Zohvin is seated at one of the tables dedicated to tying knots for the dead, working on a black one laced through with strands of dark red. He already had to ask for help with getting this particular color. Zohvin has decided that he doesn't care what the locals might think about what that color represents - it means something much different to him, and it's a concept that would be difficult to explain, even if he cared to try.

Now his only problem was making the damn thing. His fingers weren't nearly as graceful as the rest of him, and the longer he goes on the more his knot looks like a chaotic mass of string. Zohvin's frustration barely makes it to his face, but his shoulders are set and his movements are stiff as he starts unraveling the messy parts of the knot to do over again.