone to proudly display his work to, then immediately ducks his head when he realizes what's transpiring over by the weaving his curiosity got the better of him by. The tips of his ears are red and the tip of his tongue is caught between his teeth, but that's only because he's concentrating, totally. Totally. There's kind of a lumpy snarl on one side of the last bit of his work that he blithely continues on over.

Beyrl startles out of his sewing, glancing up at the commotion, and realizing the others have gone. Quickly scooping up what he may (and with what permission he recieves), he hurries over to the current group, and takes a seat, glancing quickly around to ascertain what people are doing what.

"Right — right, yes, of course," Brebain answers, and at least he isn't speaking at the top of his lungs, right? It's not as if everyone in the whole room can hear him talking to her — just the people who are actually, you know, close. He looks at her for a moment, thoughtfully, and he's the only one who actually knows if he's thinking 'so YOU'RE the terrible disappointment they talked about!' or… not. It's also probably fairly telling that Brebain never looked up or over at that shriek of dismay, and probably what it tells is the story of how shrieks of dismay occur on a daily basis, here, and most of the masters have learned the fine differences between shrieks of dismay and shrieks of pain or panic, and calmly ignore the ones that aren't resulting in or from injury.

Brebain lets them keep weaving — or, in a few cases, drawing on fabric, apparently, what are you doing Beyrl that wasn't supposed to be the way the sewing lesson works and now you have imitators — for about half an hour, all told, before setting a flock of apprentices on them to practice cutting fabric out of the looms (and, in one notable case, to disentangle a candidate from a loom, and chances are those fingers aren't even broken more than a little bit), and then … the dye. Brebain gathers everyone who's interested (including a couple of people who are tired of sewing by now) and the fabric they've woven, and takes them off to the giant and endless vats of dye, arranged in a rainbow of exciting colors (with color-swatch fabrics pinned to the front of each giant vat), strange smells in the air, and a surprising amount of warmth. "So," the Master Weaver tells them, crossing his arms. "This is the dye room. You absolutely will not put any fabric that has dye currently on it in a vat that has another dye in it, even if you think you can be really careful and just dye the other end. If you mix dyes, you get a failing grade on this excursion." Brebain has absolutely no idea how he's going to make that work, but if it ends up necessary, he will find a way. "If you want to learn what batik is, come over here; otherwise, the rinsing sinks are on the far wall. Go experiment. But don't mix dyes."

"Is that, um — " Tiye's scarf is batiked, and so she holds it up silently in Brebain's direction, hoping he's looking. Maybe someone else will be able to answer her, too — she hasn't been traitorous enough to turn around and try to get an answer from Lucy. "If that is what I'm wearing I might even want to learn." She didn't make it to Weaver during her candidacy, it seems.

Alister, at least, thank Faranth for small favors, didn't have to be cut out of his loom. That doesn't mean that the length of fabric he's managed to produce is anything short of a travesty, full of weird trailing threads and uneven lengths, carried along by its indecisive creator. He has to do a thorough inspection of the dye vats, and the color swatches carefully pinned up as examples; he is so engrossed in this that he doesn't notice when a trailing cotton thread escapes his grasp and catches on the edge of a vat to start wicking up color, the spittle-spattle it against his (dark) pants as he moves on to the next; something similar happens there, with the end of the length of woven fabric escaping to plonk itself into the vat, trailing thread included. Then he's on to the next, making careful study of the colors while keeping an incautious hold on his shifting bundle of newly-created fabric. It isn't until the third or fourth vat that his re-adjusting to keep the fabric from falling encounters something wet, and he brings his hand up, frowns at it, and said, "…oh," in a small voice while deliberately not looking back from whence he came.

Lucy is probably predisposed to think that Brebain is thinking what he's thinking, and just sort of hunches miserably over her loom until the man shifts his attention elsewhere. "Yeah, that's batik," she tells the greenrider listlessly, then offers a flickeringly apologetic smile for her terseness before removing her cloth from the loom and taking it where indicated. She's dyeing here. "You've got red on you," she murmurs to Alister when they cross paths.

