KORBIN
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
That blushed and bloomed,
Korbin felt the gaze of the other upon him, but pointedly ignored it, keeping his own eyes on the work at hand. The reply, revealing no undesirables when it came to food, was met with a hum of acknowledgement; Korbin was a raven, he understood that sentiment. There wasn't really anything the boy wouldn't scavenge in a pinch.
The return question did take him off guard however, and he turned, eyebrows raised to be asked for his opinion. This was Weaver's bar, and Sunjata's business venture... 'helping out' was not the same thing as being invited to call any shots. Frankly, the suggestion that he had any say in this was very unexpected.
"No idea," he replied, too surprised to be anything but honest. "Wee's ordered stuff to make local fare, from what I can tell. The options are... not very varied. Meat, gruel, soups... She talked about making cider with a girl called Maea, but I don't know what they'll cook up."
Setting down the paper on a nearby surface, he braced his palms against the table and drummed out rhythms with his fingers, thoughtful patterns that were skillfully woven into melodies, even with only the wood to work with.
"Food's not really my thing," he added, scowling down at the paper. As if wishing it might give him some options to pick from.
The return question did take him off guard however, and he turned, eyebrows raised to be asked for his opinion. This was Weaver's bar, and Sunjata's business venture... 'helping out' was not the same thing as being invited to call any shots. Frankly, the suggestion that he had any say in this was very unexpected.
"No idea," he replied, too surprised to be anything but honest. "Wee's ordered stuff to make local fare, from what I can tell. The options are... not very varied. Meat, gruel, soups... She talked about making cider with a girl called Maea, but I don't know what they'll cook up."
Setting down the paper on a nearby surface, he braced his palms against the table and drummed out rhythms with his fingers, thoughtful patterns that were skillfully woven into melodies, even with only the wood to work with.
"Food's not really my thing," he added, scowling down at the paper. As if wishing it might give him some options to pick from.
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Of the old time entombed.
