killing time

One of the few things he thought he was alright at, he became an embarrassment there too. He only hopes he didn't somehow also lose his green thumb if he were to find a place to try farming too.

A heavy sigh draws out of the wolf as he stays behind after the dinner hour to clean up after the dining hall and kitchen both all on his own, his own attempt to atone for the mixed reviews the kitchen staff had to receive on his behalf. As he's wiping stains from benches and tables, his thoughts are interrupted by the sense there's someone else coming.

He raises his head to see a dark-haired man with stubble enter.

“Oh, you weren't at dinner, were you?”  Joachim realizes, unable to recognize him from the crowd of faces that had been there earlier.  “If you're looking for a meal, I can offer you what we have, but it won't be what was on the menu. Is that alright?”

Better to make that clear now, learning from his mistake earlier.

Regardless, he finds that as he enters that he's not alone.  Some one else is present - a newer student he's unfamiliar with is cleaning up.

Zelkov's head tilts, as he regards the other curiously.  They're called laguz, if he recalls correctly.  He's very unfamiliar, but perhaps he should take this as an opportunity to learn.

because he doesn't look the part, thinks bernadetta, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he is two or three heads taller than her. most people, regrettably, are taller than her.

most people also don't hack up plants. even more people than that wouldn't be staring at the samples like a kid in a candy shop.

because samples—they could be, to her, if she were shameless and discreet enough. she could have wriggled over, belly to the ground with twigs in her hair, shot her arm out from the shrubs and grabbed a fallen fistful of ficus.

but she can't, even if she just tries not to think about why it happens—because she knows why it happens. she knows that it hurts. she isn't trying to save the world; she isn't selfless or even all that kind, but this time she doesn't look the other way even if talking to strangers is still one of her worst fears.

"eek!" a jump. he's coughing again. "ooh, is that purple-loosestrife?—ack! wait! i-i mean, you don't look so good! is there anything i can get you? um, preferably no sharp objects. i'm not allowed to run around with sharp objects anymore. i think i'm talking too much again. i'm sorry."

Discarded petals turn into full blooms of all kinds.  Zelkov can identify few.  He has a passing familiarity with plants, but more-so leaves and roots than flowers.  He attempts to excise himself from the normal monastery goings.  If this cough is as contagious as a normal cough, he certainly wouldn't want another to catch it.

It hurts.  One might think the softness of the petals would soothe an irritated throat, but the reality is much different.  Not only does the leaf of a ficus scratch coming up, it's so large that Zelkov needs two fingers to pull it the whole way out of his mouth, just to discard it on the ground.  He's accumulated quite the collection of plants at his feet now, and he feels exhausted from the coughing.

Zelkov has always been a hearty sort.  He doesn't get sick.  He's unused to it.

As he's attempting to recover, trying to catalogue everything that just erupted from his mouth, there's a small voice speaking to him.  Zelkov regards her with slight confusion.  She asks if he's well and he certainly isn't, yet he has a better response for her than simply the average words of some one ill.

A popular pastime in Garreg Mach is sharing tea and sweets with someone you wish to get closer to. Tables set up a short walk away from the student dormitories, semi-hidden away in picturesque little scenes, it's easy to while away the time with a bit of conversation on the side. However, beware. Just as it's easy to bond with someone, it's just as easy to make things awkward... 

A group of students organize a little blind meet-and-greet, ushering all participants to assigned tables, preparing all the drink and food you might require. The stage is set, so get talking! Send a numbered prompt from the list below to have your muse initiate a conversation with someone. For an extra bit of fun to simulate the game, randomize three numbers to send and bold the one your muse actually chooses. 

