#double width weaving

[adains-knit-blog]

Double width weave blanket is off the loom! Unfortunately, I made a mistake in the warping phase and didn't realize it until I was halfway done weaving. In the middle, there are two repeats of the green square right next to each other. I know how to fix that if I tried this project again, and I do want to give it another go at some point. Overall, not bad for my first time trying this kind of thing!

[intergalacticfop]

Minoan Kilt

The large, structural skirt worn by Minoan women in art is instantly recognizable, and when I made my own I combined current best guesses with my own personal tastes.

My kilt shape follows the hypothesis laid out by Bernice Jones in her book Ariadne's Threads: The Construction and Significance of Clothes in the Aegean Bronze Age. She describes the shape of that of a labrys, a double-headed axe with apparent ceremonial significance in Ancient Minoan culture. This garment may be depicted in Linear-B logogram *166 + we, we-being the backwards-s-shaped squiggle in the center which identifies the piece as a garment.

See pages 336 and 341 in Marie-Louise B. Nosch, The Textile Logograms in the Linear B Tablets

Actual details on construction and materials below the cut:

Construction:

The top and bottom edges of the kilt are concave, so the sides are longer than the middle. This gives the chevron-shape seen on layered kilts in art. In addition, the curved top half makes the skirt flare out, accommodating the hips and giving more freedom of movement to the legs. My kilt measured from my waist to my anklebone at the longest point, and about 1.5 times around my waist.

I chose to make a flounced kilt, with smaller strips of fabric and trim applied to a large base piece, rather than a tiered kilt, in which multiple kilt shapes of varying length are layered one on top of the other, so you end up wrangling 3 layers of fabric around the waist. The flounced kilt saves fabric and gives you a lot more freedom with whatever trim you might want. Jones' diagram for a flounced kilt is seen below:

Unlike the version in the diagram above, I chose not to attach ties to the garment itself both because the linen I used was very heavy and I was concerned about weight, and also because folding the skirt and securing it with a separate tie worked just fine for my tastes. In total I had four flounces: 2 alternating rows each of fabric and fringe.

The vertical edges of most kilts are left plain, probably representing either the selvage or an edge otherwise finished off to prevent fraying. For my kilt, however, I ended up with a couple inches of self-fringe on either side as I adjusted the fabric to the correct width. At least three examples of kilts with fringed vertical edges are known, all three from the so-called "House of the Ladies" in Akrotiri

Photos from Wikimedia Commons. Image 1. Image 2.

The vertical edges of these kilts are reinforced with a colored band or tape, probably to keep the garment from unintentional further fraying. Accordingly, I did the same on my kilt. I also like that it gave a nice vertical diagonal to counterbalance the horizontal ones.

Materials

I tried to use mainly linen and wool, the fibers most available on Ancient Crete, but some of my trim was cotton because sometimes you just have to use what's cheap and available in the today times.

The base of my kilt is a heavy, patterned linen in what's called a diaper weave, meaning that a repeating diamond pattern is woven into the pattern itself. A lot of the Minoan textiles depicted in frescoes are characterized by repeating geometric patterns, likely woven into the fabric itself, and that was something I wanted to capture in my own piece. My linen is woven with both cream and natural colored threads. The heavy weight is important to give structure to the garment--otherwise it would be kind of limp. My linen was from Burnley & Trowbridge (shameless plug), as was the plain cotton twill tape I used to bind the top and bottom edges of the kilt, and the dark red wool twill tape I used along the vertical edges.

I bought my cotton fringe from a rug supply store. I had to search a while to find a fringe that would work for me, and I ultimately chose fringes with a woven header rather than the more common knotted one, so that it would lay flat against the kilt. I hid the woven header under a layer of cotton fringed trim from Michaels (yes, Michaels) with this really great diamond and dots pattern woven in black.

The blue layers are from a bolt of vintage wool Kimono fabric. Blue appears frequently in frescoes, likely achieved with indigo or woad dye, or even murex/mollusk dye. The fabric is printed with an imitation ikat pattern of diamonds and squares that made me think "the vibes seem right!" because quite frankly, you aren't going to get "historically accurate" Minoan textiles (which there probably isn't enough archaeological evidence to definitively describe) without, like, hand-weaving it yourself or paying someone hundreds of dollars to do it for you (and that price is if the weaver really likes you). Neither of which appealed to my desire to just make a fun, low stress project. Good enough is good enough.

The narrow trim on the bottom of the blue flounces is vintage cotton/poly woven trim. This trim, while narrow, was quite thick and stiff, which was great because it added more weight and structure to the end of my flounces since the wool fabric itself was quite thin.

The top layer is a custom tablet-woven wool trim that I commissioned from MAHTAVAhandicraft on Etsy. I imagined this as the "centerpiece" of my kilt, and I'd arrange everything to complement it.

It's a kivrim pattern, which has itself only been traced to 19th-century Anatolia, but I didn't care. The way it looks like waves reminded me of how central the sea was to life in the Ancient Aegean and Mediterranean and it captured the idea and aesthetic I was pursuing. I mean, doesn't it remind you of these dolphins?

(I like the dolphins)

The whole thing was machine sewn with the exception of hemming and adding trim to the blue flounces. If you were to look at it from the back, you'd see lots of zigzag stitches, because i wanted to be fast! and have fun! not chase some unreachable ideal of "accurate."

As for wearing it, I chose to wear it with the top part folded/rolled down over a belt, so I have a thick tube of fabric around my waist. Many images, like the frescoes above of women with fringed kilts, appear to just show the kilt being tied closed. Other images are so fragmented or stylized that it's unclear what kind of skirt closure was used. Sculptures and figurines definitely show some kind of SOMETHING around the waist, whether this is folded fabric or a kind of belt is unclear. Different art could show different things!

