Galana lets a sheet of linen fall onto the cutting table, light and airy. She likes it when it comes in fresh from the field like this, still smelling of the green outdoors. But linen has no give in it, unyielding when she smooths it and pulls it taut.
She washes thick and greasy wool, still heavy with lanolin, her skinny arms aching with the weight of it. Keelen peers over Galana's shoulder with his ever-present frown, shaking his head when she asks if it's clean enough yet. Panting, she wipes her brow on her shoulder, the water in the bucket turning her fingers white and wrinkled.
Long, slick bolts of silk come from the moths of Felwood, spilling over Galana's hands like water. When the shop is quiet on these long, hazy afternoons, the rustle of silk begins to seem constant, and almost maddening.
Keelen has begun to teach her of the materials of magic. There is ozone-smelling mageweave that sparks like fireflies, and the rich embroidery of runecloth. Threads of power tempt Galana's sin'dorei hunger as she traces a fingertip along the raised and darkly gleaming braids, until Keelen clacks a metal straightedge down against the table, startling her from her reverie.
There will be more for her to learn when she has mastered these. Keelen's scissors dance in the light as he so easily shapes alien fabrics from even stranger worlds. Netherweave, with the dark chill of space still lingering in its folds, and frostweave from the north that numbs her fingers at the slightest touch. Keelen catches her warming her hands over the embersilk afterward, and scolds her for her idleness.
Galana gazes longingly out the window as she pins pieces onto a dress form, a robe taking shape around wooden breasts and a wooden waist. She tries to keep her mind on her craft, but she can see the afternoon shadows lengthening on the red pavement of the Bazaar, and her heart is already quickening, anticipating.
At last, she hears the sound she's waiting for: a distant rumble, growing to an engine's roar as the motorbike pulls up outside the shop, idling there.
Galana breaks into a grin of delight as she hastily folds up her work. She's so eager that she nearly trips as she rounds the bench, grabbing her bag where it hangs by the door.
"Did you finish Mr. Sunsong's buttons?" Keelen asks, bringing her up short.
"Yes, sir," she answers sweetly, reaching up to fix her ponytail. "May I go now?"
Keelen's brow creases in disapproval. "You and that tauren... I just don't know." He shakes his head and snips a thread.
The motorbike's horn sounds twice. Galana looks at Keelen expectantly with her hand on the door, bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet.
Keelen sighs. "Yes, you may go."
The words have barely left his lips before she races out of the shop. Harene is waiting for her astride the bike, the silver snaps and buckles of her jacket gleaming in the sun.
When she sees Galana coming, Harene's mouth curls into a sly smile. An upwards jerk of her head serves as a greeting, and she opens her arm to help Galana hop up behind her, letting her settle into the seat.
"You all set?"
Galana slides her arms around Harene's waist — a fluttery thrill at the soft leather of her jacket under her palms. She delights in the rich, smoky scent of it as she presses her cheek against the druid's back. The feeling of leather is the feeling of Harene, warm and alive in her arms, and the purr of the engine beneath them.
"Let's go," Galana says, holding tight, and they ride.