A new gambit...‎ ‎ 

A place you'd like to visit...‎ ‎ 

A strong battalion...‎ ‎ 

A word of advice...‎ ‎ 

Children at the market...‎ ‎ 

Close calls...‎ ‎ 

Cooking mishaps...‎ ‎ 

Equipment upkeep...‎ ‎ 

Evaluating allies...‎ ‎ 

Exploring the monastery...‎ ‎ 

Fódlan's future...‎ ‎ 

I'm counting on you...‎ ‎ 

Mighty weapons...‎ ‎ 

Monastery rules...‎ ‎ 

Monastery security...‎ ‎ 

Our first meeting...‎ ‎ 

Overcoming weaknesses...‎ ‎ 

Past laughs...‎ ‎ 

Potential training partners...‎ ‎ 

Reliable allies...‎ ‎ 

School days...‎ ‎ 

Someone you look up to...‎ ‎ 

Sturdy weapons...‎ ‎ 

Tell me about yourself...‎ ‎ 

Thanks for everything...‎ ‎ 

The ideal professor...‎ ‎ 

The last battle...‎ ‎ 

The library's collection...‎ ‎ 

The view from the bridge...‎ ‎ 

Things that bother you...‎ ‎ 

Working hours for guards...‎ ‎ 

Working together...‎ ‎ 

You seem well...‎ ‎ 

You're doing great work...‎ ‎ 

Your ambitions...‎ ‎ 

A dinner invitation...‎ ‎ 

Capable comrades...‎ ‎ 

Favorite sweets...‎ ‎ 

Food in the dining hall...‎ ‎ 

Garden mishaps...‎ ‎ 

Gifts you'd like to receive...‎ ‎ 

Shareable snacks...‎ ‎ 

Perfect recipes...‎ ‎ 

The ideal relationship...‎ ‎ 

Strange fish in the pond...‎ ‎ 

The existence of crests...‎ ‎ 

Cats...‎ ‎ 

Classes you might enjoy...‎ ‎ 

Plans for the future...‎ ‎ 

The opera...‎ ‎ 

Books you've read recently...‎ ‎ 

Cute monks...‎ ‎ 

Dining partners...‎ ‎ 

Fashion...‎ ‎ 

First crushes...‎ ‎ 

Guessing someone's age...‎ ‎ 

Heart-racing memories...‎ ‎ 

Hopes for your future...‎ ‎ 

I heard some gossip...‎ ‎ 

Relaxing at the sauna...‎ ‎ 

The courtyard couple...‎ ‎ 

Things you find romantic...‎ ‎ 

You seem different...‎ ‎ 

Dreamy knights...‎ ‎ 

Saber realizes right as he says it that it's not very funny. If there were crickets in this forest there might be the sound of crickets, but instead there's only the whistle of the wind to fill the brief silence. Oh well, can't win all of 'em---the merc shrugs in silent agreement, simply handing the stick back to his coworker as asked.

As they trudge on through the undergrowth, true to Zelkov's words, sticks begin appearing on the ground again. Saber picks up a long, knotted branch, straight and true. "Think this one would make for a better lance than sword?" He casually asks the dark-haired man, smiling crookedly. "That's what my keen eye says, anyhow. Got really good at telling the difference when I was a kid."

“Perhaps that is your experience showing," he says.  “I was never a boy who played knights and bandits with sticks and switches.  Perhaps I am unaware of the criteria by which I should grade them.  Does that stick feel as a lance in the hand?”

Dracula 547/549HP misses Lachesis 1.5/10HP with What Sweet Music They Make [Roll: 1]

Whatever it had done to draw that awful sensation from her before, the curdling bloodlust and the pinpricks of light that dragged her like a dog to its feet, it had tried it again, and it had failed. The thought of it brought Lachesis' jaw to clenching so tightly that she saw only dark for a moment, through the wrenching of the boat beneath their feet and the shearing of lightning across the sky.

Her eyes sought out the others that had been around - the red-haired boy was missing, which meant he had either escaped or hidden. That was good; she could not have, in good conscience, allowed him to be left alone with naught but his lance to protect him against this. If he was out of the way of danger, then she could -

The tip of boxes nearby drew her to whirl, locking eyes only momentarily with the girl who crouched there, covering her head with her massive cloak, and Lachesis felt the beat of her heart in time with the raindrops against her skin at the chilling realization that this child could not defend herself.

And she found herself enraged anew, just as the beast slipped back into her periphery, the draw of its fangs hissing against her throat before she had the opportunity to strike back.

Dracula 547/549HP hits Lachesis 1.5/10HP with Bite [Roll: 19] [1 + 2 + 0.5 = -3.5HP] Lachesis 0/10HP

The whirl of the wind screaming around them felt familiar then, for a moment, the spiraling vacuum of noise and helplessness that had caught them all before, that had dragged them all to their knees but for the lucky handful that managed to cling to one another and sprint away in the cacophony.

As though on instinct, her gaze sought his out, and discovered for a crushing, empty moment as the beating of her heart stilled, that her husband was not here.

That she could not say goodbye, again.

No matter the crisis, Zelkov needs to remain calm.  Even as his heart pounds against his chest, the frenetic emotion Camilla harnessed wasn't enough to surpass the beast's defenses.  This is a battle of attrition.  The captain, for all his stubbornness and determination, will get them to shore so long as he lives.  Within the time from here to there, there are three outcomes.

