Well, that hasn't happened in a while... (Yeorden)

[indigo]

CRRR--ACK!

Well. That didn't sound so good...

Deavelyn had jumped with the popping crackle of glass breaking, and had subsequently shattered the thin strand she'd been shaping for some beads.

Still. The noise didn't bode well. Not when she was also working on an incredibly expensive mirror, and not when she'd already silvered...the...back...

She turned around to look at her mistake, and just groaned. Of course it had shattered. You couldn't just leave it to cool a few hours and silver it. And she had. Thus, the much cooler surface of the glass had shrunk, and the middle had stayed expanded, and the entire project shattered on itself.

Looking over the mess, she began to chew on the pinky of her thick leather work gloves, and tried to find a way she could rectify this before he came back, or even came to investigate the loud shattering!

[Briarwind]

An ear-splitting crack shattered Yeorden's reverie, and he looked up sharply from the meticulous etchings he'd been working into a set of elegant glass goblets commissioned as gifts for Lady Crelek, the slim metal tool hovering a fraction of an inch from the fragile work. The aging man fell almost inhumanly still, only his features shifting, slowly contorting into a mask of ire. His hand began to tremble, and he glanced down at it, watching the point dance beside the glass, nearly scratching it several times. Slowly, he laid the tool down, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

A low, snarling bellow split the air, echoing with the same resounding quality as the broken glass. "SHAFFIT, DEAVELYN!" Growling, he cracked his eyes open and waited for the girl to appear, his brow drawn into a low, dark scowl.

[indigo]

She started again, just as she had when the mirror had shattered on the work table, then skittered into Yeorden's workspace before she could even catch her breath. She bowed deeply, her face bright red, and her hands tucked behind her back.

"Here, Master." She said meekly. This was just her week for mistakes; first the bubble burn, then running out of the all important slaves, and now this? She was going to get it for sure, but none of that mattered because...well, she could do better. All of this could have been done better if she'd only just -thought- once in a while.

The contrite apprentice stayed in a half-bow, her head hanging, and her posture of one who was berating themselves. "I'm sorry, Master."

[Briarwind]

A bellow rolled up in Yeorden's belly before sputtering and dying, and he grunted noncommittally, dropping his face into his hand and rubbing his temples in irritation. Sharding fool child. She knew better, of course, and he knew she did. That was obvious by her contrition, even if he didn't know for a fact that he'd trained her well enough that she knew better than anything that would cause that sort of sound. "Nevermind," he grunted. No good it would do him to complain about it now. "Clean it up and get started on fixing it. Who am I making excuses to?"

[indigo]

"Crelek's Guard, sir. I was ahead of schedule, by about a seven day, but it might take that long to get another mirror flattened and cut to their specifications sir. I'm sorry, I know better. I'll stop on non-essentials, and see that this gets done in the minimum amount of time. And I'll give you the stipend I got to cover the wasted silvering, sir. I'm awful sorry."

All of this was said in barely a whisper, and she bowed again quickly, before snatching the broom and dustpan by the door. In the process, she smacked her burn against the edge of a work-table, and turned white with pain. Instead of a hasty retreat, she stayed exactly where she was, fighting the urge to cry from frustration, physical pain, and humiliation.

[Briarwind]

Yeorden sighed again, waving a dismissive hand. "Nevermind," he protested grimly. "I'll make the excuses, and we've cost little enough recently that that young Coggling brat won't balk at a small stipend toward the silvering. Faranth knows we cost him less than that lunatic Searhiordan and his waste-of-time experiments, anyhow. Where was your head, girl? You've been making mirrors for turns. At least, what? Five or six of them."

It had, of course, been nothing of the sort, but then, there was a reason Yeorden was a glassblower and not a coggler. He'd never had a head for numbers - nor could he be bothered to care enough to remember.

Shaking his head dismissively, he grunted. "Clean it up and get out of my workshop. If you can't keep your head, you can't be here, today. Come back tomorrow and start on the replacement mirror." The gruff tone sounded deeply annoyed, but, truth told, Yeorden wasn't quite as unempathetic as he was accused of being. He hadn't missed the shame in the girl's face. A bit of rest would probably do her some good. That's what all the younglings wanted, wasn't it?