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It is one of the bitterly cold days that always seems to greet the new turn in the Shroud in recent years, and Sylvien is wondering how long he can linger in the lobby of the Carpenter’s Guild before someone shoos him out for getting underfoot.
At least the guild supplier, his main liaison for deliveries from the Growery, seems happy enough to make idle chatter with him while he waits for his fingertips to warm up. This is only his second or third time bringing his goods himself, but the man is far friendlier than Sylvien is used to from strangers outside of the Botanist’s Guild—and even some within the guild, for Sylvien is often absent from the city for such long stretches of time that he is hardly a familiar face around the Growery.
“Caravans have been slow out of Thanalan lately,” the man laments while Sylvien basks in the warmth and the welcome both, half-listening and nodding as needed to maintain his excuse. “So…”
“FERREOL!”
A voice booms from the other room, and everyone in the lobby jumps—Sylvien especially, while the rest only seem startled, but not especially concerned. Even Ferreol himself only looks up mildly.
“That’ll be the Timbermaster. What did you just bring in, again?”
Sylvien blinks. “Ah—some birch—?”
“WHO BROUGHT THIS?”
The voice is closer now, heralding the appearance of a man in the doorway to the workshop—tall, bespectacled, with a shock of white hair, and holding, unmistakably, one of the birch logs that Sylvien had passed off to a scurrying carpenter only a little while ago.
Ferreol, despite his blasé attitude a moment ago, has begun to look somewhat nervous. His eyes dart to Sylvien and then quickly away, as though reluctant for his gaze to draw too much attention to the lingering botanist. “A delivery from the Grow—”
Beatin doesn’t let him finish. “Was it you?”
The so-called Timbermaster’s volume has lessened somewhat, but Sylvien still feels his stomach drop as those silvered lenses swivel towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ferreol cringe.
“Er, yes—”
“Bah, but that hardly matters,” the Timbermaster scoffs, almost before the words are out of his mouth. “Who harvested it? Do you know?”
Sylvien wets his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “...I did.”
For a stretched moment, it seems the entire lobby holds its breath. Sylvien feels half a dozen pairs of eyes on him, but the only ones that seem to matter are the ones he cannot see, bearing down upon him from behind impassive lenses.
His reflection gazes back at him, instead; seeing it, Sylvien is put in mind of an antelope doe standing frozen before a wolf.
“It is exquisite,” the Timbermaster says at last, with a sigh not unlike that of a pining lover. “Every log of it is perfect. Well matured, yet free of rot, with a stunning ripple…I rejoice that there will be enough left over when my current commission is done, for I feel near-bursting with inspiration.”
Sylvien is vaguely aware of the entire lobby exhaling around him, and wonders distantly what sort of fate they had predicted for him had the evaluation been less favorable—but the man in front of him commands most of his attention, standing close enough that he almost looms over him with the difference in their heights, with a note in his voice (“near bursting”), as his long fingers caress the length of wood in his arms, that borders on indecent, if not outright—
Lewd?
He is…handsome, Sylvien realizes now. Beneath his baggy smock, his shoulders are broader than they appeared at first glance, and though the glasses grant his expression an eccentric oddness, his profile beneath them is rather striking. And, as his continued proximity continues to remind him, he is tall—a handful of ilms over him, not an especially unusual occurrence with Sylvien’s stature, but it rarely fails to affect him.
And his fingers, stroking that wood like—
"How can I ensure that my orders with the Growery go to you?”
Sylvien snaps to attention, feeling his cheeks flush.
“Um...if you make a note, Cicely will let me know.”
“Excellent. I shall do so.”
And with that, he turns on his heel and is gone. Sylvien wavers unsteadily towards the space he leaves like a sapling in a stiff breeze.
“…and I’ll let him know your name, since he didn’t bother to ask,” Ferreol says in his wake. His voice is light, but Sylvien still thinks he detects a note of profound relief. “Sylvien, right?”
“Y-yes,” Sylvien tells him, faintly surprised that Ferreol recalled it. He feels somewhat unbalanced, and it takes a strong effort not to try to peer around the threshold for another glimpse of the Timbermaster.
“Whew! For a moment there, I thought you were done for,” remarks the guild receptionist as the lobby settles back to its usual bustle.
“…would I have been?” Sylvien wonders. “If something was wrong with it, I mean?”
“Er…probably not. But you might have wished otherwise. He’s deadly serious when it comes to wood. You must have really impressed him.”
“I just know a good place to find it,” Sylvien says absently. Fufucha was always approving of his hauls, but she was never quite so…ardent. Sylvien’s toes curl in his boots—he suddenly feels oddly fidgety. “What do you need to do to be a carpenter?”
He asks the question before he even knows he’s thinking it. Ferreol looks to the man behind the desk.
“Corgg...?”
“Well—Beatin inspects the new recruits himself. And I should warn you, he does not tolerate those who take the craft lightly. Carpentry…” He clears his throat and launches into a somewhat intimidating speech about the long and storied tradition of woodworking in Gridania, of which Sylvien hears approximately half. His thoughts keep drifting back to Beatin’s fingers, curling possessively around the wood that Sylvien had so carefully sought out and cut...
"So, shall I send you to introduce yourself properly?" Corgg finishes, interrupting his wandering thoughts. “Although...given how excited he was, he may not wish to be disturbed just yet...”
Perhaps he means nothing by it, but with the current trajectory of Sylvien’s thoughts, the remark draws to mind some rather suggestive images. Suddenly, the guild lobby begins to feel a little too warm.
“N-no, I should…probably get back to the Growery,” Sylvien stammers, though he wonders if that’s where he’ll actually end up, with this distracting and perplexing heat squirming under his skin.
“Then you should take this,” Ferreol says, pulling a piece of parchment from a stack on the desk. “Latest order, for now. The spruce is especially looked-for at the moment…”
Sylvien appreciates the details, for he has never felt so disappointed by his own inability to read the list in his hands. Spruce grows in the north, and outside of Coerthas, many of the most productive stands have been decimated by the Calamity, but Sylvien can think of a few spots. An unpleasant time of year to travel so near the icy mountains, but with a better coat, it should be tolerable. The hardiest trees are the ones to have withstood those colder climes—and if Beatin wants spruce, Sylvien will deliver the best the forest has to offer.
One more glance towards the doorway as he leaves, though the Timbermaster makes no reappearance. Sylvien bites his lip, glances uselessly again at the paper in his hands, then, with a quick farewell to Ferreol and Corgg, darts back out into the chill.
The blast of icy air that greets him cools his inopportune arousal in short order, but a less familiar feeling still glows in his chest as he walks briskly across the Knot. You must have really impressed him. And he will do so again, Sylvien resolves, for he feels oddly certain that he can. The order list he can’t read crinkles in his fingers as his grip tightens, and he redoubles his pace through the city. Fufucha will tell him what else he needs, and if she questions his renewed motivation…well, she probably won’t, and Sylvien doesn’t intend to linger, anyway.