"I thought so." Righting it in her lap once more, Teren stitches again, her joints behaving themselves for now. "Pick up that end?" she grunts, nodding toward the side of the blanket closer to Vega, "I need it taut a moment." It's more request than command, simply spoken by someone who never quite learned to say please.
A request suits Vega much better and so after a slight hesitation she places her package on the ground. Blanche is still busy with whatever is halfway up her throat so she has time to assist: she takes the side and holds it, leaning away until it stretches out.
Vega decides she's ignoring that in favour of thinning her mouth out into a straight line but she does not disrupt the good tension of the work.
She holds herself in check for a moment and then says, voice as calm as she can get it to go, "I am a lady and not your worker. You'll address me with respect.
"Will I indeed," Teren answers lightly, conversationally, without looking up, "and what's it mean to me that you're a lady? For all you know, I'm a lady."
Now Teren pauses, cocking her head to meet Vega's eyes squarely, just long enough to properly instill doubt. Then, as though nothing happened, she returns to her sewing.
"What's to be done, then?" she chats, "commanding your vassals from here? You don't sound Marcher."
"Perhaps it's of no importance, then, whether one is a lady here or not," Teren remarks, keeping her eyes fixed on her work, "what were you supposed to be doing?"
Vega doesn't breathe. Her heart is suddenly racing uncomfortably and one of the griffons, picking up on her tension, flares its feathers, stomps a foot.
Teren's gaze flits to the griffon, but she doesn't speak or make any sudden movements, not wanting to startle either the beast or the girl in front of her.
"And why aren't you?" asked matter-of-factly. If you're going to throw a pity party, you're going to have to justify it.
A small sound of acknowledgment, directed at the sewing. After several seconds' pause, Teren remarks, "rotten luck."
She casts a measuring, inscrutable glance up at Vega, the rhythm of her hand unerring. "I suppose you shall have to make the most of it." Riftwatch being both no place for an untrained civilian and the only place for shardbearers does present its problems.
Actually very much appreciated that Teren empathizes with this. Vega swallows around a lump in her throat and undoes a knot of arms across her chest, reaching out to place her hand against the neck of a griffon. She sifts her fingers through feathers, and releases a held breath, a clenched jaw and hunched shoulders.
Teren has been around long enough to see the shards go bad and worse, and even she has to admit that being a horrible brat isn't enough to earn one. A thrashing, maybe, a cuff about the ear, but not a shard.
"Good," she says simply, pleased by the answer, "and you've had occasion to use it?" An eyebrow raised, "in the field?"
In the field, not in the field; that horrible woman knocking her to the ground in the training yard comes to mind. Instead Vega says, "I rescued Cedric in battle."
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"Pick up that end?" she grunts, nodding toward the side of the blanket closer to Vega, "I need it taut a moment." It's more request than command, simply spoken by someone who never quite learned to say please.
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"How many have you done?"
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"Four," she answers after a moment, beginning to reset pins where the spacing needs adjustment, "got my work cut out for me."
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She holds herself in check for a moment and then says, voice as calm as she can get it to go, "I am a lady and not your worker. You'll address me with respect.
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"... If you were a lady you would have said so."
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Now Teren pauses, cocking her head to meet Vega's eyes squarely, just long enough to properly instill doubt. Then, as though nothing happened, she returns to her sewing.
"What's to be done, then?" she chats, "commanding your vassals from here? You don't sound Marcher."
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Vega watches her, unblinking, held tense. She only relaxes again when Teren's eyes drift off her, back to the task at hand.
"Well, of course I don't. I'm not. I—"
And it seems to pain her, suddenly, to have to admit this. She mutters, "I don't have vassals. I wasn't supposed to come here."
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"Training for my seat in the Magisterium."
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"And why aren't you?" asked matter-of-factly. If you're going to throw a pity party, you're going to have to justify it.
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Or so she has been told. It hurts before she dies too, it hurts a lot, and you're alone.
"I'd rather be there."
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She casts a measuring, inscrutable glance up at Vega, the rhythm of her hand unerring. "I suppose you shall have to make the most of it." Riftwatch being both no place for an untrained civilian and the only place for shardbearers does present its problems.
"How are you with a blade?"
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Actually very much appreciated that Teren empathizes with this. Vega swallows around a lump in her throat and undoes a knot of arms across her chest, reaching out to place her hand against the neck of a griffon. She sifts her fingers through feathers, and releases a held breath, a clenched jaw and hunched shoulders.
"I am good with a bow."
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"Good," she says simply, pleased by the answer, "and you've had occasion to use it?" An eyebrow raised, "in the field?"
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In the field, not in the field; that horrible woman knocking her to the ground in the training yard comes to mind. Instead Vega says, "I rescued Cedric in battle."
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This is met with a little smirk, followed by, "he's a good sort. Lucky he had you looking out for him."
A little gesture to the cloth as she requests it be held again.
"Making good with griffons and Templars. You're not doing so poorly, then."