[Kyda]
Claire’s steadfast approach worked to elicit my most common emotion as of late - satisfaction. This wasn’t an instance of self-aggrandizement; it was born of a careful and complex plan falling neatly into place. My motive behind choosing Claire wasn’t rooted in compassion or charity. I needed an assistant – but an ordinary locally homogenized person- who wouldn’t crumble under strain, who would flex to accommodate inconceivable and odd without questioning or worse, breaking.
In the months leading up to Claire's recruitment, I observed countless individuals in various walks of life, always analyzing their potential. From scholars to craftsmen, from the nobility to the common people, each interaction was an opportunity for me to study their reactions, their methods of dealing with unexpected challenges.
I sought a rare blend of traits - resilience, curiosity, adaptability, and most significantly, the ability to uphold clarity in the face of the unimaginable, as long as a steady hand was present to guide. Humans were generally ruled by emotions, their reactions often tainted by fear, bias, or confusion. Yet, Claire, from my observations, managed to transcend these limitations. My prevailing hypothesis regarding the source of this trait doesn't attribute it to some personal growth or accomplishment. Instead, it is likely born out of a history of repeatedly being suppressed whenever she exhibited the slightest sign of autonomy. There came a point where she simply relinquished control of her life. In my view, it is far more preferable to channel this passive adaptability into a meaningful endeavor than waste it on cleaning filthy tavern floors.
In my existence, I've become intimately acquainted with the principles of precision and calculation. Each decision, every action I take is underpinned by an unwavering commitment to rationality. This perspective enables me to identify an intriguing quality in Claire, a form of cognitive flexibility. In her, I see a consciousness that can bear the burden of the inexplicable without fracturing, that won't succumb to the chaotic whirlwind of emotions, but rather scrutinizes, explores, and absorbs. Intriguingly, this trait stands in stark contrast to my approach to existence. Where Claire has learned to endure by relinquishing control, I persist by exerting it - a testament to our distinct paths in navigating the labyrinth of existence.
In our current circumstances, this trait holds immense value. I, by nature, will not tolerate inefficiency or aimless panic. The shop is my sanctuary, a place of discipline and precision, and I will not have it marred by human hysterics.
Witnessing Claire as she delves deeper into the unfamiliar realm of natural reality that few truly comprehend, her gaze steadfast and resolute, I find my decision confirmed. An understated satisfaction resonates within me, a silent endorsement of Claire's capacity. Indeed, Claire was the accurate selection. Her mind doesn't capitulate in the face of the incomprehensible. Instead, it seems to eagerly comply with the tide I have thrust it into.
The information she is currently assimilating is a significantly redacted, incomplete, even - as a master of my craft might say - bastardized version of the full, intricate truth. Yet, it serves its purpose for the task she is to perform, for my particular intentions. This state of affairs, in itself, is acceptable, even pleasing.
As I continue my tasks, a shift in Claire's energy draws my attention. Her movements had begun to slow, her usual focused expression replaced with a look of fatigue. A soft, involuntary noise resonated in the quiet room, a clear indicator of a biological need - she was hungry.
An undercurrent of irritation at myself ran through my thoughts. Of course, she needed sustenance, a fact that had slipped my mind amidst the torrent of more abstract matters. Claire was not an autonomous construct, she was a biological entity with basic needs. Ensuring her well-being was essential if she was to be of any use to me.
Recognizing the lapse in my judgement, I turned my attention to Claire, her state of fatigue now more apparent to me. It seems we were due for an unscheduled outing, a necessary excursion for the maintenance of the newest addition to my workshop. "Come, Claire," I spoke, my voice holding a calculated hint of softness. "We have an errand to run."
I turned towards the door of the workshop, retrieving and clasping my long gambeson around me. I noted out of the corner of my eye that Claire remained standing, looking slightly bewildered. Of course, the need for explicit directives. I paused and turned back to her.
"Claire," I stated, ensuring clarity in my tone, "grab a cloak from the chest immediately before the workshop entrance and accompany me. We're going to the mercantile district."
Recognition flickered in her eyes as she nodded and moved towards the chest. She extracted a simple cloak, fumbling slightly as she draped it around her shoulders. Despite a fleeting impulse to assist her, I refrained, understanding the importance of building self-reliance through unaided repetition of even the simplest tasks. Adaptation to this new life required significant independence.
Despite our efficient departure, my optics lingered on Claire's worn boots, forgotten by the entryway. I found myself oddly displeased by their pathetic state, aggravated that they hadn't been disposed of as refuse by some passerby. It was as though the simple existence of these decrepit shoes was a blight, an absurd affront to the progress we were making. I quickly chided myself for this unproductive fixation, but not before silently vowing to replace those abhorrent boots with something far more suitable, practical, and deserving of Claire's use. Their previous presence on Claire's feet, a symbol of her struggle, would soon become a relic of a life that was rapidly transforming under my instruction.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Upon efficiently exiting through the shopfront, the city streets bustle with the day's activities. We navigate our way towards the marketplace. Claire kept a careful distance from me, her eyes taking in the environment with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. The animated chatter of the crowds, the array of colors from the various stalls, the distinct aroma of street food; it was all part of the tapestry of the town that Claire was yet to fully understand due to her previous occupation with survival. I noted that the town, while still not passable as a significant settlement by any means, was vastly improved in ambiance from the night to the day. The lack of the typical nighttime dissidents and menacing alley shadows did wonders for the city’s atmosphere.
