I’m married to a crafty lady, I know lots of people in the props biz; this is all to say that “some of my best friends are crafters.” I have absolutely no beef with people who make enduring objects out of thread, I was just very surprised to see Gabe up knitting. I mean, it’s just art I guess; I shouldn’t be too surprised.

I made a few stitches about ten years ago, and was fascinated by it. Here’s a portion of a knitting pattern:

Ch 1. 1 sc in first sc. 1 sc in next ch-1 space (sp). *Ch 1. Skip next sc. 1 sc in next ch-1 sp. Rep from * to last sc. 1 sc in last sc. Turn.

(UPDATE: That is not a knitting pattern, but a crochet pattern! SOme places online have both, and I messed that up. Take a look at what I think is a knitting pattern:

Using MC, CO 2 sts. Row 1 (RS): KFB, Sl1 WYIF. (3 sts) Row 2 (WS): K1, P1, Sl1 WYIF. Row 3: KFB, K to last st, Sl1 WYIF. (1 st inc)

Right?!?)

That’s like something you’d find etched inside a tomb. Like, a tomb that is usually flooded but empties out once every decade when the moon is especially close. I did make those stitches, like I said. And then I realized that I’d have to make more of them. So many more. I put the needles down and then nestled into the Doctor Who special. But he stuck with it, and it’s rad. I’m trying to get him to knit a scarf for next year’s Child’s Play dinner. I’m hoping eleven months is enough time.

Hey, I’ve got one more little piece of #cteam fic here, art assist by Rosie Beestinger herself, Kate Welch. ——-

Coriander, who was once a horse and still is in many ways that count, has developed an appetite for gold coins that makes friendship with the beast an expensive proposition. It takes money. Which Rosie Beestinger has.

Rosie has come to visit her friend the horse in the Carriage House, which ennobles the structure a bit. It has a roof, and there is a carriage in it, so she feels that no lies have been told. She has swung open the two broad doors that face the street, and as she does so Coriander winnies, a sound that projects down through the steel-clad hooves and is felt through the Rosie’s sandals. The horse was resting, which means she is compact, and as near as anyone knows is impervious to harm. She begins to unfold, the body rising off the sturdy legs, the joints widening. Green shoots and vines stretch and flex in the cracks.

“Coriander, it’s done,” she says, and unrolls the map. The horse is intent on nibbling the corner. “No, no,” Rosie says. “No. You look at it, with your eyes, like this.”

There’s the Kryptgarden Forest, or what there was of it - where it would be again. She would not put the name Nemezir on this map, for it was no more. Walnut had seen to that, and Coriander had been there. This map didn’t go up to Skolla, and even if it had… She was old enough to know certain things. Who knew what it would be called, really, once revolution had scorched the city tip to tail. Why waste the time writing it? Coriander had been there, also. It was Coriander who she’d told the story of their return to Red Larch, and somehow the magic she had learned made it so.

Coriander had seen what she was going to of the pretty paper Rosie would not let her eat. She began sniffing around the old woman’s robes for snacks. “You’re very persistent, aren’t you girl?” says old monk, running her hand over the cool brass muzzle. “So am I.” She fishes a coin from one of her innumerable pockets, and lays it gently on the dry, gray tongue.

(CW)TB out.