       1. They kill the beast.

Zelkov is a realist.  Some, like Kagetsu, may call him a pessimist.  They are not going to kill the beast.  That much is clear.

       2. The beast kills them all.

This monster, with all the power it wields, can (and seems hellbent on) sinking the ship.  It does not need to in order to kill them all.  It can use its claws or teeth for that.  In the case that it kills them all - which is likely, as it seems to hate these passengers more than it hates the captain - it may still make it to shore.  Which leaves the final outcome:

       3. They endure.

Not all, but some of them, may yet survive this night.  As horrible as the beast is, and perhaps better for the good of all that this monster were to drown in the drink below the roaring waves, that decision would require a death wish.  And Zelkov -

Zelkov readjusts his grip on his knife.  He holds it tightly, enough to feel it in the joints of his knuckles.

Camilla is still entangled in that fiend.  Lachesis has fallen.  They are not the only passengers.  Zelkov is not the last one left, nor does he ever wish to be the last left again.

Zelkov 7.5/10HP hides (roll: 5, miss)

The captain had already known - in spite of his no nonsense attitude, there must have been a part of him that understood what was happening and what was at stake, taking a firm stance by the wheel in spite of the increasingly slick, sloping deck, attempting as though under control of a higher power to pitch and buck him from his held fast position.

Lachesis had seen the same look that was now in his eyes, she knew the face of a man determined to hold out to the end, certain that there would be an end. She wondered, faintly, if her comrades had seen that same look in her, as they had drawn closer to the courtyard into Belhalla that day.

Her gaze lifted, furious, onto the gnashing shape of the beast as it assailed upon Sylvain - just a boy, a student, not understanding what true horror looked like - and her hand reached for a nearby sword, tightening around the hilt as though it was her own sword, as though it had never left her hands in the previous decades.

Lachesis 10/10HP hits Dracula 547.5/549HP with Iron Sword [Roll: 13] -1, Dracula 546.5/549HP

"Leave him be, brute!" she hissed, lunging forward with all the power her body contained - not nearly as much as her dear brother, nor Lord Sigurd, nor even her dear baby nephew, but it was enough, to bring the fury of Nordion to bear. The tip of the blade sheared through the translucent skin of its wings, rending them imperfect only for the moment it took for the beast to turn its sights to her.

Its face was before her, then upon her, in a faster heartbeat than she could track, and she could only gasp at the sensation of fangs puncturing the skin at her pulse, held still less by the deceptively gentle fingers at the back of her head and more by the eerie sensation of her life being drained from her, cooling first at her fingertips and coiling into a cold pit in her stomach.

Dracula counters with Bite [Roll: 10] [-1.5+0.5 = -2HP] Lachesis 8/10HP Dracula gains +2HP, Dracula 548.5/549HP

The lightning only provides brief glimpses of the horrific creature, but even that is too much to bear. Skin pulled so taut over its skull, it's nose would have been flattened if it existed. Instead it had two slits and thin lips pulled back in a fierce snarl that revealed rows of sharp teeth dripping with fresh blood.

Camilla is frozen at the sight, trying to comprehend what she sees.

Another flash of lightning, another brief glimpse. The creature is at the top of the crow's nest, winged arms spread wide as it lets out a piercing screech.

Camilla winces and covers her ears. She hears the whoosh of air and ducks instinctively. The wind rushes over her as she feels how close the creature came to hitting her. The creature lands and eyes them all. The creature is huge, as big as Barbie at least and it's hunched over with a greedy look in its milky eye.

Sylvain lands a hit on the sickly gray skin. With blinding speed the creature lashes out and slaps Sylvain with a bony hand with claws that seemed at least half as long as one of Camilla's fingers. The claws looked thick as well, and sharp.

Lachesis acts next and strikes the creature again, this strike landing on a wing, large and leathery with a thin membrane like Barbie's. The creature moves as fast as the lightning. In a blink it has Lachesis in its grasp, completely enveloping her in its large wings. Camilla watches in horror as the wing's injury stitches itself back together. The wound that Sylvain landed heals as well, the only evidence of either injury is the stain of inky black blood.

Camilla grabs the closest thing she can and throws it at the creature's head, hitting one of the pointed ears uselessly, and ducks down. The creature releases Lachesis, throwing her to the ground with a high pitched screech. There's a woosh as it takes to the skies again.