I think I see evidence of a continuous line from the skirt to the waist-roll on the figure on the left, found in Troas, which I think indicates some kind of skirt-folding situation. The woman on the right, found in Crete, looks more like she's wearing some kind of long coiled belt, or perhaps snakes. Who knows? I don't! For my own part, I found the combination of rolled waist + tie belt the most secure for doing things like kneeling, stomping around, and wading into rivers to rescue bees. I also liked that it gave me the bulk around the hips that gives Minoan figurines such a powerful silhouette, and proportionally gives more of an hourglass shape. If you wanted to do something more firmly grounded in the sources, stick just with the waist tie or belt, wrapped around a couple times and tied in back. If you want to be like me, just say "well we don't KNOW it didn't happen" and just do whatever you want. Have fun! Whatever happens, it should be fairly easy to move around in the kilt--this is not a restrictive garment, just a heavy one.

[planetsano]

↻ 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: a gripping tale of love as the reader navigates a complex relationship with the infamous toji fushiguro OR toji fushiguro being a shit boyfriend should be a case study!

↻ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: age gap (20’s ↝ 30’s), toxic relationship, smut.

↻ 𝗯𝘆𝗿: female reader, female bodied reader.

You see, the thing about Toji Fushiguro is that he’s always been unapologetically and shamelessly him— he’ll always be a man that will be forever stuck in his own ways. He’s selfish, crude, insensitive, and would do anything no matter how foul and evil to put him forward.

So.. it’s cute— no, admirable that you thought you could change him. A pretty, young thing in her twenties dealing with a wreck of a man like him. How sick is that? Really, your first red flag should have been him wearing a shirt three times too small.

Yeah, the age gap was certainly.. more than a few years, which heavily attributed to the mental disconnect in the relationship. You were bright-eyed and naïve, so much life in you and hadn’t experienced a drop of what real life was like. You often romanticized life, finding beauty in the simplest of moments and weaving dreams from the fabric of everyday experiences. Your vivid imagination painted the world with colors unseen by most, turning mundane occurrences into enchanting adventures.

You held on to the “love could conquer all!” and “I can fix him!” mentality or something like that. But your optimism was a double-edged sword, pushing you to cling to the relationship while also blinding you to the reality that perhaps you both needed different things in life. You needed a life partner and he needed a tight cunt to fuck.

It’s ironic because you approached him first.

“Mister Toji..? What’s your wife like?” You shyly played with the ends of your hair, avoiding his gaze like the plague. “Ah?” Toji raised a brow at you, slightly surprised by the forwardness of your question. “Oh right, ‘don’t have a wife.” “Oh..” You feel your face and the tips of your ears become hot with embarrassment. “Well maybe I could.. make you dinner sometime..?”

Toji liked the appeal of having a woman half his age on his arm. But what he simply could not stand was the amount of energy required for it— oh, don’t misunderstand, he never put forth any real efforts anyway, but it was simply the.. expectation. Toji didn’t give a fuck about dates or anniversaries, all he cared about was emptying his balls inside of your pussy, the hot dinners you make for him and cozy shelter you provide.

You liked to play housewife in your own silly little delusion, finding comfort in the make-believe world where everything was picture-perfect. The idea of being the nurturing, organized, and devoted partner gives you a sense of purpose, shielding you from the harsh realities of what really was. It was a cozy escape, a refuge where you could pretend that all your worries were mere fiction.

Yet, there were moments when the illusion began to unravel, and a whisper of doubt crept into your mind. Were you truly content with this role you had assumed, or were you sacrificing your true desires in pursuit of an idealized version of yourself? The nagging ty made you question if he really loved you as much as you were in love with him. Or at all for that matter. He was a busy man but would returning a call really hinder his day? Would a text twist his arm so much? You never ask though, you would hate to upset him or come across as “immature.”

But if he’s just so horrible, this.. big, bad man who found it annoying that you..? That you wanted to hold hands in public! What made you stay? Why stay with a man that seemed to only have his best interest in heart and you were a second, sometimes third, or forth.

His cock.

That cock was an addiction that you had no intention of quitting. The way this man fucked you was enough to liquidate your mind— leaving you nearly brain-dead as his warm seed oozes from your hole. The width of his cock alone made you stretch an absurd amount, teetering the edge of comfortability. His tip relentlessly gives your cervix a beating— bruising it and leaving a delicious soreness that lasts for nights.

Toji’s physical presence was undeniably imposing and large, that alone makes you feel like a delicate trinket, one treasured and protected. Yet, paradoxically, the way he handled you was anything but delicate. His hands, strong and calloused, held a certain roughness that spoke of a life lived on the edge, battle-hardened and weathered. He folds your body as though you were a ragdoll— regardless of your size.

When he’s gone for days on end, you find yourself yearning for his fulfillment— no hand or toy will satisfy you the way he does. Toji’s ruined sex for you.

Toji withheld affection from you whether it was intentional or not. So when he did praise you it felt as though you were a pretty princess— chemically altering your pretty little brain more than a little bit.

He often kept his emotions locked away, leaving you hesitant of where you stood in his heart. The lack of affection was a constant ache, leaving you yearning for even the smallest crumbs of his praise. Yet, when those rare moments arrived, it felt like a euphoric rush, flooding your mind with a mix of serotonin and dopamine.

His praise, though infrequent, had an intoxicating effect on you. It was like soaring to the highest of heavens, as if the whole universe had aligned in your favor. In those fleeting instances, self-doubt dissolved, and you basked in the warmth of his approval, feeling valued and cherished.

But the hesitation lingered, a cloud of doubt that never fully dissipated. You wondered if his praises were genuine or merely an act of throwing a dog a bone, a way to keep you satiated so you wouldn’t throw one of your fits. The chemistry of emotions within you danced between soaring highs and daunting lows, creating a rollercoaster of feelings you couldn’t control.

You found yourself seeking those rare moments of praise like an addict craving their next fix, yearning for his validation and acceptance. The intoxicating mix of emotions left you captivated and vulnerable, making it hard to see beyond the haze of his allure and your love goggles. You chose to believe a ring is on it's way at the end of the day.

“You did a good job today, lovebug.” “Really?” “Mm.”

And you jump, just like a lap dog. But don’t feel bad, I would too if I had a man as fine as Toji. Woof. ♡

[jewellery-box]

Robe à la Française

French, ca. 1770

The robe à la française, with open robe and petticoat, was the quintessential dress of the eighteenth century. Characteristic of 1770s costume are the piece's low neckline, fitted bodice, narrow sleeves with double layered cuffs, as well as the sack back and fullness at the hips supported by panniers. This exquisite example is constructed from a rare Chinese export silk dating from the first quarter of the eighteenth century. The textile is an ivory "bizarre" patterned damask (created by reversing the weave structure so that both the warp-float and weft-float faces of the satin are on the same surface).

