scrub the deck
Oct. 13th, 2021 07:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
golden_anvilLysandra’s voice, at its peak, might be considered more sonorous than anything. She cannot hit particularly high notes. Cannot credibly say she would pass even for a half-rate opera singer. Her talent and skills have always lied within crafts best done with her hands, and so she had let her voice gain a quality better suited to projecting and singing in the comfort of a shower.
Nestled among the many warehouses of the industrial section of Nexus is a smaller building echoing with song and smelling vaguely of cleaning products. Lysandra is bustling between budding stations in her new workspace occupied by looms of varying size, a desk brimming with packages of sewing supplies, and tiered supply boxes all over the place. A corner with a smelter and anvil is already covered in the beginnings of shaped metal pieces. In the middle of it is dear Lysandra with a bucket and broom going around the floor.
She doesn’t look nearly as glamorous as on her initial foray into the Nexus. Elegant skirts had been traded in for plain cotton pants and a shirt, and she’s even fastened an apron over the whole outfit. All her curls were tucked away into a braid that trailed down her back and was further protected with a scarf tied around the very top of her head. Nay, she honestly viewed herself like a scullery maid or a low-ranking sailor upon a ship.
“Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile… Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile…” Grime loosens itself from the floor as she keeps up her scrubbing, even twirling a bit as she goes from one spot to the next. “Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile…”
Whether one recognizes the song itself or another that shares its melody, you might have to be direct in catching her eye and attention. She knows more than a few folk songs and sea shanties, and you may yet hear something familiar in a language you know. She’ll be here all day, all week, and possibly all year depending on her projects.
Nestled among the many warehouses of the industrial section of Nexus is a smaller building echoing with song and smelling vaguely of cleaning products. Lysandra is bustling between budding stations in her new workspace occupied by looms of varying size, a desk brimming with packages of sewing supplies, and tiered supply boxes all over the place. A corner with a smelter and anvil is already covered in the beginnings of shaped metal pieces. In the middle of it is dear Lysandra with a bucket and broom going around the floor.
She doesn’t look nearly as glamorous as on her initial foray into the Nexus. Elegant skirts had been traded in for plain cotton pants and a shirt, and she’s even fastened an apron over the whole outfit. All her curls were tucked away into a braid that trailed down her back and was further protected with a scarf tied around the very top of her head. Nay, she honestly viewed herself like a scullery maid or a low-ranking sailor upon a ship.
“Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile… Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile…” Grime loosens itself from the floor as she keeps up her scrubbing, even twirling a bit as she goes from one spot to the next. “Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile…”
Whether one recognizes the song itself or another that shares its melody, you might have to be direct in catching her eye and attention. She knows more than a few folk songs and sea shanties, and you may yet hear something familiar in a language you know. She’ll be here all day, all week, and possibly all year depending on her projects.
