The Inventor (Open)
Oct 23, 2010 12:51:17 GMT -5
Post by Rosetta on Oct 23, 2010 12:51:17 GMT -5
Charlotte Pravine:
Charlotte would rather be anywhere but here. The crowds that pressed against one another, their breath coming out in small puffs, the noise, the shouting and arguing that rose in a tidal wave and crashed over her, breaking her concentration. Charlotte gritted her teeth, and ran her callused fingers through her soft, dark hair. The place made her want to hurt every single one of them.
"Not much longer." She whispered to herself. She positioned herself a little more comfortably behind her little booth, advertising her creations. The merchant area of town was usually brimming with people, just like today, hoping for sales, and short lines. More than half the time, she watched dejected fathers, mothers, or even children wander away from a stall or store, heads down, their hands tightly wrapped around the few money they did have, which was never enough.
Charlotte crossed her legs, and looked down at the materials in her lap. She had began constructing it last night. A small sword, nothing too grand, nothing she'd never made before. Just something she had been bored enough to make. Business was slow at the moment.
Her whittling knife paused in constructing the handle of the blade, which she had made over the past week, with scrap metal she had found in the dump. It was kind of multi-colored, and stained looking, making it look rugged, yet the edges were sharp and glinted in the sun. The handle, which now resembled a splintered block of wood, was attached to it.
Staring down at the wood, she saw a handle with perfect hand grips, and a nice design, along with her initials carved into it. And, if she could spare it, a nice purple paint coat. Not her best work, but would sell for a nice sum.
Her callused hand once more clutched the knife and began working again. Wood shavings broke off and gathered in her lap, and jeans and blouse were soon covered in a fine layer. Her nose began to itch, but she ignored it. Just look good, she thought, make people want to buy your stuff, which was spread out on the smooth wood counter of the booth, a couple weapons, an old brace she used to wear for her back, and a couple of other mismatched, but beautifully crafted objects.
The truth was, she'd much rather be in a quiet corner, working on something else, perhaps a nice new brace for her back, which was hurting more and more lately. She didn't want to sit out here, surrounded by people, who couldn't care less about her, or her beautiful creations. She wanted to be alone, in her room, in the woods, anywhere people weren't.
But, she couldn't. She had to watch her creations being taken and used, her fingers itching to snatch them back. It was like losing a child.
She sat up straighter, praying that no one would come over, while at the same time, hoping people would buy...She sat there, with the conflicting emotions that she refused to let cross her face, waiting...and waiting...for what?
Charlotte would rather be anywhere but here. The crowds that pressed against one another, their breath coming out in small puffs, the noise, the shouting and arguing that rose in a tidal wave and crashed over her, breaking her concentration. Charlotte gritted her teeth, and ran her callused fingers through her soft, dark hair. The place made her want to hurt every single one of them.
"Not much longer." She whispered to herself. She positioned herself a little more comfortably behind her little booth, advertising her creations. The merchant area of town was usually brimming with people, just like today, hoping for sales, and short lines. More than half the time, she watched dejected fathers, mothers, or even children wander away from a stall or store, heads down, their hands tightly wrapped around the few money they did have, which was never enough.
Charlotte crossed her legs, and looked down at the materials in her lap. She had began constructing it last night. A small sword, nothing too grand, nothing she'd never made before. Just something she had been bored enough to make. Business was slow at the moment.
Her whittling knife paused in constructing the handle of the blade, which she had made over the past week, with scrap metal she had found in the dump. It was kind of multi-colored, and stained looking, making it look rugged, yet the edges were sharp and glinted in the sun. The handle, which now resembled a splintered block of wood, was attached to it.
Staring down at the wood, she saw a handle with perfect hand grips, and a nice design, along with her initials carved into it. And, if she could spare it, a nice purple paint coat. Not her best work, but would sell for a nice sum.
Her callused hand once more clutched the knife and began working again. Wood shavings broke off and gathered in her lap, and jeans and blouse were soon covered in a fine layer. Her nose began to itch, but she ignored it. Just look good, she thought, make people want to buy your stuff, which was spread out on the smooth wood counter of the booth, a couple weapons, an old brace she used to wear for her back, and a couple of other mismatched, but beautifully crafted objects.
The truth was, she'd much rather be in a quiet corner, working on something else, perhaps a nice new brace for her back, which was hurting more and more lately. She didn't want to sit out here, surrounded by people, who couldn't care less about her, or her beautiful creations. She wanted to be alone, in her room, in the woods, anywhere people weren't.
But, she couldn't. She had to watch her creations being taken and used, her fingers itching to snatch them back. It was like losing a child.
She sat up straighter, praying that no one would come over, while at the same time, hoping people would buy...She sat there, with the conflicting emotions that she refused to let cross her face, waiting...and waiting...for what?