As early as the late sixteenth century, Chinese craftsmen created silks for the European market, which were exported by the East India companies of England, France, and Holland. Due to the exchange of design motifs by both Eastern and Western artisans, Chinese export silks often bore little relation to traditional Chinese aesthetics. While this patterned damask closely resembles the European "bizarre" silks popular during the first quarter of the eighteenth century, the selvedge-to-selvedge width, fabric weight, and selvedge markings all indicate Chinese manufacture. To fully appreciate the sumptuousness of this dress, one might imagine the sense of movement candlelight would have created across its surface.

The MET Museum

[crookedtines]

For some reason I never considered that looms could be small and projects could be accessible ?? How did you get started weaving and what resources did you use?? I saw some of the work you’ve made and I want to get started learning so badly!! Help!

Yess! Weaving is great because of how accessible it can be!! Something I also only recently realized!

I've been enamored with weaving ever since 6 year old me saw an enormous floor loom in action at a textile museum. Despite my fascination with textiles, it still took 20ish years before I picked up weaving as a hobby. Looms were pricy, big, and complicated. It wasn't until I came across bandweaving that it really felt like something I could casually pick up without committing to spending a ton of time and money. I started with tablet weaving, but have since switched to weaving with a heddle. I've been learning by referencing books, looking up weaving process videos, and a lot of trial, error, and experimentation.

Here's a list of resources for two very accessible types of weaving that don't need a loom:

Resources for tablet weaving

Tablets can be bought, but are also easy to make at home from a deck of cards, cereal boxes, recycled plastic, etc. You can find a tutorial for creating your own here.

Tablets at Work by Claudia Wollny An incredibly comprehensive book featuring 22 tablet weaving techniques. The book is written in German and English. Highly recommend for the very enthusiastic.

Card Weaving by Candace Crockett The book that got me started. Easy to follow, informative, and much cheaper and easier to find than Tablets at Work.

Elewys of Finchingefeld A great youtube channel for historic tablet weaving.

Resources for weaving with a heddle

Rigid heddles can be bought or laser cut, and string heddles are created at home out of yarn/string. They are similar, but offer different advantages. Rigid heddles can be simpler to work with, especially if you're working with multiple sheds. String heddles require a few more steps to open the down shed, but don't distort the width of your warp threads. This allows you to weave further down your warp, and makes it easier to keep an even band width.

Here is tutorial for creating your own string heddles.

Norwegian Pick-Up Bandweaving by Heather Torgenrud The book that I learned from! Focuses on pick-up weaving, but is a good introduction to bandweaving in general.

Durham Weaver has a blog and youtube channel. They tend to focus on Scandinavian style weaving, and feature content on weaving with a double slotted heddle, as well as how to set up your warp.

Backstrap Weaving by Laverne Waddington is a blog packed with information about weaving with string heddles. They tend to focus on Latin American style weaving.

A Spinner Weaver is a blog about inkle weaving, though the techniques can be done off of a loom as well. Inkle looms are among the cheaper looms and are designed for bandweaving.

[blatantescapism]

@disgruntled-lifeform I know you’re fishing for a different answer, but unfortunately I really do have to agree with @iplaywithstring that you should sample to figure this one out.

Because your warp is under tension and your weft is thick, the natural tendency will be for the cloth to want to become weft-faced.

You can’t afford to weave with lighter warp tension, because you need your sheds to be nice and crisp to avoid accidentally sewing your folded fabric together.

You can’t be too severe with weft tension, because the selvage on the fold side needs to be perfectly flat and even, lest there be a wonky stripe down the middle when you unfold your finished cloth.

My best recommendation is to do a very shallow “bubble” and beat lightly, because over-beating will absolutely worsen the warp-faced tendency.

But the true test of the fabric is how it behaves once it’s cut free and wet-finished,

so this is why sampling is so important.

Extra important because you’re doing double-wide cloth for the first time.

Plus, the way the yarn is spun can have a big effect on tension and shrinkage and how it lies and how it washes up. Does the yarn’s larger diameter come from being spun thicker and bouncier, or does it come from having more plies? The larger the project, the more noticeable the effect will be.

In conclusion, sorry, but you really ought to sample. 😖

…..

If your question is “how much yarn should I buy for weft”, and you CAN’T sample yet because you haven’t bought the yarn yet, then there is in fact a mathable way to estimate, but you want to err on the generous side for sure.

I believe that with your 71% number, you’re on the right track if you buy 3 yards of weft for every 4 you buy of warp, but oh gosh the Consequences of running out!

I am a silly goose and will be asking a plethora of poorly worded weaving questions over the next little while.

Sorry about that >.<

I will be reblogging this post with said silly questions.

Silly Question the First:

When calculating for a double weave fabric, do I make my width measurements based off my loom width or my finished unfolded cloth?

Does that question make sense?

For example, the finished unfolded cloth measured 24", so do I make my calculations with 24" or with 12"?

[onyxbird]

Spent two episodes of Critical Role working on my first attempt at double-faced tablet weaving, and I'm quite pleased with how my little sampler band is turning out! Warped it in gray and black to try some Vax'ildan-inspired patterns given what I was planning to listen to while working (and because simple daggers seemed like an achievable pattern).

It did include some frustrating periods of unweaving to correct things (requiring some sleuthing to figure out exactly how to turn the cards back), but frankly surprisingly little considering I was tweaking the designs of both the daggers and the letters on the fly. (Apparently luck really was on my side today. 😉)

The back side comes out in the same pattern but reversed colors.

