Ignis' First Firesday of Harvestfall, 1442, city of Umbraholme.

A wooden sign bearing a spool and needle crowned the warehouse like a stitched-on afterthought. Vaelith blinked, taken aback.

That's the weaver's guild?

She had imagined something quaint: glass storefront windows, mannequins dressed in royal finery, and a cosy backroom filled with bolts of cloth and sewing machines. Instead, the building loomed as tall as any barn she had ever seen and stretched out like a modern warehouse. It was larger than she had expected by several orders of magnitude—an industrial monolith. A stream even ran underneath the massive building—clearly essential to the weaving process.

Water? For weaving? Are they using water mills or something?

Leoric had taken one look at it, smiled sheepishly, wished her good luck, and bolted for the Botanist's Guild.

She glanced over her shoulder. Even during the day, Umbraholme remained cloaked in perpetual twilight. The forest canopy blocked the sky entirely, leaving the city reliant on flickering torches to light its narrow streets. Statuesque Full-blood felinaes and pale Shadow sylvanis lumbered or glided through the gloom, their sharp-eyed stares sending shivers down her spine. In contrast to the vibrant music, laughter, and chatter of Luminara and Zephyrdale, this place was eerily quiet; the people were sullen, their faces etched with silence. The inhabitants of this location seemed to rely solely on grunts and frowns for communication. And if she did not know better, she felt the locals directed most of those at her.

She swallowed hard and pushed the door, thinking back longingly about the stares of admiration or curiosity she received in the other cities.

I didn't think I'd ever see the day where I'd miss being gawked at…

Vaelith clutched at the strap of her satchel like a lifeline. Joining the guild had seemed like a good idea when Leoric had mentioned it—a way to contribute to the group. She had not said it out loud, but a quiet excitement simmered within her at the thought of the forthcoming opportunity to manage and fine-tune how she would be perceived by others. She could design clothes that not only boosted her abilities but matched her mood and style. Vaelith giggled—Jason had always hated shopping for clothes, and here she was, thinking of making her own?

Am I getting a little bit too much into this?

Still, she had to admit the practicality of the decision, given their party composition.

Focusing on the present, Vaelith peeked inside. The room before her was surprisingly well lit. And right away, she noticed something that confirmed her earlier prediction; mannequins dressed in brightly coloured outfits lined the room on both sides. She had been right about this half—she had only been wrong about the glass store-front windows.

On the opposite side of the room, there was a large maple counter littered with ledgers and books. Standing behind was the shortest person Vaelith had seen in this city so far. The Noble burrovian lady before her was still towering over her—a full head and a half taller than her. Upon noticing the visitor, the burrovian raised her eyes from the records in front of her and adjusted her reading glasses, taking stock of the newcomer for one moment.

"Ah, hello there, young lady. Come in, come in, dearie!"

Vaelith stepped inside and closed the door behind her before walking up to the counter. "Ah. Good evening?"

One of the burrovian's ear bent sideways. She brushed strands of her greying brown hair out of her face. "What can I do for you? Looking for some new robes, perhaps?"

Vaelith shook her head. "Uh… Yes, but not exactly. I—I'm here to sign up. To become a weaver."

The elderly lady's brow arched upon hearing Vaelith's hesitant request. After a few seconds, she smiled brightly and extended one hand. "Well, well. You found the right person. I run this guild. Sarnai Khurtsgarid. But you can just call me Sarnai, especially if we're going to be working together; everyone here does."

Vaelith shook her hand and introduced herself. "Pleasure to meet you. Please, just call me Vaelith."

"Vaelith, is it?" Sarnai walked around the counter and approached the mage. She gently placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her along towards a double door in the back. "Come now, follow me, and I'll give you a tour. Let Sarnai show you and explain all the steps involved in turning stalks of hemp or flax into clothes like the ones on your back. Someday, Nocturne willing, we might even teach you the secrets behind the guild's specialties."

As they crossed the door, Sarnai shouted over her shoulder, "Liranel, you have the front desk!"

