A bit under a year and a half is a frankly minuscule amount of time, and it’s clear I’m surprised by the fact as he says it, my eyes widening slightly. ”You carry yourself well for someone who has only been here a moment.” I compliment, returning his grin. It must have taken work to grow so familiar with the world, a dedication one rarely saw. It’s a thing to be appreciated.
I sigh, and nod my agreement to Jiganos statement about the gods. On the small scope, it all seems so unfair, being a pawn in a game that might never see play, but I suppose the gods don’t look at things on the small scale. It’s a wonder they even deign to answer the rare prayer they do, that they even come close enough to mortality to grow fond of a chosen few. ”I suppose you’re right. Though it makes it difficult to live a life under their guidance though. All we do is guess at their desires, and pray for more insight.”
Amalia sounds like it could be right, but really it’s a moot point, and I have no way to confirm or deny the suggestion anyway, so I simply shrug. ”What sorts of special books were you gifted?” I ask, curious. Then, he lights up so much I almost feel as if I am looking at an entirely different man. I didn’t think my offer would inspire such a reaction, and yet... ”All I can do is ask.” I tell him, not wanting his hope to rise only to be dashed against denial. ”I will do what I can though, try and offer trades and such to help the idea.” I am excited about it myself, to show off something so close to my heart, my home, to someone who can understand the gravity of the gesture.
”Ahh, too afraid for a public competition?” I tease, leaning in with a cocky smile. I hope my tone is not taken too seriously, and keep everything else light despite it. ”I will have to prepare myself before we enter into a competition though.” Isuma returns to her partners shoulder, flecked with pollen and completely derailing my previous teasing. Unlike Jigano however, I have no problems reaching out to stroke her, staining my own hands with the pollen, and unintentionally sprinkling it over the bard white clothing.
Tarasha
They are neither pink nor pale;
And they will never be all mine;
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