The original alphabet pattern I used as a starting point was from Jeanne Clifton (https://sites.google.com/site/elenasthreads/card-weaving/my-card-weaving-patterns). I made multiple tweaks to the letters for my weave, including thickening all the horizontal pieces to get more even width in the woven letters.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Just to kiss me (Part 3)

pairing: Finnick Odair x reader

(AO3 mirror)

Part One, Part Two, My Hunger Games Masterlist

summary: A night at the lake goes sour. Finnick does some reflecting

warnings: drowning, implied drug use, references to depression, some hurt/comfort (although there will be more in the next part)

required reading: The song "We'll never have sex" by Leith Ross &lt;3

a/n: plot??? in my fic??? who woulda thought

wc: 3.4k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, you kissed me just to kiss me

Not to take me home

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s cold. Sharp, shallow breaths, and his head pounds in his skull. The weight of a thousand depths on his chest. Something pressing behind his eyes; his head filled with lead. 

Finnick opens his eyes, and he’s met with the bright lights of the mens bathroom. Cold ceramic against his palms as he looks into the basin’s mirror; its ornate frame spanning the width of the double sinks. Beyond its walls, the dull thrum of the gala. Behind him, a man steps out of a stall, donned in shiny grease and draped fabric. Finnick flashes a well practised smile, and steps out.

He walks through the corridors, transforming. Shoulders back, upright, leisurely pace. Walk in like he's Finnick Odair; capitol darling. A deep breath, and he steps through gilded double doors. 

The Great Hall is packed, unsurprisingly. They all blur together, a writhing mass of limbs and wine. Hushed whispers and elbows and raised eyebrows: it washes over him like water. 

Easygoing and free flowing, he drifts between embankments of people. He tugs on the sleeve of his jacket absent-mindedly. Pulling at the threads was an art, at this point. Between sips of champagne, a gentle hand on the back, a well-placed compliment; he pulls and pulls, until they're almost threadbare. An art; skills honed in those four walls, the victory tour, press conferences, a life of cameras and glamour. Watching, always watching. And so he puts on a show. 

Some of his best work yet, he thinks. In the middle of a conversation about a raucous night with Panem's finest; he spots something. Someone. A girl in the corner, eyes flitting around the room like it's her first time. There's always one, shaky, doesn't know how to pretend like the rest of them; she hasn't built that reflex yet. His mouth moves faster than he can think; ichor flows like it's second nature. The group around him; enraptured. He likes this part, at least. Weaving stories, watching the fish in the river rush past his ankles. 

BANG! A spear into the heart of a writhing salmon, and he slams his glass on a side table. "....it was like a rocket! Cora's on the floor, Alaris can barely stand and I'm still trying to figure out which way's up…" laughter erupts from the crowd around him. The girl barely glances at him. He watches as she tucks herself behind the desserts tray, wholly more interested in the cakes than him. She's pretty, of course, but they always are. A newcomer floundering like he once did, overwhelmed by the sharp teeth and pink tongues. He's still tugging at the thread of his jacket. 

In the afterglow of conversation someone taps his shoulder, presses their lips towards his ear. Discreet. He doesn't look, Finnick knows better. Instead, he waits for instructions. 

"Venia Laurel, on your left, towards the door. He knows something." A familiar voice; of which her name he makes a point not to know. Quietly, he hums in affirmation. 

"How long do I have?" 

"He needs it done tonight."

He flashes a smile at a waiter, grabbing a flute of gold liquid. Under his breath, he says. "I need more time." It was a quicker turnaround than usual; and Finnick needed the time. Whilst stupid, many wouldn't divulge sensitive information that easily; he'd like to avoiding waking up in a bed other than his own. 

"Tonight." Firm. An unspoken threat in the air. He sighs and downs his drink. The mask drops when he begins to move away. And then, sharp nails latch onto his forearm. 

"He knows." She says lowly, voice trembling. Finnick stops like she's stabbed him. He turns, and her eyes are wide, bloodshot, scared. 

He knows. 

He rushes out of her grip, shaking. Thudding at his temples, the lights are too bright, the people too loud. Chest tight, he pulls at his sleeves and almost stumbles into an oncoming tray of hor d'oeuvres. 

In his haze, his manager, bumbling and rosy, slaps a hand on his back. Well-meaning, but it makes him jump. 

"Odair!" He splutters, lips curling so his moustache touches the apples of his cheeks. Any other time, it would've been comical. "We've got a certain Councillor Arachne, who wants a word."

Finnick rubs his eyes, tired. "Now's not the time, Stannis."

The man opposite huffs. "Not the time? She's bankrolling us -I mean - you with her campaign. All she wants is a word. Probably pimping you out to her friends, or something."

He winces at Stannis' bluntness. "Sure… sure. Lead the way."

Every step feels like lead. He's not listening when introduced to Councillor Arachne and another girl about his age. Arachne; a tall, spindly woman, dressed in a simple gown and pearls; stretches her face into a thin-lipped smile. Well-practised, too polished. 

"Mr Odair, how lovely to meet you again!" 

"The pleasure's all mine," He says, shaking her hand. It feels clammy, he's sure of it; the room's hot and thick with sweat. The girl besides her buzzes despite his nerves. "And this is…?"

“V-Vonnie. Sir. Mr Odair… s-sir. My name's Vonnie Dulaire, and I am so excited to meet you…!" She's bright, babbling on and on. Her lips are bubblegum pink, moving at a thousand miles an hour and he's barely able to concentrate - unable to stop thinking about the words spoken to him earlier.

".....and I'm probably your biggest fan! I was actually at the victory tour for your mentee, and it was electric...."

He knows.

".....is your suit custom? I hear there's a stylist you always work with that designs similar looks, like in your last interview…"

He knows.  

"....I can't imagine Ceasar actually said that to you, live! I've got a friend, who swears she 'doesn't watch that kinda crap' but even she said it was quite a scandal…"

He knows. 

"....I got it specially made and I think it matches yours, too. What do you think?"

He snaps his head upwards at the question. He gives her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but enough to dazzle. "Couldn't have said it better myself. I-If you'll excuse me." He nods, walking off towards the door. 

Finnick can't breathe.

Clawing at the collar of his shirt, gold jewellery like a noose around his neck, he stumbles onto the balcony - grateful for the cool air. He was careful, he made sure of it. Made sure there were no eyes, cashed in long-standing favours. How could Snow have found out? 

