FirebreathFishslap (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
firebreathfishslap) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
museboxofmuses2019-01-09 09:26 pm
firebreathfishslap) wrote in museboxofmuses2019-01-09 09:26 pm
Let the crafting rotation wars begin.
This is stupid, Jingles thought.
It was stupid, because despite everything she did being the apparent acts of a glory-hogging hero wannabe, what with the regular throwing herself into danger, god-slaying, and general acts of blood-smeared, sweaty-faced heroism, she really wasn't a fan of throwing her name out there. Maybe it was her upbringing. All eyes on her where she came from usually meant that she was either doing something wrong, or that she had become someone's entertainment.
So the idea of advertising herself as a brand was... new and uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable. But if she was going to make any kind of gil at this convention of crafters, she'd need to attract something resembling a customer.
So she'd put up a stand, and she'd set up her wares for sale, and had even dressed herself in her best looking crafter's gear, not the alumen stained jerkins she usually wore while she did her work. She'd even put up a sign like all of the other crafters, announcing herself and her specialization: "Jingles Ischa - Leatherworker". She could get away with using her nickname on it -- it was what she was registered under with the Leatherworker's Guild, like she did at most places. If it weren't for the fact that her residency papers back in Ul'dah had her birth name, there would be no proof that the woman known as "R'nophlo" even existed at this point.
She stood stock still, hoping to attract some interest to her stand. Stationed all around her were the likely reasons why few people had stopped: all around her were very sturdily made, functional, and ugly leather tunics, gloves, and boots. It was more than obvious that armor had been made not for appearance, but for functionality, especially in comparison to the other wares on display at nearby stands.
It was stupid, because despite everything she did being the apparent acts of a glory-hogging hero wannabe, what with the regular throwing herself into danger, god-slaying, and general acts of blood-smeared, sweaty-faced heroism, she really wasn't a fan of throwing her name out there. Maybe it was her upbringing. All eyes on her where she came from usually meant that she was either doing something wrong, or that she had become someone's entertainment.
So the idea of advertising herself as a brand was... new and uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable. But if she was going to make any kind of gil at this convention of crafters, she'd need to attract something resembling a customer.
So she'd put up a stand, and she'd set up her wares for sale, and had even dressed herself in her best looking crafter's gear, not the alumen stained jerkins she usually wore while she did her work. She'd even put up a sign like all of the other crafters, announcing herself and her specialization: "Jingles Ischa - Leatherworker". She could get away with using her nickname on it -- it was what she was registered under with the Leatherworker's Guild, like she did at most places. If it weren't for the fact that her residency papers back in Ul'dah had her birth name, there would be no proof that the woman known as "R'nophlo" even existed at this point.
She stood stock still, hoping to attract some interest to her stand. Stationed all around her were the likely reasons why few people had stopped: all around her were very sturdily made, functional, and ugly leather tunics, gloves, and boots. It was more than obvious that armor had been made not for appearance, but for functionality, especially in comparison to the other wares on display at nearby stands.
no subject
Oh, no, he told a lie. He knew exactly why he was here. Bluebird, dragging him out of bed at five in the morning, yelling at him to help her finish off her accessories for a 'crafting convention' before kidnapping him as an indentured servant to shift all of her wares to said convention. He had obeyed out of bewildered, groggy confusion, helplessly swept up by Bluebird's manic energy, until he found himself here, in Mih Khetto's Amphitheatre surrounded by various stalls touting a hopeful crafter's wares.
He was still in his pyjamas, for fuck's sake! Thankfully he managed to wrench on a pair of boots as he was being kidnapped by his sister, but the thick, steel-capped boots clashed horrifically with his cutesy, Chocobo patterned pyjamas. He was definitely getting odd looks, and he squirmed uncomfortably from the attention, wishing he could spend the rest of the day hiding under Bluebird's stall until it was all over.
But no, Bluebird ordered him to scope out the competition, or something, so he shuffled off with his hands in his pockets, making a beeline for quietest part of the convention, still trying to blink sleep out of his eyes. He was still so sleepy, and tired, and he burned his fingers when he fumbled the crafting of a bracelet, so they ached painfully, no matter how much he pushed them into his pyjamas' pockets, and...
His gaze listlessly trailed over the stall closest to him, noting the stiff, awkward looking woman manning it. Instead of fashionable 'chic' leather, her stall held sturdily made, solid armour. That, if anything, drew his interest, so he drifted closer with a clear slouch to his shoulders, one ear cocked curiously.
"Hey," he greeted the stall owner absently, "This stuff yours?"
no subject
She didn't see other Miqo'te in Coerthas very often. Much less male Miqo'te, with their tendency toward drifting around. And that was enough to give a shock to her whole system, even with the knowledge that this was a crafters' convention and that people would come from all over the realm for it. Her gaze drifted first to his eyes, and then, to his mouth, and then, back to his face. And then she took a breath and let her breathing slow, letting her training take over for a moment.
"It is," she said, and motioned stiffly to a peisteskin jerkin on a mannequin. "I specialize in practical armor for the practical adventurer. Harnesses will show off your skin on the bloodsands, but they won't do anything against the claw of a hapalit. Armor makes you stand out, but if you need to move on the quickSHHHH--"
She snapped her mouth closed, silently cursing herself. She'd bit her tongue and only barely stopped herself from cursing up a storm. This was why she usually left this kind of thing to Haldlona! She knew how to do the talky bits of this job. After a second, Jingles sighed, her shoulders slouching.
"...Like I said. It'll keep you safe, let you move well. Doesn't waste time with the pretty shite," she said, seeming deflated.
no subject
"Right. I see," he said after a pause, unsure if it'd be rude to point out the tongue bite there. He should ask if she was okay, right? Or would that embarrass her more? Reluctantly, he let it slide, giving her a concerned look before turning his attention to the surrounding armour. It certainly was practical, solid... plain. Bluebird would hate this shit.
"You really haven't tried to make it fashionable at all," he said idly, reaching out with his burned fingers to curiously prod at a boiled leather breastplate. Firm to the touch, "No patterns or anything? That won't compromise the integrity of the leather, you know."
no subject
As Aza turned to look at the breastplate, Jingles pulled her flask from her belt, uncorked it, and chugged a mouthful of ale. She quickly shoved it back onto her belt-strap as he addressed her again.
"It's a reference piece. Structure over design. Soldiers and mercenaries, they usually have their armor designed around their faction's aesthetic, and that can be worked in with the commission," she explained. "But that means nothing if you can't trust that it'll keep you safe. That's why I keep it plain."
...He probably saw her take that swig, thinking about it. At this point, she didn't really care. The tension of this whole convention was clearly driving her to drink.
"You can try it on, see what I mean," she added, gesturing to it.