Will had been trying to work at his plans again when he sees the young woman spinning, its something so much of home that he smiles for a moment watching.
Before getting up and coming over, "Ne'er understood 'ow my mother can manage to spin, milady, but then she doesna understand 'ow I can fletch arrows so tis all fair."
His sword is at his belt and he looks his normal scruffy self though there are some new bruises and a bit of stiffness, sparring with John will do that.
"There's just so much to keep track of at once," Sandry says, frustrated.
Twirl the spindle, let it fall, feed the wool, steady the thread. Quite a lot for a novice spinner to keep up with--especially an eleven year old who just learned the basics a day ago.
She looks up at the man, regards him for a moment, then smiles. He may be scruffy, but he is dressed like she's used to people being dressed. It's somewhat comforting.
"Aye, I know, milady, most things like that just take practice, sure ye'll get it in time. 'rhaps ye should give yerself a break an 'ave some tea. Found tea 'elps most things an Lady Bar always knows wonderful ones."
He's quite prepared to kneel down and help pick up the bit of a mess on the floor since she reminds him of the young girls in Nottingham, but happier which does Will a lot of good to see.
She's being watched from a few tables away, with a sympathetic smile from someone who knows all too well how much of a pain it can be to work with wool.
'What kind of wool is that, if you don't mind my asking?' Sam pushes her chair away from the table to lean forward and get a slightly better look. 'I've never been able to do that kind of spinning myself, but I've seen some of the ladies at home make thread that way.'
[OOC: I am going to have to run off v. soon, but would a slowtime be possible?]
Sam nods. 'That sounds about right. I know that some kinds are better than others, especially if you're trying to use that sort of spindle. This elderly spinster who used to live in my town tried to teach me to make thread when I was little, but now that I think about it I honestly can't remember anything about it' -- and here she rubs her shoulder, wincing slightly at the memory even as her smile turns a little rueful -- 'except that it made my arm hurt and I could never get the wool to catch properly.'
"I can get it to catch, but I keep forgetting to twirl the spindle because I'm concentrating on feeding the wool. And then it all goes to pieces."
She looks ruefully at the wool on the floor, kneeling down to gather it up.
"I have managed to make a little bit of thread, though." Lark had told her that it--her first thread--was important, so Sandry had stowed it safely in her belt purse. "It came out lumpy, but it's thread."
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Before getting up and coming over, "Ne'er understood 'ow my mother can manage to spin, milady, but then she doesna understand 'ow I can fletch arrows so tis all fair."
His sword is at his belt and he looks his normal scruffy self though there are some new bruises and a bit of stiffness, sparring with John will do that.
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Twirl the spindle, let it fall, feed the wool, steady the thread. Quite a lot for a novice spinner to keep up with--especially an eleven year old who just learned the basics a day ago.
She looks up at the man, regards him for a moment, then smiles. He may be scruffy, but he is dressed like she's used to people being dressed. It's somewhat comforting.
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He's quite prepared to kneel down and help pick up the bit of a mess on the floor since she reminds him of the young girls in Nottingham, but happier which does Will a lot of good to see.
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Even five year old children can spin with great skill once they master the technique. Sandry is just rather impatient to learn.
"Perhaps a rest would be best," she agrees, kneeling down herself to clean up the wool, her long muslin dress pooling on the floor.
"I had Bar's tea the first time I came here," she adds with a smile as she gathers up the fibers. "She does make very good tea."
She doesn't have to work very hard to pick up the wool. Most of it is wiggling into her hand of its own accord.
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'What kind of wool is that, if you don't mind my asking?' Sam pushes her chair away from the table to lean forward and get a slightly better look. 'I've never been able to do that kind of spinning myself, but I've seen some of the ladies at home make thread that way.'
[OOC: I am going to have to run off v. soon, but would a slowtime be possible?]
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"I...um. I'm not exactly sure," Sandry replies, blushing a little bit.
She's very new to learning this sort of work, and what she doesn't know far outweighs what she does.
"Not merino," she adds with certainty. "My teacher says that it's far too short to learn with."
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"I can get it to catch, but I keep forgetting to twirl the spindle because I'm concentrating on feeding the wool. And then it all goes to pieces."
She looks ruefully at the wool on the floor, kneeling down to gather it up.
"I have managed to make a little bit of thread, though." Lark had told her that it--her first thread--was important, so Sandry had stowed it safely in her belt purse. "It came out lumpy, but it's thread."
She's really inordinately proud of it.
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