Dizzy, he steadies himself on the balcony. There wasn't the time for a panic attack, not now. He blinks away hot tears, gasping for a breath. Something clatters on the floor behind him. In the gloom, he makes out the silhouette of a stranger. Of you. 

~~~

You're frozen at first - paralysed with fear on the deck. Finnick isn't moving. A man basically born with gills, sinking into the inky blue. Why wasn't he moving? Did he fall? Where did the blood come from?

A thousand questions, not enough time. You don't think, not really, as you reach for the zipper on your gown. Haphazard, you wrench it off - not caring for the tears and rips created in your wake. Before long, you're in the slip dress underneath miles of beaded net. Barefoot, trembling, you don't hesitate. You take a step back, and jump. 

The first thing you feel is cold; consuming, numbing cold. Calm, for a moment. And then biting realisation. When you surface, you look for a sign of life - anything that can tell you where Finnick is. There are slight bubbles, a few metres away. Deep breaths, and you dive into the blue-black. 

~~~

He can't stop thinking about you.

Finnick sits in white sheets, looking up at the ceiling. Exhausted, but he can't sleep. Gentle snoring from beside him punctuates every thought. In the capitol he's constantly surrounded by beautiful things: gaudy, gauche, sickly-sweet and beautiful. Your meeting on the balcony shouldn't have been anything special, and yet… 

Even in your fancy dress, your personality shone through: kind, funny, genuine. He can't help but replay your laugh, your smile, in his head. Gently, he rolls out of bed. 

It's early in the morning, dregs of sunrise scatter through the window. He's draped in amber light as he pulls on a shirt; padding on plush carpet. In the mirror hanging up in Venia Laurel's bedroom, he looks a sight, he thinks. Sallow, glitter smeared around his eyes, and lean lined. There's a nasty bruise on his neck; bite marks at his stomach. He pokes at them demurely. It's tender, but he'll live. 

Methodical, he makes his search. He starts in the bedroom, pulling at cabinets and looking for false bottom drawers, anywhere that could conceal what he's looking for. Laurel's apartment is surprisingly messy - unexpected for such a clean cut actor. Finnick dabbles in secrets, and the older man certainly divulged; he knew of the actor's connections with ex-gamemakers, but nothing concrete to suggest he leaked plans to interested parties. 

When he searches the grand living room, he stumbles onto something out of place. A panel in the floor, it's lip jutting out of the wood. He presses on it, and it pops out with a hollow clunk. Inside, a chip the size of his thumbnail. Finnick pockets it, hoping it may be what Snow is looking for; hoping to appease the tyrant. It burns a hole in his trousers as he covers his tracks, before calling a pod to take him home. 

He can't sleep, for the usual reasons. Guilt, nightmares, fear; take your pick. It's too nebulous and vague to put a name to; he realises quickly. A ticking clock careening towards the end for as long as he could remember. Tick-tick-tick in his head, a countdown of which he dreads to hear it stop. White noise now, the scratch and itch of it all bone deep. He tried to do a good thing, for once; he tried to help Annie. But Snow knows - and now his punishment will be slow and painful. 

In the weeks that follow, waiting for a knife in the back, he analyses every word. On the balcony, the way your lips curled into laughter, how soft your hand was. It was a fantasy, somehow, one he had to convince himself actually happened. A conversation, lilting and light, that he locks up in his heart for safe-keeping. 

It keeps him distracted at events. Instead of worrying about Snow, he fans his breath, adjusts his collar, and stops picking at his sleeves; preening like a songbird. When he asks for the sleeveless sheer shirt instead of his usual, his stylist humours him and lets him choose, just this once. In the middle of a conversation, when he hears bright laughter, he turns around, looking for you. Waiting on balconies, pacing corridors. He's gone insane, he knows. But he needs something to hold on to. Someone that makes him feel like a good person - like he isn't Finnick Odair. 

~~~

You're not the strongest swimmer. Ironic, considering the circumstances. Moonlight streams into the depths as you look for a hint of gold. The water stings your eyes but in the gloom, you see him. Eerily still and rapidly sinking. You pump your legs desperately; darting towards him as best you can. Lungs screaming for air, you swim further down, reaching out for something to grab onto. The tips of your fingers graze his own. He looks peaceful despite it all: eyes closed and hand outstretched like he always does. Except this time you reach for him, a frantic grab in the dark. 

You touch something. His wrist. Curling your hand around his forearm, you pull, and grab onto one arm and then the other. You're dizzy now, hand hooked onto Finnick, kicking with all the strength you can manage. Upwards you go, closer and closer to the surface as black spots dance across your vision. A little further. A little closer….

~~~

The day of Hadrian's soiree, he pretends he's not looking for you. Pretending proves to be marginally easier than to act like he isn't disappointed when he doesn't find you. Instead, there are droves of people in masks. The hair on the back of his neck bristles: they make him uneasy. He finds it harder without a face to a name, beady eyes through masks that follow him around the room.

His own mask was gaudy; triple faced and golden. Its strap itches his nose, and his eyes are caked in glitter. At his stylist's the night before, she gave him talking points for the reporters - a face looking towards Panem's past, present and future. A handsome young Victor, making waves within the Capitol, championing it's people. Pseudo-patriotic drivel to feed the vultures, he thinks. 

Dregs of conversation drip through the night. It's always the same things - empty gossip and the like. Today's topic is no more poignant: the mentors announced for the 72nd Games. A few familiar faces, and faux shock at those not on the list. Everyone dances around the topic when he lingers, and disperses into whispers when he doesn't. Talking of bets placed and withdrawn at the news, he assumes. 

The truth is, he was tired. It was only right he took Mags' place when he won, but he was so young. Odair, bright-eyed and sprightly. A wonderboy, and Capitol favourite from the start. In the mirror of silvered bowls of food, he sees that little boy with bloodied palms and sunken eyes.

He blinks, hard. The image washes away. Seeing things in the light? A side effect from the little white pills he takes before bed, he's been told. He staggers slightly from the table. Annie tugs at his sleeve from behind. 

"You ok?" she whispers, concerned. 

Finnick brushes her off, chuckling. ".... I should be asking you that. It's not too much?" 

