before the hall are gathered peaches and plums
When Zhuge was a young child, years before he had been carted away to court for higher schooling, he'd often spent his afternoons searching through zhe trees for the small, fat worms which ate away at their leaves, collecting them in boxes to bring back to the house. Zhe trees were common in the northern and eastern parts of the land, if less so the closer one drew to shore, and so silk production was a widely known skill in Yanzhou, albeit one often saved for the upper-middle class, a job which didn't require as many hours tilling the earth as his own family's crops of wheat and maize had needed. His elder sisters, both beautiful and highly sought after as potential brides, often served as a helping hand with such work, feeding thousands of silkworms a day and helping to twist the strands they produced into thread. Curious as he'd always been, Zhuge requested guidance once on how to get such threads started, and his second sister had brought back an intricate carved box in which the worms could be held in and breathe.
As of yet, he's been unsuccessful in finding any silkworms on the island, or trees similar to the zhe he often climbed around in those years, but Zhuge finds himself wondering, regardless, if silken threads from certain types of garments, undyed and untreated, might be able to serve as strings for a guzheng. Sitting just outside the bakery, a hollowed out guzheng body rests by his side, painstakingly crafted over the course of months, and a small, contained fire keeps a pot of glue melted by its side. His brow furrows as he dips the first thread into the glue, not minding its heat as he twists it tight and uses the tip of his finger to brush excess off, a couple of drops landing on the rest of the partially deconstructed robe. Chances are, it won't work, and he'll have to ask for access to the scrapyard in hopes of finding thin metal wiring, but Zhuge has never been one to let odds overwhelm him.
Less so when he looks up to find a familiar face standing just a few paces away.
As of yet, he's been unsuccessful in finding any silkworms on the island, or trees similar to the zhe he often climbed around in those years, but Zhuge finds himself wondering, regardless, if silken threads from certain types of garments, undyed and untreated, might be able to serve as strings for a guzheng. Sitting just outside the bakery, a hollowed out guzheng body rests by his side, painstakingly crafted over the course of months, and a small, contained fire keeps a pot of glue melted by its side. His brow furrows as he dips the first thread into the glue, not minding its heat as he twists it tight and uses the tip of his finger to brush excess off, a couple of drops landing on the rest of the partially deconstructed robe. Chances are, it won't work, and he'll have to ask for access to the scrapyard in hopes of finding thin metal wiring, but Zhuge has never been one to let odds overwhelm him.
Less so when he looks up to find a familiar face standing just a few paces away.