The mercantile district, while considered by the locals as the pulsating heart of the town, presented itself to me as a truly rudimentary assemblage of commerce and trade. Rows of jumbled buildings crouched together, their mismatched rooftops a disarray against the sky. The constant hum of negotiation filled the air, an endless drone of exchanges and haggling, peppered with the harsh chink of currency. Scents of various origins vied for dominance - overripe fruits, the somewhat cloying sweetness of fresh bread, the musty smell of leather, and the metallic tang of subpar quality metalware. Vendors, a mix of artisans and merchants, peddled their goods with a desperation that reeked of small-town myopia, their inventory an inconsistent jumble of necessary and superfluous items.
This district, it seemed, was a source of local pride for the inhabitants, a hub of economic activity, and perhaps even a symbol of prosperity. For me, however, the mercantile district was nothing more than a half step up from the based biological necessity that brought us here, populated by petty tradespeople and pretend craftsmen. It was a mere shadow when compared to the grand, structured marketplaces of larger cities, which I do not view in significantly higher regard. This little district was a testament to the limitations of the town, a microcosm of its simple existence and its constrained vision.
Turning to Claire, I inquired, "Do you have any preference for your meal?"
Claire seemed taken aback by the question, her eyes widening a little before she managed to shake her head. "No, uhhh... Whatever you think is appropriate..."
"Are you certain you have no preference?" I pressed.
A hint of surprise flashed in her eyes, followed by uncertainty. She seemed to ponder for a moment before shaking her head. "No, I... I mean, what should I address you as?"
"Address me as?" I repeated, mildly taken aback by her question. It seemed I had underestimated the significance she attached to labels. "My designation is Kyda. You may refer to me as such."
"Oh," Claire responded, nodding slowly, yet a layer of confusion still painted her features. "Just... Kyda?"
Affirming, I simply said, "Correct, just Kyda. However, if you find a need for formal address, considering our professional association, you may refer to me as 'Instructor'."
She mulled over this for a few moments before replying, "Alright then... Instructor Kyda."
Her immediate acceptance of the term was a good sign. As we ventured through our outing, I observed a gradual shift in Claire. There was an increasing ease to her demeanor, a sign that she was adjusting to the unfamiliar dynamics I'd introduced to her life.
As our venture progressed, I registered an opportunity to address an issue anything but overlooked. The quality of Claire's footwear. The same worn and mended boots she was wearing during our first encounter, an encounter that now seems to have occurred prior a startling amount of progress. While those of lesser means often invested in cheaper, less durable goods that ultimately incurred greater costs due to frequent replacements, Claire was no longer of lesser means.
This inefficiency was unacceptable.
"We must address the condition of your footwear, Claire," I stated matter-of-factly, steering our course towards a nearby cobbler's establishment. An array of freshly made boots were showcased in the windows, while the rhythmic hammering of the cobbler's work echoed from within.
Claire glanced at her boots, then at me, her brows furrowing slightly. "My boots? They're still serviceable, Kyda."
"A temporary state," I responded, my gaze raking over the various options presented in the window, assessing their utility. "We are going to get you a new pair. And a custom order for the long term." The underlying thought remained unsaid - the added cost now would save resources down the line. I concluded that my logic was cold and unyielding, focused only on the most efficient outcome.
Following our brief discussion, we ventured into the cobbler's shop, a quaint establishment lined with rows of footwear varying from simple utilitarian styles to more ostentatious designs. Claire watched with wide-eyed fascination as the cobbler measured her feet, meticulously noting each dimension with an experienced eye. The process was fascinating in its banality, even to me, who had no personal need for such things. Claire left the shop with a pair of sturdy, well-crafted boots on her feet, visibly more comfortable and confident. The bespoke pair were to be collected later. It was a practical resolution, one that satisfied my concern for Claire's maintenance while also reinforcing her capability in my service.
We returned to the workshop with our arms laden with food and new clothing. It had been a fruitful excursion, illuminating for both of us. Claire was becoming more comfortable in her new role, and I, in turn, was reminded of the basic human necessities I had to account for. This evolving partnership, while requiring adjustments, was proving to be beneficial. Acceptable, even pleasing.
I nodded, purchasing a selection of food items — bread, a chunk of cheese, some apples, and a bit of dried meat. The quantity was more than I usually procured, but I had to consider Claire's sustenance now.
The clothing shop was our next stop. Selecting the appropriate attire for Claire took a little more time, as I chose practicality and durability over aesthetic appeal.
As the tailor made her measurements, Claire cast a glance my way, uncertainty lingering in her eyes. "These are... for me, instructor?"
"Yes," I affirmed, "appropriate attire is necessary for your maintained health and effectiveness during work in the shop."
She fell silent, the hint of surprise in her eyes gradually giving way to quiet acceptance. Claire's behavior throughout the trip remained under my keen observation. Her cautious demeanor, her quick compliance, and her hesitation to express personal desires were all elements I found notably intriguing, adding to my initial assessment of her.
Returning to the workshop, our hands laden with food and new clothing, I considered the outing a success. Claire had managed the unexpected journey well, showing the delightful flexibility for which I had selected her. These traits, coupled with her eagerness to acquire sufficient if limited education left me satisfied and cautiously optimistic about the unfolding dynamics of our relationship.