Vaelith nearly let out a yelp of surprise as a dark-haired, pale-skinned sylvani stepped out of the shadows, mere inches away from her.

Where did she come from!?

Liranel looked at the two women for a few moments before she silently nodded to the guild master and made her way towards the front counter in eerie silence.

Sarnai led Vaelith through another set of heavy wooden doors, and the air immediately changed—cool, damp, and tinged with a medley of earthy scents. The light dimmed slightly, the glow from the front rooms barely spilling into the space beyond. The sound of murmured voices and faint scraping noises echoed faintly through the corridors, giving the space a reverent hush.

"This way," Sarnai said briskly, her voice commanding despite her pleasant appearance. She pushed open another door, revealing what appeared to be a storeroom filled with activity.

Vaelith blinked as she stepped inside, marvelling at the sheer volume of plant stalks bundled in orderly rows. Bundles of flax and hemp stacked almost to the high-beamed ceiling. The earthy, woody scent filled her nostrils. Overhead, special lanterns hung on long chains, their light coming from phosphorescent fungi or resin—a common sight in Umbraholme. Workers efficiently hoisted bundles onto racks, while others checked labels on crates and jotted down notes on parchments. Vaelith figured some workers were updating the guild's inventory.

"This is where it all starts—sorting the flax and hemp by grade. I know you're eager to get to the fun part, but trust me, a good weaver learns to recognise quality materials from the common stock. Use the wrong stuff, and you'll be making rags, not robes." Sarnai glanced at her sharply, as if assessing her potential.

Vaelith nodded quickly. This part made sense to her. High-quality ingredients would lead to high-quality results. Learning to turn plants into yarn and cloth may not be a glamorous start, but it was not so different from learning to make flour, pie dough, or even butter and cheese.

"Come along," Sarnai said, waving her hand and moving deeper into the building.

The air in the next room they entered clung to her skin like a cold sweat. The sour, earthy smell of the soaking stalks curled into her nostrils and settled at the back of her throat, threatening to choke her. Wooden vats filled with murky water lined the room, their surfaces littered with bits of plant debris. The workers moved like shadows, hauling dripping bundles from the vats with long hooks, their shoulders straining with the weight. Vaelith noticed the stream running through the room, and now understood the reason for choosing this location for the guildhall.

"Here's where we soak the stalks to separate the fibres from the woody cores," Sarnai said, gesturing to the vats. "It's a messy process, but critical. Rush it, and the fibres'll fall apart like soggy paper. Leave it too long, and you're spinning with rot. It's like babysitting toddlers—fussy, unpredictable, and always sticky. You'll learn to time it by feel—and by smell. The plant will tell you when it's ready."

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Vaelith smiled as Sarnai echoed Rorric's advice from earlier in the day, "The dough'll tell you what it needs."

Looks like the same lessons apply here, then?

Vaelith wondered if there would be some actual synergy between the two crafting professions.

Something to test another day…

She leaned over one vat, curiosity warring with her distaste for the pungent odour. She noticed workers using long hooks to pull bundles of wet stalks from the water, their hands steady and methodical. One worker—a tall felinae woman with jet-black fur—glanced at her and gave a faint sneer before turning back to her task.

The sneer was brief but sharp, cutting through Vaelith like a blade. Her chest tightened, a familiar heat rising in her cheeks. It was not the first time someone had judged her on sight—and likely would not be the last. But she straightened her back and kept her eyes forward.

So what if they stare? I'll prove myself soon enough.

"Not everyone here will be as friendly as I am," Sarnai said with a wry smile, noticing the exchange. "The Shadow sylvani and Full-blood felinaes aren't always keen on outsiders intruding in their city. But don't let that discourage you. We'll see if you've got the grit to earn their respect. After all, old Sarnai managed to climb all the way to guild master, over the years, and I wasn't born here."

Vaelith pressed her lips together and nodded. She would not let a few unfriendly stares intimidate her. She had faced worse—much worse. Teaching middle-schoolers had already prepared her for almost anything. Having dealt with the scions of the rich elite had reinforced her resolve even further. She could handle sneers.