Camilla HATES being stuck on the ground. She feels so vulnerable out in the open. She knows what the creature is doing. It's scanning for targets, trying to find who hit it. It's exactly what she would have done. It'll no doubt dive bomb whoever it decides to take its wrath out on.

She can't fight the way she's used to. She wants to put herself forward, to strike hard and fly away, to keep an eye on everyone and provide cover from the skies. She'll have to stick to fighting from the shadows like her partner did. She sticks to areas with coverage as she makes her way towards the captain.

Camilla 10/10HP hides (roll: 6 hit!)

Non-combatants were always only a burden to those with weapons, unless they got out of the way. The rain and thunder along with the rocking of the ship made it hard to see, but some nearby boxes promised shelter, if only for a moment...

Mark 10/10HP hides (roll: 8 hit!)

1. Dracula 548.5/549HP uses What Sweet Music They Make on Lachesis [Roll: 10] 2.  Dracula 548.5/549HP hits and hits Lachesis 8/10HP with Claws, [Roll: 5, 10; (1+1) = -2.5HP]  Lachesis 5.5/10HP Dracula 548.5/549HP gains +1 Str. Lachesis 6/10HP is inflicted with -1 Str.

In the split second of light, the beast's claws glimmer, and cut into her.  Zelkov's waited long enough.

Zelkov 10/10HP critically hits Dracula 548.5/549HP [Roll: 18; double damage from hide -4HP] Dracula 544.5/549HP

He rushes from the shadows himself, raising his knife.  He aims for those leathery wings - a decent slash will see the beast grounded, and perhaps then it will be slowed or easier to fight.

He makes an effective cut, and frees his blade not a moment too soon, but even with the observation he'd carried out, he hadn't anticipated the sheer monstrous ability of this hairless demon.  Muscle sinew in the wound flexes impotently, and a strong grasp anchors Zelkov in place by his arm.

It feels as though Zelkov has no strength at all in comparison to the beast.  He can feel the sharpness of its claws tease at his skin, even through his sleeve, and in the latter half of the second it took for the fiend to pin him, Zelkov is pulled close.

He registers a sharp pain before he is fully aware of the situation - two knives dig into the flesh on his neck, and his veins are filled with the cold of the sea air around him.

Dracula 544.5/549HP counters with Bite [Roll: 18, -2.5 HP] Zelkov 7.5/10HP Dracula gains +2.5 HP, Dracula 547/549HP

And just as quickly, it's gone.  Zelkov's vision swims darkly, as though his eyes had never accustomed to the night.  When he regains sight, he sees that the cut he'd inflicted upon the monster is sealed, leaving nothing but a dark line where Zelkov's knife had just cut through.

Still, he is standing, and with his wits. This beast can so easily end them all, can't it?  Are they mere toys to it?

Would it be better for everyone to sink below, if it means the monster drowns, too?

Philosophy is meaningless in an emergency such as this.  Regardless of what may be better, the adrenaline coursing through the blood of sailor and passenger alike is palpable in the atmosphere.  It keeps skin warm against the cold rain, eyes sharp in the stormy dark.

The captain holds steadfast to his wheel, sealed to his ship as literally as can be.  The crew keeps the boat afloat.  The monster can strike at any time, but he's not the only one accustomed to striking from the shadows.

Zelkov 10/10HP hides (roll: 19 - critical hit!)

There's a large stack of crates tied down securely on one side of the ship. Rats seem to dart in and out of the nooks and crannies, hiding amongst the shadows. "Sad they don't seem to have a cat on board. I'm sure one would have fun chasing and eating all of those rats." She finishes her own project with a sigh.

"It would be a shame to take the canvas away from the artist," she admitted, canting her head and smiling to see the floral pattern that had emerged, cleverly positioned to snake its way, tastefully, to cover old imperfections. If she had not watched him do it, she would not have known that it strengthened worn spots, and for all else when she extended her hand to take it back, she felt that there was more love in the garment than before - not for her, certainly, but it did not need to be. "But I thank you. It is not appropriate, mere thanks, but I've nothing else to give at the moment."

She was not entirely penniless, but he seemed the type not to want her money - this did not absolve the debt, and she simply made a note in her mind to find a way to pay him back properly. A gesture for a gesture.

"I apologize. I was so distracted, I seem to have forgotten to introduce myself. My name is Lachesis, I am…of Nordion. In spite of all scary stories, I hope that we have a pleasant remainder of our trip - if you should find yourselves in need of company, do not hesitate to seek me out. …I suppose we all need the distraction," she added, with another tip of the deck, and the delicate spray of raindrops through the boards overhead.

