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11-15-2015, 08:13 AM
The prince listened, absorbed in the fascinating peal Johnny so diligently rang, twitching his ears back and forth in an intrigued rhythm. He’d never been particularly inclined towards the crafting, engineering rank – he indulged too much in fights, spars, concocting and conniving, to be useful in the art of making anything but mischief. He was unlikely to have talent in trade or mercantile efforts, obsessing more with vengeance and cold-blooded calculations, scouring the countryside for opportunities. He still admired others for partaking in the tasks, however, like Rikyn’s father and the towering machines that guarded the borders, the secretive, furtive tent flapping in the wind, or the scores of other things scattered across the lands, too different, too foreign, to be made by anything but magic. How was manifested in the art of their chosen title – but curiosity made him bow, made him bend, towards the fluff and fleece, because he wanted to see it for himself. How did they weave precisely? Were there stitches? Were there needles, like Adelric’s tiny dagger, threading together requested articles and objects? Was there a lot of power stored within their grasp, hastened and brutal, or simply merchant-like and indulgent, only unwinding when others requested their appeal? He didn’t display his disappointment when Johnny claimed he didn’t know precisely what to make – inwardly he may have pouted and frowned, but along the surface, he remained a conspiring lad, poking his maw at the fleece and wondering how it would all come to be. Even as Orsino pulsed and hissed in the distance, bored and stubborn, obstinate and mulish, Erebos ignored him for the art and stature of interest, impish gaze pouring over the puffs of fur. His voice took on a methodical approach, deigned in efforts to assist the Weaver. “They’re very warm. Do the other herds need them for help in the winter?” Immediately thereafter, the lad’s brow arched, his cranium rose, senses igniting over another wandering toward them – but his features morphed back into pleasantness and intrigue, a devilish smirk, a fiendish bow, friendly, outgoing, and direct at Ode’s appearance. He didn’t know the other stag too well, but enough to warrant cordial, obliging stances – besides, he was all the more curious by the sable beast’s queries (because what could Johnny make?), and the state of some visible unrest, scratching and clawing beneath him. “Are you all right?” the lad asked, still gallant and intrepid. OOC;; --- TAG;; @[ ] "talk talk talk" |
- table by Niki -
@Johnny