The next few rooms blurred together as Sarnai gave her a whirlwind tour. They passed through the breaking and scutching room, where workers crushed and scraped the stalks to free the fibres, the air thick with dust and the rhythmic clatter of wooden tools. The hackling room was quieter but no less intense, with long benches lined with sharp-toothed combs that gleamed in the dim light. Vaelith flinched as she watched a worker drag a bundle of fibres through the hackles, the motion swift and precise. The combing seemed almost violent, yet the result was beautiful—long, golden strands of flax that shone like spun sunlight.

"Now this," Sarnai said as they stepped into the next room, "is where the magic happens."

Vaelith's fins perked up at Sarnai's words. The atmosphere here was entirely different. This room was warm, almost cosy, with rows of spinning wheels humming softly like contented cats. The workers here seemed more relaxed, their hands moving in a hypnotic rhythm as they spun fibres into fine threads. Vaelith found herself drawn to the delicate dance of the spinning wheels, the way the raw fibres transformed into something smooth and continuous under the spinners' skilled hands.

"Spinning is an art," Sarnai said, her voice quieter now, as if not to disturb the calm of the room. "It takes patience and practice, but once you master it, you'll feel you're weaving the threads of fate itself."

The idea of weaving thread enchanted her. Vaelith's fingers itched to try her hands at spinning cloth, though she doubted she would be any good at it on her first attempt. She glanced at Sarnai, wondering if she could try her hand at it soon, or if she would be stuck sorting stalks and sniffing retting vats.

Before she could ask, the burrovian gestured for her to follow again, leading her to what could only be the weaving room.

Here, the rhythmic clack of looms filled the air with a sound that felt both ancient and alive. The tools were massive, their wooden frames polished smooth from years of use. In silence, numerous weavers worked their looms, their faces intent on their task as their nimble hands skilfully passed the shuttles back and forth, weaving intricate patterns with the threads. Vaelith's breath caught as she noticed a bolt of fabric hanging nearby—a shimmering black cloth. It seemed to drink in the light, its surface rippling like water in shadow.

"Shadow-touched silk," Sarnai said, noticing her gaze. "The pride of our guild. Umbraholme is famous for it, and what you might work your way up to—if you last long enough."

Vaelith tore her eyes away from the fabric and met Sarnai's gaze. "I'll last," she said, her voice firmer than she expected.

Sarnai grinned. "We'll see."

She then led Vaelith through a narrow hallway branching off from the weaving room, the rhythmic clacking of the looms fading behind them. The walls here were bare stone, damp with condensation, and the air was cooler—an almost welcome reprieve from the warmth of the spinning and weaving rooms. At the end of the hall stood a door reinforced with iron bands, its surface scarred with scratches and faint scorch marks.

Sarnai stopped before it and turned to Vaelith, her usually cheerful face adopting a more serious expression. "Before we move on, let me make something clear. We don't hand out membership in this guild lightly. You'll have to prove you're willing to work—physically, mentally, and creatively. If you're just here for some fancy skills to impress your friends, you might as well turn back now."

Vaelith wavered for a moment. With a deep breath, she cast aside the apprehension weighing upon her and straightened her shoulders, presenting a confident posture. "I'm not afraid of hard work," she said, the words firm but not defensive. She hoped that was true. This guild already felt like a crucible, testing not just her abilities but her resolve.

Sarnai studied her for a moment before her smile returned. "Good. You'll fit in just fine, then. Follow me."

She pushed open the heavy door, revealing a cavernous space humming with an oppressive energy. The air shimmered faintly, as if the shadows themselves were alive. An enormous loom dominated the room, far larger than the ones Vaelith had seen earlier. Dark, almost black wood formed its frame, and the threads strung across it glowed faintly, shifting from deep violet to obsidian. The sight of it sent a chill through her scales. This was no ordinary loom.

"This," Sarnai said, gesturing grandly, "is the shadowloom."