She shakes her head. It's the first time since her victory tour she's been at one of these events, and he's worried that it's too much, too fast. Perceptive as always, he watches for a tug of her red hair, or the blank look she gives when overwhelmed. Annie was getting better, lucid for the first time in a while. She smiled, she laughed, she shone. 

That's why he couldn't tell her what he did, what he had to do, to let her see her parents. To let her live. Another time, perhaps. 

She clears her throat, mischievously. "Looking for your mystery girl?“

“T-That's not-" 

"-what you were doing, I know, I know. That's also what you said the last five times." She bounces on the balls of her feet, restless. "I know you like the back of my hand, Finnick. It's not like you to mope in the corner - something's up."

Annie's unrelenting: she doesn't let the man worm out of her gaze. Despite his discomfort, it's nice to see her like this; the little spitfire in Class 9, kind and sweet and determined to help. A change of pace, he presents his forearm to the younger woman. 

He smiles, "We should dance." 

~~~

You break the surface with Finnick in tow. He's completely still in your arms. Desperate and tired, you try to remember the swimming lessons from your youth; on your back, resting him on your legs with an arm hooked around him. Kick with everything you've got, keep his head above water. It's messy and ugly, as you pump your legs towards the shore; searching for the moment the depths below give way to sodden banks. 

You hit silt, suddenly. Your toes touch the lake bed and you desperately try to drag him onto shore.  Without the spray of the water, you can see him properly: sallow and grey. Like a corpse. His stillness is terrifying and you try not to think about what it means, or how long it's been since he's taken a breath. On autopilot now, you lay him on the banks, pressing shaky fingers to his pulse. Nothing. Rushing, you tilt his head upwards like you've been taught. With trembling lips pressed against his, you pinch his nose and breath out. You press your hands against his chest and push down, hard. Quick compressions, and you count from thirty. 

Nothing. And so you try again. Warm lips around his cold ones, deep breaths out, and quick compressions. Again. Desperate, harder, determined. 

When Finnick splutters to life, you think you could cry from exhaustion. His eyes are wild, as he coughs and thrashes; a hand tight around yours. 

"It's okay…. y-you're okay…" You soothe, holding back sobs. It seems to calm him as he lies down, brow furrowed and taking deep shaky breaths. Up this close, his pupils are dilated, and he seems disoriented, dazed. There's a sticky cut at his brow, but his eyes are locked onto you. Green and striking in the low light. Alive. 

For a while, you stay like that; watching his chest rise and fall as you hold hands by the lake. He's closed his eyes, but still breathes steadily. You barely register anything but him, until a chill blows past. Cold. Wet. Tired. The adrenaline of the moment dies down. You have to coax his hand out of yours to grab the things you dropped before… before all this. Every few seconds you glance over your shoulder to make sure he's still there, to make sure he's alive. 

He settles his head onto your shoulder, and you cradle his hands with your own; listening for the cruel staccato of his breath. He's groggy, asleep maybe. You've wrapped yourselves up in the blankets, too tired to move. You should, really: the remnants of your dress strewn onto the jetty, shiny from where you are by the trees. Cottonmouth and lead-limbed, you wait for him to become lucid. 

Something's wrong. You've felt like this before holding Vonnie's hand on the bathroom floor after a night out with the wrong crowd. Calm, and then a moment of mania before a rough comedown. You can't help but to search for needle marks on Finnick's arms, his neck, anywhere. He's pliant, unusually so, but you don't find anything. 

Your heart sinks, when you realise. The pills in his car. Morphling? He could've slipped or fallen in. He could've… jumped. And if he's been drinking….? It wouldn't matter how strong a swimmer he was usually. You dread to think of what could have happened if you were even a minute later. Tears fall even faster. You hold onto his hand a little tighter. 

When Finnick comes to, properly, you've fallen asleep. He opens his eyes to you by his side: hair down your shoulders, glitter-peppered skin, pearls in your locs, and in a white flowing dress. Well and truly, he thinks he's died. Somewhere faraway he doesn't deserve, waking up besides you. His head hurts. 

You startle, awake from your shallow slumber. Eyes red-raw, you've been crying. He wipes at your cheek and smiles weakly. 

"Let me take you home." 

Defiant, you shake your head. "No. N-no. You need to see a doctor. I can call a pod and-" 

"-no. We can't. No doctors. I'll take you home."

"Finnick, you almost died. You need help, medical attention…"

"I can't. Please."

He must look so pathetic like this, he thinks. You soften under his gaze. "N-no doctors, then. But I'm not leaving you alone like this."

"I'll be okay. I've got a first aid kit at home - don't need you worrying about me."

You stand up. "I'll come with you, then. Help patch you up." 

Exasperated, he moves to argue but doesn't have the energy. And so, he nods faintly. Despite his injuries, he towers over you, to wrap you up in the blanket, criss-crossing at your chest. It feels intimate, too close, warm breath in the cool air. With the way you look up at him, he hears his heart splinter. He pauses. 

"I'm sor-" 

"No." You say.

Finnick frowns. "I'm s-" 

"No." Your lower lip trembles, threatening to spill over. So he sighs, softly, and makes towards the deck to get your dress. Hand tight around his arm, you stop him. He's not going anywhere near the lake, not if you can help it. Hands up like he's guilty, he waits and leads you towards the car.

_

_

_

[saltpixiefibercraft]

I should add that space is a bit of a concern for me, so a standard non folding floor loom unfortunately has too big of a footprint for me at the moment... but the other one I had my eye on was the Harrisville T4, which has double the weaving width. I just don't have enough experience to know if I should save up for the bigger one, or get the less expensive one now 😖

It folds up really well, even with a weaving project on it !!!! I loveeeeee mine and it compacts in my craft room well, it's a very good/forgiving loom for beginners and it is easy to get tension even. At that price, it's an absolute *steal* I would say go for it!!!!!

Especially is space is a concern I would really consider what big project plans you have for the future, because it only has a weaving width of 15". If you want to do wider cloth I would look into the Harrisville, but if you want to do scarves or like I use mine for bag fabric/demoing, it's a very solid pick.

[dxitydoo]

Dracula Daily Blanket October Update

November 21st

We’re fast approaching the end of the main section of this blanket. Only 7 days left!

Here’s how it’s looking so far:

