My father, Archduke Kripky Venno, was a man of unwavering principles and traditions. His presence commanded respect, every move deliberate and calculated. My mother, Jespy Venno, was his counterbalance—soft-spoken but no less formidable. She was the most skilled mage I had ever known, though my encounters with mages were admittedly limited. Together, they represented two sides of Nymedia's strength: resilience and grace.
My parents, traditional to the very core, never refused my right to test out ways of living which ran contrary to being a woman with tradition. My father allowed me to train in martial arts. A girl from noble families never used to do it, but my father would address my wishes as thoughtful and thus at variance with his severe look. Mother went ecstatic when I requested her to teach me how to tailormake clothes and braid my hair.
"My dear," she said, her eyes aglitter only on the very rarest of occasions, "you have made my day. Let's get started right away, please."
We left the next morning behind the castle walls. Four guards and two servants escorted us out into the grasslands. The air was fresh, and the sun warmed my face as it passed through the leaves of swaying trees. My mother looked visibly excited but was holding herself as usual.
"We are looking for Rhute," she explained. "It is one of the best plants in Nymedia to make twine and thread."
The Rhute is a plant easily recognizable by its long, green and brown striated stems crowned with clusters of bright blue flowers. Mother took the time to explain how to distinguish the healthy plants. She said to me that leaves should be drooping nicely around the flowers and the stem firm but flexible to the touch.
It's not about finding them, she said, as she pulled out a plant from the earth with practiced hands. It's about picking the best.
Finding our silk from the SilverOrb Weaver Spider proved much harder. These creatures, each as big as a hunting dog, made for an excellent balance between fascination and intimidation. Their webs reflected the dappled sunlight beautifully, beautiful testaments to their work. My mother tackled it with a surgeon's professionalism.
We have to coax it without scaring it, she said, getting down on one knee beside a web. A rough bluff will send it running. A gentle one will be dismissed. Observe closely.
She demonstrated on me by pulling at the edge of the web with a twig in the motions that were those of the prey. Then, with a slow crawl, out it came. My heart went racing as it closed in and Jespy was serene, each move calculated. When close enough, she captured it in a specialized net to catch the occasion without harming the insect.
"Quickly, now," she said, and the guards assisted in holding down the spider.
Milking the spider was a delicate affair. My mother used a small tool to extract the spider's silk, her motions fluid and precise. The spider twitched at times but otherwise remained quiet.
"We must never take more than is necessary," she said as she worked. "They need their silk to live."
It took almost an hour. When we finished, we let the spider go back out into the wild. I stood there and watched it skitter away, a small sense of guilt for killing it welling up inside me. My mother put her hand on my shoulder, touching it reassuringly.
"You did good, Lynt. Remember always, we take only what we need, and give back when we can."
The following days passed in a blur of work and elbow grease. In the castle, my mother taught me how to weave the Rhute fibers into rope and twine. Her hands moved in a sophisticated pattern speaking of years of practice that made twisting and looping under her touch smooth. I mimicked the movement clumsily at first but was eventually rhythmical with their twists.
"Wait", she said. "The spool will steer you if you let it to."
Once we had gathered some twine from the castle gardens, she then taught me sewing. We wandered into the castles' shopping stores to fetch needles, scissors, and several other utensils. My mum was all so eager as each of the gadgets' uses explained.
"The needle is your magic wand," my mother said warmly. "In every stitch there is a binding spell that creates fabric and your imagination.".
I sewed for five straight days without a rest. She imparted control of tension, where the stitch should fall: simple patterns sewn into tiny pieces of fabric. So, therefore her work oscillated between elementary hemming to intricate embroidery. My fingers ached but the ache was well worth every stinging.
Mother remained to learn along with me, so she could help me understand and encourage. Her words - corrections though firm remain gentle.
"You are improving," she said on the fifth evening as I finished a small embroidered crest of the Venno family. "This is excellent work, Lynt. I'm proud of you."
---
I learned much by the end of the week. In terms of my tailoring and leatherworking, if I open the Freedom System and monitor my progression, changes could easily be identified.
Leatherworking: 4
Tailoring: 4
As I extended my list of skills, the interface of the System began to appear more cluttered. I found myself digging around a little bit more to access the specific skill, but that was the whole point. A new entry into my list for each day stood for my personal development and constituted a concrete history of my endeavor.
To me, it hadn't been just the skills I gained but, rather, the lessons learned from my mother. Her elegance, her respect for this natural world and unimaginable support left a profound mark on my heart. It dawned on me that liberation was not based on strength or magic. It was about knowing, creating, and interconnectedness with the world around me.
In those moments I sat beside my mother, using a needle at hand and piles of Rhute fibers at our feet, where I felt immense purpose. The act was too a form of liberation: finding ways to build the world in gentle, intended strokes rather than brutal force; for that I was grateful.