# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 38"
The sun dipped low over the rolling hills of Romania's Transylvania region, casting golden light over a Roma village where wooden houses with carved doorframes clustered around a dirt square. Women in colorful *dirndl*-style dresses sat on benches, their fingers flying over hoops of fabric, stitching intricate patterns with thread dyed in jewel tones. Their leader, a woman with a headscarf of scarlet and gold named Zora, looked up as Su Yao's car pulled into the square, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. "You've come for the *broderie*," she said, her Romani dialect laced with Romanian, nodding at the embroidery scattered across the benches.
The Roma (Gypsy) people of Transylvania have practiced their distinctive embroidery for centuries, a craft passed down through matriarchal lines that encodes their nomadic history, tribal alliances, and spiritual beliefs. Each stitch tells a story: *sâmbăta* (Saturday) patterns, with their tight, protective knots, ward off evil spirits; *lună plină* (full moon) designs, with flowing curves, honor the goddess of the night; and *drumul* (the road) motifs, a series of interconnected lines, represent the Roma's eternal journey. These embroideries adorn *chemise* blouses, *fustan* skirts, and *pafta* headscarves, serving as both identity markers and talismans. Su Yao's team had traveled here to merge this vibrant craft with their seaweed-metal blend, hoping to create textiles that celebrated Roma resilience while adding a modern, durable edge. But from the first conversation, it was clear that their understanding of "heritage" and "adaptation" was as different as the Roma's nomadic roots and the team's settled, tech-driven approach.
Zora's granddaughter, Lila, a 19-year-old with a talent for the most complex stitches, held up a blouse sleeve covered in crimson and black patterns. "This is *baba Dochia*," she said, tracing a serpentine line with her finger. "It tells the story of our ancestor who turned to stone in the mountains. My great-grandmother stitched this for me when I was born, to protect me from cold and hunger. You don't just copy these patterns—you earn the right to use them."
Su Yao's team had brought high-resolution scanners and embroidery machines, intending to digitize the Roma patterns and mass-produce them on a line of sustainable clothing. When Elena displayed a mock-up of a jacket featuring the *baba Dochia* design, the women stopped stitching, their needles frozen mid-air. Zora's brother, Miro, a *purtaore* (tribal elder) with a beard streaked with gray, stood abruptly, his voice sharp with anger. "You think you can steal our stories for your profit?" he shouted, knocking over a basket of thread. "These stitches are our blood. Your machines will never understand that."
Cultural friction deepened over materials. The Roma spin thread from wool sheared from their own sheep, dyed with pigments from wildflowers and tree bark: *violeta de câmp* (field violets) for purple, *câmpie* (saffron) for gold, and *brad* (fir tree) bark for brown. The dyeing process is accompanied by rituals—leaving offerings of bread and salt at crossroads, singing *lăutari* (traditional ballads) to the spirits of the forest—to infuse the thread with protective magic. The seaweed-metal blend, despite its eco-friendly origins, was viewed as a threat to this magic. "Your thread comes from the sea, not our mountains," Zora said, after feeling a sample between her fingers. "It can't protect us from the *strigoi* (vampires) or the *moroi* (ghosts). It's empty."
A practical crisis emerged when the metal threads reacted with the wool, causing the natural dyes to oxidize and turn dull. "It drains the color," Lila said, holding up a swatch where the vibrant crimson had faded to a muddy pink. "Our embroidery should glow like fire. This looks like ash."
Then disaster struck: days of heavy rain flooded the village's sheep pens, soaking the wool stores and washing away the wildflower patches used for dye. The Roma's annual *sărbătoarea floricelor* (flower festival), where new dyes are blessed and embroidery is showcased, was threatened. Miro, performing a ritual with garlic and holy water to ward off bad luck, blamed the team for angering the elements. "You brought something from the saltwater to our hills," he muttered, sprinkling the water over the sodden wool. "Now the rain won't stop—this is a curse."
That night, Su Yao sat with Zora in her cottage, where a fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows over walls hung with embroidered textiles. A pot of *ciorbă de burtă* (tripe soup) simmered on the stove, filling the air with the scent of paprika and vinegar. "I'm sorry," Su Yao said, sipping a cup of *tuica* (plum brandy). "We came here thinking we could help share your culture, but we've only disrespected it."
