The big man shrugged and went to work once more, quiet but not, at least, unresponsive, and Jigano let the silence stretch between them. Not all bards knew the power of silence, but the ones who were good at what they were learned to weave it as deftly as song and story. Perhaps he was not so deft as he had once been, a world and a lifetime ago, but as a lorekeeper he was more comfortable in stillness than those who made their way by words alone. He crouched patiently amongst the reeds: a tall, slender, white-crested heron of a man as he watched Deimos’ hands and the magic that swirled and formed between them into a basket that was not a twin of the warrior’s, as Jigano had half-expected, with snowflakes traded out for crescent moons.
It seemed there was an artist hiding beneath the dark exterior, just as there had been a mischief-maker peeking out from behind the stony façade during their baking adventure. Prior to that Jigano had only known Deimos as a quiet, withdrawn presence on the edges of things. He had been at the Spire, asking for rational discussion when no one else seemed interested in such. He had been at the nearly-empty town hall meeting the bard had tried to call, looming in the back but offering nothing, either praise or criticism, of any topics raised. He was an enigma, still, a jumble of contradictions more than most, and Jigano’s contemplations were broken as the finished basket was presented to him.
He took it, admiring the moons that seemed to gleam from the grey bark of the magically-created birch branches, feeling its lightweight sturdiness with appreciation. ”More than suitable,” he assured the other man, a hint of a wicked smile tugging at the edges of his lips. ”And finer than the baskets we found at the merchant’s stall! Perhaps we can walk past it on the way back to meeting up with our friends…” And let the little man who had been so easily cowed by the warchief wonder where their lovely new baskets had come from, and which of his competitors had made the deal!
It seemed there was an artist hiding beneath the dark exterior, just as there had been a mischief-maker peeking out from behind the stony façade during their baking adventure. Prior to that Jigano had only known Deimos as a quiet, withdrawn presence on the edges of things. He had been at the Spire, asking for rational discussion when no one else seemed interested in such. He had been at the nearly-empty town hall meeting the bard had tried to call, looming in the back but offering nothing, either praise or criticism, of any topics raised. He was an enigma, still, a jumble of contradictions more than most, and Jigano’s contemplations were broken as the finished basket was presented to him.
He took it, admiring the moons that seemed to gleam from the grey bark of the magically-created birch branches, feeling its lightweight sturdiness with appreciation. ”More than suitable,” he assured the other man, a hint of a wicked smile tugging at the edges of his lips. ”And finer than the baskets we found at the merchant’s stall! Perhaps we can walk past it on the way back to meeting up with our friends…” And let the little man who had been so easily cowed by the warchief wonder where their lovely new baskets had come from, and which of his competitors had made the deal!
