A ship has arrived. A maid sits proud as her hair is shorn to resupply the boat's lines.
A young and rotund deaf woman would arrive during this schedule to carve molds from soft wood. Maron liked to catch her, as she tied her dark hair back with a single knot of silver, an uncommon sight in Quarter Harbor, before she would slip in the back behind a curtain. She was easy to look upon and Maron always tried to wave her to him, but she would not respond to him, or anyone else. Even the patrons of her work knew better than to bother. She had garnered the reputation of an idiot. The slight often frustrated him, most often on days when he could not get her out of his head. He could often envision her in his small apartment, carving small useless things. Maron could consider himself happy for it.
One day the old woman seemed particularly aware. She caught his arm while Maron was lifting a portrayal of a whiteplume: A flightless bird whose noisy, carnivorous habits cleared the harbor line of insects and left a queasiness in the young man for days when he first observed them on his arrival to Quarter Harbor.
"You are a fine young man, coming to visit an old woman day after day." the crone uttered.
He was embarrassed at the compliment, which stung like a poisonous barb.
"It's nothing, really." Marion replied and paused, seeking out a fleeting glimpse of the deaf girl, "Where is the soothand who is always here? The crafter for your figurines?"
"My daughter, Vaerya?"
"Yes. Off to the State. A man who spoke like you mentioned Greenward needing molders."