a totter'd weed of small worth held

[pixietea]

Characters: England and all of you!
Setting: Floor fifteen, the workshop or floor thirteen, the cathedral.
Format: Starting prose. Have action? Will match!
Summary: Everyone has different ways of dealing with stress. England's chief outlets are consumption of tea, and a seam well-sewn.
Warnings: None yet (aside from England having girly hobbies and me

Comments

floor 13!

[latomatetas]

Someone was sitting a few pews in front of her spot, Spain noticed as she walks back in to pray after a long search in the tower. She hasn't given up hope on finding Romana, but it was starting to take a toll on her, and she spends more time in the lounge floor or the cathedral to rest and pray.

She approached him, her footsteps muffled, her curiosity fueled when she saw what he was doing.

"Hello there... don't think I've seen you around before?"

[pixietea]

The stifling nature of the church swallowed up the woman's footsteps, so England didn't notice her presence until she started speaking. Of course, said notice came with a bit of alarm, seeing as it seemed that she had appeared behind him from out of nowhere.

He turned quickly in his seat to look at her and narrowed his eyes a little, brows furrowing. She looked dreadfully familiar. Maybe he was just getting old (hah, and people said he had no sense of humour). "I don't doubt that such is the case," he agreed. "I have not bothered with putting myself out in the open as of late, and this place is certainly large enough that it's sometimes difficult to find familiar faces."

Unless you keep track of room assignments or network posts, anyways. England, however, does no such thing.

[latomatetas]

Spain nodded. The tower was expanding, and more often than not, there were new people that Spain might have missed, this man included.

"May I have a seat?"

[pixietea]

Did she mean next to him? He didn't mind, but, it was a huge room; surely she could conduct her intended business in one of the other pews? Or did she really intend to converse with him?

"Of course," answered England after a moment. He shifted following that, turning to face front again so that he could bow his head over his embroidery once more and let the woman choose her seat without worry of scrutiny.

[latomatetas]

She nodded again, sitting down a comfortable distance from the man. Silence befell them for a long while, Spain doing her prayers quietly while the other occupant did whatever it was he was doing.

[pixietea]

He quickly fell back into a rhythm of stitching -- over, under, over, under -- with the woman's prayers in the background as what could only barely be called white noise. She wasn't too terribly far away, and yet he could barely hear her voice. The impossible acoustics on this floor were eerie.

He wasn't troubling himself to listen, though. Her business was her own. England continued his work at a steady pace, his silence broken only occasionally by a mumbled curse whenever he overestimated the needle and ended up sticking it into the pad of his finger.