Zora smiled, passing Su Yao a piece of *cozonac* (sweet bread). "The rain is not your fault," she said. "The mountains have always been cruel to us. My grandmother used to say that hardship is what makes our stitches strong. But your thread—maybe it's not a curse. Maybe it's a chance to show that our traditions can travel beyond our villages, without losing their soul."
Su Yao nodded, a flicker of hope in her chest. "What if we start over? We'll help you dry the wool and replant the wildflowers. We'll learn to embroider by hand, using your hoops and needles. We won't use your sacred stories—we'll create new patterns together, ones that tell of your mountains and our sea. And we'll treat the metal thread with your dyeing rituals, so it carries your magic."
Lila, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped inside, her hands twisting a thread. "You'd really learn to stitch *baba Dochia* the way we do? It takes years to make the serpent's scales look alive."
"However long it takes," Su Yao said. "And we'll help with the *sărbătoarea floricelor*—whatever offerings or songs are needed."
Over the next six weeks, the team immersed themselves in Roma life. They helped build raised drying racks for the wool, their hands blistered from hammering wooden posts into the clay soil. They trekked into the hills to collect new wildflower clippings, following Zora's guidance to pick only every third flower so the patch would regrow. They sat on the village square, stitching hoops of fabric until their eyes strained, as the women sang *lăutari* songs to keep their spirits up. "The *drumul* lines must wander, not be straight," Zora said, correcting Su Yao's work. "Life is not a road—it's a river."
They learned to mix dyes in clay pots, their fingers stained purple and gold as Miro chanted over the mixtures, blessing them to "shine like the blood of our people." They practiced the *punct de broderie* (embroidery stitch) that makes Roma work so distinctive—a tiny, tight knot that catches the light—their progress slow but steady as Lila demonstrated it again and again. "It's like kissing the fabric," she said, her needle darting in and out. "You have to care about each stitch."
To solve the reaction between the metal threads and wool, Lin experimented with coating the metal in a solution of honey and *mâscă* (poppy) sap, a mixture the Roma use to preserve leather. The honey sealed the metal, preventing oxidation, while the poppy sap gave it a subtle golden tint that complemented the wool. "It's like giving the thread a Roma heart," she said, showing Zora a swatch where the crimson dye now stayed vibrant against the shimmering metal.
Fiona, inspired by the Carpathian Mountains' peaks, designed a new pattern called *câmpii* (fields), which merged the Roma's *drumul* lines with wave motifs from the seaweed-metal thread, representing the connection between land and ocean. "It tells the story of all wanderers," she said, and Miro nodded, saying it honored the Roma's nomadic spirit.
As the sun finally emerged and the wildflowers began to bloom again, the village held its *sărbătoarea floricelor*, with dancers in embroidered costumes swirling to the sound of *cobza* (lute) music. They unveiled their first collaborative piece: a *pafta* headscarf featuring the new *câmpii* pattern alongside traditional *lună plină* designs, with seaweed-metal threads adding a glittering edge that caught the sunlight during the dances.
Zora draped the scarf over Su Yao's head during the celebration, as the village cheered. "This cloth has two voices," she said, her eyes shining. "One from our mountains, one from your sea. But they sing the same song."
As the team's car drove away from the village, Lila ran after them, waving a small package. Su Yao rolled down the window, and she tossed it in: a hoop with a partially stitched *baba Dochia* serpent, its scales made from a mix of wool thread and seaweed-metal. "To remember us by," read a note in Romani and Romanian. "Remember that the road is long, but we're all on it together."
Su Yao clutched the package as the Transylvanian hills faded into the distance, their forests turning to shadows in the twilight. She thought of the hours spent stitching by firelight, of the way the metal thread had finally learned to dance with the wool, of Zora's laughter as they stumbled through the *lăutari* songs. The Roma had taught her that tradition wasn't about staying in one place—it was about carrying your roots with you, letting them grow new branches wherever you went.
Her phone buzzed with a message from the Tongan team: photos of Losa holding their collaborative *ngatu* cloth, displayed at a Pacific cultural festival. Su Yao smiled, typing back: "We've added a new stitch—Roma mountains and your sea, woven as one."
Somewhere in the distance, a *lăutari* band played, their music winding through the hills like a promise. Su Yao knew their journey was far from over. There were still countless cultures to learn from, countless threads to weave into the tapestry of their work. And as long as they approached each new place with an open heart, honoring the stories of those who had walked the road before, the tapestry would only grow more vivid—a testament to the beauty of human connection, in all its wandering, wonderful forms.