(This thing is Big btw. It’s kinda hard to convey the size of it in photos but it is Large. Width-wise, it’s roughly the same size as a double bed.)

Ngl I’m so proud of how it’s looking so far. I have plans for some extra bits to add and there are Many ends to weave in yet but I’m really happy with how it’s going.

[adains-knit-blog]

So far, so good! It's going a bit slower than normal because I have to crawl under my loom every few picks to check that backside for floats but progress is being made.

[averseunhinged]

sup! i'm halfway thru a 30 day course of antibiotics and most of my fun writing time has been converted into gonna die if i don't nap immediately time. so, i've just been toddling along, but there's finally enough of something coherent to share.

this is another bit of i never said i had the answer, the sequel to 24/7 sylvia plath. i cannot express enough what hot messes klaus and caroline are in this. things do get slightly more relaxed later in the series, but they have to get out of s4 first, and hahahahahaha.

Being in the mere vicinity of the Gilberts’ home was excruciating. The place where his brother was murdered, where he was held with the body, where he’d had to make a decision, perhaps the first real choice he’d made in years, rather than a series of gut reactions along a path he’d long ago set for himself. Now, he felt the place as he always did the tingling prickle along his nerves hailing danger.

Caroline was staring at him silently, her face fallen into the hard blankness that made him more and more desperate to reach her each time it appeared. She wasn’t conscious of it; he was certain enough of that much. He knew her now. She didn’t think he knew her, but he did. Or maybe she did realize how far he’d penetrated the masks and walls and moats and fucking dragons with which she’d surrounded herself and could not abide it.

Caroline had two emotions she was comfortable expressing: a sort of weaponized optimism, grown increasingly brittle over the months he had known her, and cutting irritation. She was sarcastic, unintentionally calculating, sometimes deliberately manipulative, had a cruel streak the width and breadth of the Mississippi, and he adored her for all of it.

But by God, he wished she’d give him something to work with.

He wanted to leave. To run away and free himself from the double agony of both Kol and Caroline just out of his reach. But there was a creeping premonition through the weave of him that said leaving would permanently set himself and Caroline on separate paths. No maybe. No someday. No potential. Just two different lives, always lived apart.

Or perhaps it was that flicker in her eyes, the stuttering projector of unavoidable thoughts and inconvenient desires. She tried to bury it beneath the weight of his innumerous atrocities, but it was there in the way she looked at him. No matter the impassivity in her face, she was thinking. An overactive mind, his Caroline. One dismissed by nearly everyone she knew. Klaus tried to avoid their mistakes.

And he was thankful he did, because moments (too many breaths, in and out, waiting for her to banish him) later, that flicker happened again. It started a chain reaction chasing across her face, first her forehead wrinkling and then a pretty, pouting frown that was far more charming than it had any right to be.

She took a step towards him, a shuffling lurch that seemed not entirely under her control. He held his breath and waited through another step and then another one, until she was less than an arm’s length away. It had always been the sweetest form of torture, having her so close to him, while she was still so far from his. She lifted her right hand, and with the barest pressure of her fingertips, traced where the veins around his eyes would raise and blacken when the monster emerged. Her touch grew in confidence, pressing in and smoothing over his cheekbone. He could hardly contain the shudder of pleasure twisting through his spine when she ran her fingers through the shorn curls at his temple and skated around his ear, before she came to rest, palm firmly cupping his cheek.

It was too much. It was all he wanted. Her eyes on him and no-one else. Her mind filled with him the way his was with her whenever she was near, everyone and everything else become a blurred, inconsequential hum. Her skin against his, connecting him to her, to this moment. He couldn’t bear it, the press of her undeserved affection, her easy palliation of the marauding beast within him, and the way she continued staring at him, cutting him open as relentlessly as he had seeped into her.

And because he couldn't step away, couldn't force himself to lose her willing touch, he had to close his eyes to protect himself. She pulled in a breath. The universe stilled and Klaus prepared himself for what she might say.

“I need to take a shower.”

Well. She'd never been predictable, had she?

“I'm going to use yours.”

And there was that cruelty again.

“I mean one in your giant, creepy mansion. Not...not yours specifically.” Her voice wavered, faltering along with whatever unwitting courage she'd found.

He adored this part of her, too, the way she went from self-possessed confidence to awkward sweetness she no longer wore very well. It was as ill-fitting on her as Mystic Falls was becoming. Had they ever known what to do with her, this modern little dictator? Or had they always tried to shape her into what they wanted and finally washed their hands of her when she simply could not, no matter her efforts. She'd grow out of it all--this town, these people, her childhood unsurety--sooner rather than later.

It was all the more precious, catching her in these last moments of girlish embarrassment, the apples of her cheeks flushed fuchsia.

Caroline bit her lip and looked away. “It's the vervain? My house is on town water, so I've been showering at the boardinghouse, but everyone’s gone, and that place is scary even during the day, and I'm really not happy with—" Caroline broke off and sighed. “Anything. I'm not happy with anything, lately.”

For a moment, Klaus was paralyzed by the thought of Kol's skin sizzling under the Gilberts' attack. It took Caroline murmuring his name to realize he'd drifted off, looking in the window of this house he now loathed, his hand tightened around hers and brought down to his chest.

“Sorry,” she murmured, her face softening despite everything.

“Caroline,” he warned.

“Yeah,” she blurted quickly. “Yup. Definitely fine with not talking about…literally any of this. That is not our thing.”

“Finally admitting we do have a thing?”

“Never.” The apple of her cheek rounded, one corner of her mouth cheating up shyly.

The least of her smiles, but he’d take it.

“Why are you doing this? You hated me a moment ago.”

“I’m not--” Caroline trailed off as she tugged at her hand in his grip. “Klaus.”

“Caroline.” He ducked his head, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. Not tonight.”

It was her turn to shut her eyes to avoid his gaze. She took a calming breath before opening them and meeting him head on. “I don’t want to be here anymore. We can talk. And I’ll even try to be less squirrelly than usual. Just please not here.