"I will continue my walk for the moment, though. I find I desperately need the fresh air. Good evening."

“Perhaps I will preoccupy myself with catching rats,” he muses to himself, though if Camilla hears, it would be no mistake.

No matter how eerie the trip may seem, or whispered superstitions that may pass, Zelkov remains steadfast in his only concern being killing time.  His hands find his pockets, and his fingers hook around the hilt of a knife.  He caught rats as a child to train his reflexes, and no one would miss the pests.

Though he hopes the storm will be the worst of their worries on this trip.

One might note, then, the combination of certain factors here, when applied to: Health Class. Class means that there are grades, and one who is smart cannot get bad grades. Healing implies an understanding of good health, and who is to do badly at health in a health class? And cute. Well. One's body is cuteness, right?

In the academy, they didn't have this sort of a thing- or at least, it wasn't something Hortensia took. Grades in health, of all things. Not magic, not sword drills, not strategy. There are numbers associated with things that she has simply written herself off as 'being good at', categories that tell her exactly what she must achieve.

Cuteness has never had a grade until today, and suddenly her whole chest is too tight thinking about it.

It's not like she doesn't know how she looks. She's cute- she's always been cute. She's said so enough times to make it true, hasn't she?

But here she is, tapping her nails against a desk long after some other boring math class has ended. It is empty, and yet- she sneaks glances around the room like anyone and everyone could see right through her frilly sleeves and pastel hair, could write down numbers written in ugly ink across her skin.

"I'm overreacting," she mutters to herself. "It's not like I've even failed anything else. I'll pass it with flying colors, same as I always have."

Her hands go towards her chest, her waist. She really should clear out of here, soon. The next class will start and she doesn't want to be answering any sort of lingering questions anyone might have.

Today, though, a problem has arisen: Zelkov has been assigned to teach a class on health.  He's been given a lesson plan and certain points to emphasize, thankfully, but that does not help him feel even remotely prepared for the lecture.

He's not the sort of man that appreciates this kind of spontaneity, but he will make do.

A second problem rises as Zelkov enters the classroom: Hortensia numbers amongst his students.

The topic of discussion is already bound to be uncomfortable for students, but now one of them must be the princess of his homeland and younger sister to his former employer.  Was some one pulling strings?  This should not be possible, and yet it's the reality they find themselves in.

Zelkov has incomplete knowledge of Hortensia.  He knows her through her sister.  He knows the signs her sister has pointed out - when Hortensia is nervous, when she is hiding something - they are not things that Zelkov has needed to remember, but he has.

The princess looks unsettled, and he can't blame her.

Zelkov strolls into the classroom and, as usual, stands before the desk, leaning against it almost casually.  He does not know how to tailor himself to become a professor, but so far his current approach has seemed well-accepted enough amongst the students, so he hasn't seen a need to change it.

“I believe if everyone is seated… we may begin Health Class.  The subject of the integrity of one's body…  It is quite a vast subject, so let us get started…”

His eyes close for a moment.  This will be a long class for him, too, he expects.  He moves to the chalkboard and begins drawing a neutral-looking human being standing straight.

She nods alongside Zelkov's description of the captain. "I tried speaking to the first mate and all he had to tell me was he was too busy to speak. He seems much the same as the captain though, no time for superstitious nonsense."

Camilla unwraps her own project, setting back to work. Black stars of various sizes make a pretty line along the sleeve, hiding the tear.

"Though some of the tales the crew weave are fascinating. They tell a good ghost story."

While it was of the highest calibre of man to keep his head rational during instances where he had many under his charge, Lachesis had seen too many ill-fated omens to ignore superstition. The tales that had been whispered about the port while they awaited dock-and-boarding had been filtered through so many different voices as to seem like dozens of individual rumors, but if one took the time to look closely, they would notice they were all bound by a similar thread. 

She was glad of it that the captain and his mate dismissed superstition, while at the helm. But equally glad to hear that the crew were keeping their ears open. 

"I suppose when one is at sea for so long, moving port to port, an exchange of stories is the natural expectation." 

Perhaps one such story could make sense of her unease upon this ship – the longer she sat here in the dark, the more discomfited she got. She had gone to the deck for a reason. 

Lachesis uncrossed and recrossed her legs, shifting to mask her disquiet. 

"What I'd heard at our last port of call was such a mish-mash of detail that it's a wonder the crew can cobble together something to make sense of it." 

