Frost 2, 119
Up, down, a twirl to the left, dot here, cross that... all while impressing upon the careful script nothing but intention of education and edification. The book in his left hand was held, habitually, for reference, but Foma had stopped needing it some time ago. The Circles of Minding were one of if not the most repetitive aspect of artifice; as he'd soon discovered, the entire craft itself was little more than endless repetition with minor tweaks here and there to better serve whatever purpose the artificer had need to achieve.
It was a magic of process, of preciseness, and of patience: three things he understood well, and therefore, found almost comforting in a realm he'd long since expected to be utterly foreign to him. That comfort did not, however, serve to alleviate the tedium. It merely flavored it, like having one's wrists sliced open by a particularly beautiful knife or hung from the top of the tallest and most extravagant building.
But he couldn't allow his mind to wander, so instead of fantasizing new and unlikely ways to be so succulently slain, Foma forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He'd done it hundreds of times now, perhaps even more than that, with hundreds more of hours after hours of practice and calm, cold correction delivered by the small, sharp tongue of his young supervisor. The only difference was this time there was an actual core in the other circle and not an exasperated little girl reiterating that "The concept of movement comes before movement itself. I don't know how many times I have to tell you before you get it through that thick, useless slab of meat you wear for a head, Kos."
Almost finished with the second circle, Foma carefully dipped his pen to fill the fountain for the last time. There was no rush in his movements, because a mistake made in haste would have the entire thing ruined. To move slowly but surely was far faster and far more efficient than risking mistake in exchange for a mere hour or two difference. Though the temptation did constantly linger, whispering that everything would just be that much easier if he didn't put quite so much effort into making certain everything was oh-so-carefully handled.
Fortunately, his complete and utter lack of desire to listen to yet another of Kriemhilde Holzknecht's unbidden lectures often helped hold such fancies at bay. For even if he did succeed in cutting corners, she would inevitably find him out make absolutely certain he was fully aware of just how very much she loathed people who were lazy enough to take shortcuts and too simple to do things the "right" way. He'd learned that lesson early on, and the verbal lashings still stuck with him.
No need to revisit that particular aspect of his not so distant past.
Lightly tapping the pen against the side of the small glass well, he set about the final pictographs, a quiet murmur of "education, elucidation, and edification" slipping through his lips in a meditative metronome as he worked. Within the next five or so minutes, the second circle was complete, and the time for instruction was upon him.
"Miss Holzknecht?"
The familiar tap of tiny, slippered feet padded across the floor, heralding a subdued, "Finished already?"
"I believe so, miss." Which was less so humble confidence and more an actual request to have his work examined before even thinking about beginning the lengthy process of imprinting even the most basic of functions onto the small, unassuming core he'd been handed earlier that day.
"Very well," she replied, folding her hands behind her back and peering down at his handiwork with all the scrutiny of a wizened appraiser of gems who'd been forced to waste her talents on common stones. "This marking here," she didn't point but nodded towards the general area, "is sloppy. It shouldn't affect the over performance of the Circle, but try to be a bit more mindful of your craftsmanship, Kos. There's really no excuse for sloth here."
There was no arguing with Kriemhilde Holzknecht but not because she didn't invite it; no, she was actually quite open to criticism and rational debate. The reason there was nothing to be argued over when Kreimhilde provided her own critiques was because she was so very rarely wrong, she might as well have been perpetually right. So instead of allowing petty pride and weary irritation to raise his hackles, Foma rose from where he knelt across the circle to join his mentor where she stood, staring down at his own meticulous handwriting in an effort to spot what it was she'd singled out herself.
And, surely enough, there it was.
The character was crooked, more so an indication of wavered intent than functional application of the ink itself, but a mistake nonetheless. With a nod, Kos pulled open on of the many worn drawers of his own workbench, fetched an equally worn leather bound journal, and quickly re-sketched the errant symbol with a note beside it that simply read: practice.
Kriemhilde seemed satisfied with that. Or however close it was she ever got to something so amiable. "And the shape of your... "circle" is irregular as well. Too oblong." She quickly snatched the journal and pen from his hands, flipped to a new page, and immediately drew a circle in the center of one the leaflets in a single stroke. "Now," her had moved slower, more deliberate, as she drew a second circle on the opposite page. "Which of these circles are more correct?"
She handed the journal back to him, frustratingly identical circles on both sides, and Foma stared down at the pictures for several minutes, chewing pensively on his bottom lip throughout the duration. "They're-"
"The same?"
"...aren't they?"