[jamiemccanless]

Synaptic Wrap

I’m excited for knitters to make a Synaptic Wrap for themselves, to see how cables weave across the width and run along the sides, to find that a centered double decrease on the wrong side is not so hard, to finish and hear a quiet voice say “yer a wizard now.”

Yarn: Fidalgo Artisan Yarns Rosario Sport 0421 Brilliant Blue

[catcheyes-t-shirt]

“Discover: Types of Loom in Textile Manufacturing”

Loom? What are They? What Do They Manufacture?

Looms is the weaving machine which converts the yarn into a fabric. There is no history of when looms were discovered but one thing is clear that it was before the birth of Jesus christ. There are 2 types of looms: Shuttle Looms and Shuttleless Looms. Below we are going to learn about various types of looms. The end result of this machine is fabric and wholesalers and retailers buy t-shirts in bulk made out of those fabric.

Learn About Shuttle Looms 

This is the most primitive loom in the history of loom. In this machine there is a shuttle which contains bobbins and around bobbins there are yarn wounded. In this weaving machine the shuttle travels from one corner to the other and hence the fabric is made. The speed of this machine is 110-225 ppm [Picks Per Minute]. It is quite noisy and inefficient. 

Fabric Weaving Without a Shuttle in the Loom Is It Possible?

Projectile Loom

Projectile loom is a shuttleless loom, in this looms instead of a shuttle projectile are there. Projectiles are made out of stainless steel and hence it was light weight. As the projectile lightweight this saves lots of energy and increases the efficiency of the machine. This loom speed was 300 ppm. The weaving takes place when the projectile goes across the width of the loom with the yarn. 

Rapier Loom

This loom is also shuttleless. In this loom the weft is carried by a rapier which is a long rod like structure. Many kinds of fabric could be made using this loom and it is highly efficient. The range of GSM things loom could weave is 20-850 GSM. From home fabric to industrial fabric can be made using this loom. There are 4 types of rapier loom in the market. 

Single Rigid Rapier Loom

Double Rigid Rapier Loom 

Double Flexible Rapier Loom

Telescopic Rapier Loom  

Air-Jet Loom 

In this loom the yarn is transferred from the force of air, it does not have any shuttle. This loom is highly efficient and versatile. This loom does not make noise because it does not have many moving parts. As the moving parts are less then the floor space requirement and maintenance is low. The weft travels with the help of air pressure and once it reaches the shedding area interlacement takes place. This machine can be used in manufacturing Denim fabric, polyester dress material and cotton shirting fabric. 

Water Jet Loom

Water pressure is used in this loom to transfer weft from one end to the other. It is a shuttleless loom machine. The speed of this machine is 600 ppm. This machine is highly efficient but we can use yarn which is hydrophobic, like polyester, polyamides etc. Hydrophilic yarn can not be used.

[mischief-tea]

hello!! i'm considering getting the same loom you have, but i was wondering which width you got? i'm debating between a 60cm and an 80cm one 🥹

I got what's marketed as a 24" here, so I think that's about 60cm. I don't quite have space for the larger one but was really torn... Then I learned about double weaving! Did you know with two identical reeds on a double heddle block (which new Kromski Harps all come with) you can weave fabric double the width of your loom?! Super excited to try that out soon.

I hope this helps you! Also I thought I'd be fine without a stand but I promise even with limited space you DO want the loom stand. It's just wide enough to be unwieldy without it unless maybe you have unusually long arms.

Anyways - happy weaving journey!

@whispering-ghost-society

[ivorivet]

I need to put more stuff over here! I've got a short WIP thread about this project over on my Twitter, but the long and the short of it is that I do big fiber arts projects better if I have a goal in mind, and the goal of this one is to get good enough at handspinning and weaving drafts that I can reproduce some of the fabric used to make the Lothlorien cloaks from Lord of the Rings. This is some Gotland wool yarn I finished plying tonight (not very well as it's still pretty unbalanced, but I wanted to free up bobbins more than I cared about a perfectly balanced yarn). I'm not expecting to do a 1:1 reproduction because I'm just not that good, but here's the rough plan:

- The Lothlorien pattern is a shadow weave variant made of alternating gray and white yarna. It's a REALLY cool color-and-weave optical illusion, where both warp and weft threads alternate between dark and light, and subtle skips in the pattern create either vertical or horizontal bars. I still haven't made a weaving draft that I like, but messing around with weaving software has been very useful in helping me learn what leads to what with shadow weave. My big unknown rn is how many shafts are needed to reproduce the pattern.

- For the gray yarn, Stansborough Wool used their own proprietary sheep breed developed in New Zealand. You can't buy unspun roving from them anymore, so I picked Gotland wool instead which is apparently the origin breed for Stansborough's variant.

- For the white yarn, I'm using a 33% merino 66% alpaca blend that I have no other reason for choosing other than that's what the fiber content on a Stansborough scarf I bought said, so I went with it. So far it's been a little bastard to spin and I much prefer the Gotland. I still haven't mastered spinning high twist singles for long periods of time without my hands cramping up, and the longer Gotland fibers don't need as much twist to stay together.

- I know weaving yarn is typically used as singles, but since the fabric made by Stansborough seems to use a 2-ply and I enjoy my yarn not acting like it's haunted, I decided to also go with a 2-ply for this project. I'm spinning both yarns as skinny as I can with a worsted draft, but I'm not physically capable of drafting out yarn as fine as what was used in the Stansborough fabric. I think their stuff is around 30 wpi and I'm clocking in around 20-25 wpi for my finished yarn.

- One sticking point to this project that I don't have quite figured out is the loom I'll use. The cloaks are half circles which requires a fairly wide fabric, and my Ashford table loom maxes out at 32". Up until recently that left me considering a couple options: 1) do some weird doubleweave bullshit to double the effective width of my loom at the cost of cutting the number of shafts I get to use in half, 2) rent time with a bigger loom at a local weaving studio and pray to god I spin enough yarn before I start so I don't run out halfway through, or 3) ctfo and be content with reproducing the fabric at a skinnier width even if I don't make a cloak out of it.

I'll be throwing up random bits of progress here as I make it, but I'm fully expecting this project is at least 1-2 years away from having a lot to show for itself.