The darkness never bothered him.  The storm is merely a storm.  Rats will leave the humans alone unless they are cornered.  The known quantities are too familiar to perturb him, and so it seems he counts himself among the likes of the captain and first mate.

“I am certain it causes the work to move faster, or it makes for interesting conversations over mealtime.”

He pulls another stitch and ties it off, then cuts the thread with his teeth.  He holds the garment in front of him, appraising his work with what looks like a disinterested gaze.  That same gaze shifts to the blond lady.

But a retainer knows his company, and he saw the loyalty Panette held for her liege, so he trusted the trust Princess Timerra put into her.  He simply did not expect the redhead to have evaluated him half as much.

And find him level-headed?  Zelkov wonders.  Has he changed so much?  He would hope so; he wants to be far away from the brutish murderer he was once proud to call himself.  This desire makes her quest an easy one to join.

That is how the two find themselves standing before a grandiose estate.  It belongs to some one who has locked a woman up, presumably against her will, in order to flaunt her qualities about as though they were any more impressive being owned than on their own.

He is all too happy to show off his prize to any interested party, especially when the name Garreg Mach is used to their advantage, so the two of them have been invited, and are waiting to be let in.

“Once we find where she is kept, this will be an easy task,” Zelkov assures Panette beside him.  “We will not even have to… you might say… throw hands.”

The lightning illuminated the ships rigging, a massive spider web of ropes connecting long, bony fingers that reached towards the sky to claw at the heavens. No land was seen anywhere on the horizon, they had to have been halfway through their voyage by now. With how rough the waves were beginning to get, Camilla could only hope the gods had mercy on them. The wood of the ship began to creep ominously. Each gust of wind is like the mournful cry of a banshee.

She would love to sit back and just watch the two talk, occasionally chiming in with something to keep them going, but the wind picks up and the lightning flashes again. What once was a sheathed weapon has become unsheathed.

"Perhaps we should move our little party below the deck." She suggests. "I'm not too eager to get rained on." Calmly, she set her supplies on her project and grabbed the edges together to make a quick sack and made her way below deck, just as the heavens broke open.

"Dreadful," she remarked, shifting her weight in her seat, simultaneously relieved and dismissive of the break in the clouds overhead - it merely meant no rain, but it did not mean that the rest of the journey would be a smooth one. "I am unused to sea travel, and I still yet cannot find a thing to recommend it."

It was a glib admission, and an oversimplification, as befitting small talk with strangers, but there was a vulnerability there that she had not yet identified, for there was something unsettling on this ship that she had not yet identified.

"At least the crew have their wits about them," she continued, still watching the man's hands with idle interest as he tugged the string taut on another petal, smoothing the frayed wear on the wool. Her eyes softened for a brief instant, then; "Their sense of propriety is rather better than many riders in caravan, I can attest to that for certain. Rather dour, but I'd rather the quiet of a man who understands what is expected of him, than the jollity of one leading us to ruin.

"So to speak," she added, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Have either of you had the opportunity to speak with the captain?"

“I have noticed that those who work upon ships take with them a sense of camaraderie and pride with which many laborers lack.  For good reason - if they do not love the ship that ferries them, she will bury them under the waves.  A broken axle wheel is hardly so catastrophic.”

He pauses his work to follow the women below deck, taking a quick moment to flip the hood on his jacket up.  Being rained on will be bad, but any drops of rainwater that slips through the cracks of the boards will be most distracting.

Under the relative sanctity of the deck's ceiling, Zelkov finds a new perch on some tied-down crates and returns his hand to his work.  He doesn't look up as he answers the woman's question.

She turns her attention to the blonde woman. "Unfortunately you'll have to wait for Zelkov to finish his project. He did find it laying about after all. You're welcome to join us and chat a bit to kill time though." She smiles warmly. "I'm Camilla, one of the counselors at Garreg Mach."

"No, it's - " she said, extending her other hand to halt his offer to destroy the stitching. A breath in, sharp, then a shake of her head. "It's all right."

The wool itself had been in rather bad condition, taken with her from the journey across Aed and into Fodlan, and although its inherent quality had allowed it a certain hardiness through time and the elements, the fact remained that it had seen better days, and the work he was doing was improving it.

Tentatively, she seated herself nearby, watching the man's hands work the stitches, and Lachesis cocked her head. "You're rather good at this. I've never seen such clean stitches."

She did not add that she had little occasion to.

"What are you intending it to be, in the end?"

He doesn't take her compliment as it's intended.  He does not say thank you.  To him, this is partially a trade - his humbleness for the opportunity to keep his hands busy.