Brebain is giving the lesson on batiking, which involves the application of hot wax and a great deal of censure at the two candidates who try to paint it on each other. And they aren't, actually, his vats of dye. (His are at the Weyr, in a room that remains locked, in vats that are tightly covered and not kept heated throughout the day.) What this means is that it's someone else who spots what Alister is doing, having seen a weirdly purple-brown tinge in what was supposed to be celadon, and — and — well, the shriek of rage does, actually, get Brebain's attention, leading the Master Weaver to look up just in time to see the journeyman in charge of the vats bull-rush Alister and tackle him into the largest vat of dark red, and then stand there, staring at him, breathing heavily. There's red dye everywhere, so… yeah. Alister has got red on him. So does anyone who was standing within about ten feet, and the vats on either side, and the journeyman's pants. "My sister owes me so much for this," Brebain murmurs quietly, and pinches at the bridge of his nose.

Brebain's sister, for the record, is a Healer, and had nothing to do with any of this. She has absolutely nothing to do with anyone present except Tiye.

Alister, the unfortunate dye-mixer, is also the unwitting dye-mixer, so when he looks back to see the trail of unfortunate ruination that his incautious fabric-minding hath wrought, he's looking the wrong direction of incoming, bull-rushing journeymen. He might have evaded the vat, if he hadn't been. As it is, training can only do so much, and what much it does here is have him dropping his fabric project and grabbing onto the body that just impacted his, so when he goes down in a sea of red, well, so does the incensed journeyman. There is some sort of spastic, drenched grappling on the ground, in the puddle of dye, while Alister splutters, indignant and the journeyman splutters, enraged, but all it really serves to do is increase the splash radius and decrease the chance that this gets quietly swept under the rug without comment. At least his fabric swatch of tragedy is getting a good soaking.

Beyrl gets drenched in a sea of red. Over clothes (he's glad they're not his good ones), over shoes, over his little sewing project. Letting out a light sigh he peers at the ruined fabric, firelizard form covered away.

Lucy just stands there by the vat, looking very much like Carrie except not in a prom dress, with her neatly woven plain white (well, not now) cloth scrunched in her hands. Hey, at least no one is paying her a bit of mind now!

"Thanks," Tiye tells Lucy with a friendly little grin, apparently unaware of the fact that she had previously been branded not to be trusted. She doesn't seem to mind terseness, and in fact appreciates the batiking — that is, until her cloth shoes are covered in red dye. Which is the understatement of the problem; the sudden assault caused her to let out a completely embarrassing in retrospect shriek. "OKAY," she yells, "You, don't touch my candidate, yes, he screwed up, we owe you a lot of money and assault — " it was battery, and she even realizes that a moment later, but Alister's normally the one she would ask! "— is not the answer." Once she gets the snapping out, though, the recalcitrant journeyman is Brebain's problem. Alister is technically hers. She gives him a somewhat disdainful look as well, and says flatly, "You're making it worse."

Senira is just lucky that she'd left the area in time to not be soaked in red, really — Brebain, meanwhile, is just about done. He just can't. He's up and had it. Nobody gets to dye things ever again. They will all be wearing plain white forever, which in turn means they'll be Candidates forever, and — oh, whatever. He puts two (thankfully dye-free, because he knows what's in that red dye, unlike everyone else) fingers in his mouth, lets out a piercing whistle, and the irate journeyman freezes; trooping footsteps announce the arrival of the other masters present in the workroom, all of whom are staring disdainfully and angrily at, well, everyone who is red. The rest of the excursion suddenly takes a turn towards a lesson in dye removal, and how it's really hard, and in retrospect the nice splattery stone pattern of the floor in the dye room area isn't even remotely on purpose, is it? The three candidates who were far enough away from the stain radius do, eventually, get to actually dye their poor mumble pieces; there's even enough time for a few people to try over-dyeing, in the case of those who hadn't actually wanted a red cotton rag, whether or not orange or purple is better. And hopefully, well… hopefully, none of the candidates will still have wet dye on them when they go to sit on dragon necks. (Alister.)


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