The journal was once again snatched away as Kriemhilde glared at the two pages for several more minutes herself. "Well the faster one should be sloppier," she sighed, rolling her eyes at, presumably, herself as she handed the journal back a final time. "My point is, regardless, you should take time to not only be resting your eyes and hands and mind -- if you need it -- but to be constantly evaluating and re-evaluating your progress. See here?" A dainty finger pointed out a specific section of his second circle. "This is the exact place you stopped to take a rest. I know because this-" her finger continued to trace the arc of the circle of symbols through the air "-is all slightly off. You can see it, can't you?"
He could, and he did. Foma nodded, journal closed and hanging loose from one of his hands as he crossed his arms. "So you're saying I should take... more time in my construction?"
"No," Kriemhilde shook her head, bouncing blonde curls almost comically juxtaposed with her condescending stare, "I'm saying you should draw your circles correctly. How exactly you go about that is your own business."
Just barely suppressing a haggard sigh, Foma nodded once again. "Very well."
"It is very well, isn't it?"
"I-"
"That was a rhetorical question, Kos." Her emerald eyes rolled again, though this time there was no question at whom the gesture was directed. "These important and, frankly, appalling issues aside," she continued, sighing down at his circles once again, "They will... suffice. You may begin imprinting now."
It was as close as she ever came to compliments: allowing him to progress onto the next arduous step rather than having him do everything all over again. He couldn't help the light that warmed his eyes even as he did his best to nod solemnly with a soft, "Very well, miss."
"Stop grinning," Kriemhilde muttered, little pattering feet taking her away in a graceful departure. "You look like an idiot."
He wasn't, and he didn't... but the slightest of smiles escaped him as he watched the little spiteful creature climb back onto her stool and glare down at her own work, only to glance his way, catch his gaze, and loudly sigh exasperation before throwing a very clear and very sharp "Now, Mister Kozlov." his way.
Fetching the focus Kreimhilde had loaned to him from off of his work bench, Foma carefully held the little ring between his thumb and forefinger. It was a puny thing, meant for a dainty little child's dainty little finger. Stepping into larger circle, taking extra care not to scuff his painstakingly inked markings, he knelt down and gently pressed the ring's gem to the inner-most edge of the Circle.
For a moment, a single breath, nothing happened, then something stirred within him and he felt the connection: an empty, hollow thing simply waiting to be filled. He steadied his breath, calmed his mind and slowly rose to his feet, slipping the focus into his vest pocket as he did so. The core continued to wait and to drink in everything that Foma offered, whether intentional or not.
Up, down, a twirl to the left, dot here, cross that... all while impressing upon the careful script nothing but intention of education and edification. The book in his left hand was held, habitually, for reference, but Foma had stopped needing it some time ago. The Circles of Minding were one of if not the most repetitive aspect of artifice; as he'd soon discovered, the entire craft itself was little more than endless repetition with minor tweaks here and there to better serve whatever purpose the artificer had need to achieve.
It was a magic of process, of preciseness, and of patience: three things he understood well, and therefore, found almost comforting in a realm he'd long since expected to be utterly foreign to him. That comfort did not, however, serve to alleviate the tedium. It merely flavored it, like having one's wrists sliced open by a particularly beautiful knife or hung from the top of the tallest and most extravagant building.
But he couldn't allow his mind to wander, so instead of fantasizing new and unlikely ways to be so succulently slain, Foma forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He'd done it hundreds of times now, perhaps even more than that, with hundreds more of hours after hours of practice and calm, cold correction delivered by the small, sharp tongue of his young supervisor. The only difference was this time there was an actual core in the other circle and not an exasperated little girl reiterating that "The concept of movement comes before movement itself. I don't know how many times I have to tell you before you get it through that thick, useless slab of meat you wear for a head, Kos."
Almost finished with the second circle, Foma carefully dipped his pen to fill the fountain for the last time. There was no rush in his movements, because a mistake made in haste would have the entire thing ruined. To move slowly but surely was far faster and far more efficient than risking mistake in exchange for a mere hour or two difference. Though the temptation did constantly linger, whispering that everything would just be that much easier if he didn't put quite so much effort into making certain everything was oh-so-carefully handled.
Fortunately, his complete and utter lack of desire to listen to yet another of Kriemhilde Holzknecht's unbidden lectures often helped hold such fancies at bay. For even if he did succeed in cutting corners, she would inevitably find him out make absolutely certain he was fully aware of just how very much she loathed people who were lazy enough to take shortcuts and too simple to do things the "right" way. He'd learned that lesson early on, and the verbal lashings still stuck with him.
No need to revisit that particular aspect of his not so distant past.
Lightly tapping the pen against the side of the small glass well, he set about the final pictographs, a quiet murmur of "education, elucidation, and edification" slipping through his lips in a meditative metronome as he worked. Within the next five or so minutes, the second circle was complete, and the time for instruction was upon him.