Vaelith stared, unsure whether to feel awe or unease. The apparatus seemed to hum softly, a sound just on the edge of her hearing, as if it were whispering to her. The threads shimmered and twisted in ways that defied logic, like watching ripples after having thrown a pebble on a pond—only there was no stone, and no pond.

"It's beautiful," Vaelith said finally, though the word did not feel quite right. Beautiful implied something comforting, and this loom was anything but.

"It's also dangerous," Sarnai said, her tone sobering. "We use this loom exclusively for crafting shadow-touched silk. A fragment of Umbraholme's magic imbues threads you see—woven from shadow, light, and the essence of the forest itself. It takes years of training to handle it safely. One wrong move, and the loom will eat your fabric, your fingers, or worse."

Vaelith took an involuntary step back. "Eat my fingers?" she asked, repeating the words, her voice tight with disbelief and dread.

Sarnai chuckled, though there was no malice in it. "Oh, don't worry. You won't be touching this beauty soon. Beginners start with the basics. But I wanted you to see this, to understand where you're headed if you stick with us. Mastering the shadowloom is a weaver's greatest achievement. Only a handful of us can claim that title."

Vaelith nodded, her earlier confidence now tempered with a healthy dose of respect—and fear.

"Come on," Sarnai said, turning toward the exit. "I'll show you where you'll actually be starting."

They returned to the more familiar parts of the guildhall, where the air no longer shimmered with magic, but the hum of spinning wheels and the clack of looms created a comforting rhythm. Sarnai led Vaelith to a small side room, barely larger than a storage closet, but filled with shelves stacked high with plain spools of thread and small, portable looms.

"This will be your space for now," Sarnai said, gesturing to an empty workbench against the far wall. "Your first task is simple: learn to weave a straight line. Weaving isn't about rushing; it's about precision, consistency, and patience. Get those right, and everything else will follow."

Vaelith stepped forward. She let her fingers trace the loom's wooden edge. It was warm from the last weaver's touch—solid, unyielding, waiting. She exhaled slowly, like she was about to speak her truth for the first time. It was far less intimidating than the massive floor looms she had seen earlier, though it still seemed daunting in its own way. "How long does it usually take to, um, learn the basics?" she asked.

Sarnai shrugged. "Depends on how much work you put in. Don't get discouraged. Every expert was once a beginner. That's true for everyone, even grand masters."

Vaelith raised an eyebrow. "Somehow, I can't imagine you as a beginner."

Sarnai laughed, a warm sound that chased away some of the lingering tension. "Oh, this surprises you? I was awful when I started. Couldn't weave a straight line to save my life. My first instructor told me I had hands like a drunk squirrel. But I stuck with it, and here I am."

Vaelith could not help but smile.

If Sarnai could go from drunk squirrel to guild master, maybe I can do this, too.

"A few last things," Sarnai added, her expression turning serious again. "Weaving isn't just about fabric. It's about telling a story."

Weaving a story? So, just like my ritual magics require intent, weaving needs a story to tell?

"Every thread you use, every pattern you create, it all means something. Remember that as you work."

It reminded Vaelith of tracing runes in the air—every mark deliberate, every motion soaked in purpose.

Finally, the guild master added, "The loom reflects the weaver. If you're tense, your threads will tangle. If you're patient, your work will sing."

Vaelith nodded, turning the words over in her mind. She liked the sound of that. She would learn to tell stories through thread. And maybe, stitch by stitch, she would figure out her own.

Sarnai patted her shoulder. "Well, I better let you at it. You know where to find me if you have questions."

A faint smile tugged on Vaelith's lips. She had a long road ahead before she could handle something like the shadowloom, but for the moment, she had to master the basics—she would be outfitting the whole party before long, after all.

She wondered if this meant learning more about her party members, who they are, what they wanted in life—would it ultimately help her when crafting their upgrades?

I suppose it's a bit like gift picking.

Jason never understood the art of picking the perfect present. But maybe, as Vaelith, she could learn.

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