"Miss Holzknecht?"
The familiar tap of tiny, slippered feet padded across the floor, heralding a subdued, "Finished already?"
"I believe so, miss." Which was less so humble confidence and more an actual request to have his work examined before even thinking about beginning the lengthy process of imprinting even the most basic of functions onto the small, unassuming core he'd been handed earlier that day.
"Very well," she replied, folding her hands behind her back and peering down at his handiwork with all the scrutiny of a wizened appraiser of gems who'd been forced to waste her talents on common stones. "This marking here," she didn't point but nodded towards the general area, "is sloppy. It shouldn't affect the over performance of the Circle, but try to be a bit more mindful of your craftsmanship, Kos. There's really no excuse for sloth here."
There was no arguing with Kriemhilde Holzknecht but not because she didn't invite it; no, she was actually quite open to criticism and rational debate. The reason there was nothing to be argued over when Kreimhilde provided her own critiques was because she was so very rarely wrong, she might as well have been perpetually right. So instead of allowing petty pride and weary irritation to raise his hackles, Foma rose from where he knelt across the circle to join his mentor where she stood, staring down at his own meticulous handwriting in an effort to spot what it was she'd singled out herself.
And, surely enough, there it was.
The character was crooked, more so an indication of wavered intent than functional application of the ink itself, but a mistake nonetheless. With a nod, Kos pulled open on of the many worn drawers of his own workbench, fetched an equally worn leather bound journal, and quickly re-sketched the errant symbol with a note beside it that simply read: practice.
Kriemhilde seemed satisfied with that. Or however close it was she ever got to something so amiable. "And the shape of your... "circle" is irregular as well. Too oblong." She quickly snatched the journal and pen from his hands, flipped to a new page, and immediately drew a circle in the center of one the leaflets in a single stroke. "Now," her had moved slower, more deliberate, as she drew a second circle on the opposite page. "Which of these circles are more correct?"
She handed the journal back to him, frustratingly identical circles on both sides, and Foma stared down at the pictures for several minutes, chewing pensively on his bottom lip throughout the duration. "They're-"
"The same?"
"...aren't they?"
The journal was once again snatched away as Kriemhilde glared at the two pages for several more minutes herself. "Well the faster one should be sloppier," she sighed, rolling her eyes at, presumably, herself as she handed the journal back a final time. "My point is, regardless, you should take time to not only be resting your eyes and hands and mind -- if you need it -- but to be constantly evaluating and re-evaluating your progress. See here?" A dainty finger pointed out a specific section of his second circle. "This is the exact place you stopped to take a rest. I know because this-" her finger continued to trace the arc of the circle of symbols through the air "-is all slightly off. You can see it, can't you?"
He could, and he did. Foma nodded, journal closed and hanging loose from one of his hands as he crossed his arms. "So you're saying I should take... more time in my construction?"
"No," Kriemhilde shook her head, bouncing blonde curls almost comically juxtaposed with her condescending stare, "I'm saying you should draw your circles correctly. How exactly you go about that is your own business."
Just barely suppressing a haggard sigh, Foma nodded once again. "Very well."
"It is very well, isn't it?"
"I-"
"That was a rhetorical question, Kos." Her emerald eyes rolled again, though this time there was no question at whom the gesture was directed. "These important and, frankly, appalling issues aside," she continued, sighing down at his circles once again, "They will... suffice. You may begin imprinting now."
It was as close as she ever came to compliments: allowing him to progress onto the next arduous step rather than having him do everything all over again. He couldn't help the light that warmed his eyes even as he did his best to nod solemnly with a soft, "Very well, miss."
"Stop grinning," Kriemhilde muttered, little pattering feet taking her away in a graceful departure. "You look like an idiot."
He wasn't, and he didn't... but the slightest of smiles escaped him as he watched the little spiteful creature climb back onto her stool and glare down at her own work, only to glance his way, catch his gaze, and loudly sigh exasperation before throwing a very clear and very sharp "Now, Mister Kozlov." his way.
Fetching the focus Kreimhilde had loaned to him from off of his work bench, Foma carefully held the little ring between his thumb and forefinger. It was a puny thing, meant for a dainty little child's dainty little finger. Stepping into larger circle, taking extra care not to scuff his painstakingly inked markings, he knelt down and gently pressed the ring's gem to the inner-most edge of the Circle.
For a moment, a single breath, nothing happened, then something stirred within him and he felt the connection: an empty, hollow thing simply waiting to be filled. He steadied his breath, calmed his mind and slowly rose to his feet, slipping the focus into his vest pocket as he did so. The core continued to wait and to drink in everything that Foma offered, whether intentional or not.
