{SE} Fool Me Once

Longheat has fully grasped Caido in its claws, and I am abuzz with preparations for the season. Not so abuzz that I lose my curiosity about the Grounds, but enough that I’m bargaining with myself. And making excuses. Though, there could be different types of grasses rhat I can use to make my baskets extra interesting. It’s enough to justify the visit to myself, if nothing else. The grasses are all the same as what I’m used to, a disappointing discovery, but at least I already know the best way to go about weaving it together into a basket. The first few I make are small, more practice to get me back into the flow of things, but the one I am working on now is wide and bulbous, perfectly shaped to catch the squat sun as it sinks out of the sky. I hum as I work on it, fingers moving without thought as I let my mind wander and my attention drift, thinking about nothing in particular. Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

He was becoming more used to this strange shape of too many limbs and teeth and scales, though he had spent most of his time in it in Halo, above the snowy wastes and frozen sea. Remi had helped him begin taming the beast within, however, and now that Remi was... gone... he was determined to hold on to that gift the alchemist had given him. So when he could steal a moment or two he stretched his wings, flying high enough to not draw attention from those below him.

Well. Usually.

The thermals of Longheat were broad, powerful things, he was learning. He could soar at leisure above the, turning and turning as the land unfolded beneath him, from fields to forests, spire to settlement. The Oasis glinted blue and clear in the distance, and as he continued to glide a small herd of deer broke from the woodlands, frightened by something within. He didn't even think, hunter's instincts taking over as he folded his wings and began to fall, his shadow passing over the trio and sending them scattering. He rumbled fierce amusement and snapped his wings open just above the tree-tops, skimming over them as he tried to follow the path of the old doe who had ducked back under leafy cover. She dodged and he followed, just barely keeping up with her before she crossed a clearing, unused to being hunted from above. He dropped like a stone, landing behind her with scale-feathered tail lashing as she made good her escape and he watched her go, feeling the instinct to chase and kill, but pleased that he could master it.

He turned, settling back on his haunches as he tensed to leap skyward once more, but a flicker of a familiar scent caught his attention and he lowered himself once more, nosing towards the edge of the clearing and into the shade beyond. Though he was a sinuous thirty feet long from nose to tail tip, much of that was long neck and longer tail. Even so, he stood roughly seven feet at the shoulders, and higher at the hips. He paused when he saw Tarasha, freezing in place for a moment before letting out a soft, tentative croon of greeting, and lowering himself to lay in the dusty underbrush (flattening a bush or two beneath him) so that he didn't tower over her.

I am focused on my work, but not so much so that I miss the great crashing of something in the trees, the great woosh of air from before that, like a much larger version of the beating of my own wings. My fingers pause, basket half formed in my hands as I turn, facing the direction of the noise, my wings quivering in preparation to fly away from a threat. What I’m greeted by is... definitely a threat, though I am in too much awe to actually make good on my chance to escape. I have never seen a dragon in the flesh before. It is magnificent, silver and sinewy, it’s whole shape inspiring amazement, and somehow, a sense of familiarity. I do not have long to gaze at it before it moves though, and the spell holding me is broken. Lifting off the ground, I begin to float back, not taking my eyes off the dragon as it... lowers itself, crooning out a friendly noise. I am stopped again, this time in sheer confusion. I have not forgotten that dragons are intelligent creatures, but I did not know them to be considerate like this. My absconding pauses again, and instead I decide to take a chance. I move closer to the dragon, my basket still in my hands, and bow to it in midair, the action awkward, but smooth looking from years of practice. ”Hello.” I say softly, offering the creature a half smile, not sure what things are appropriate when you meet a dragon. Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

He didn't blame Tarasha for their caution; wariness in the face of such a large predator as the shape he currently wore was only sensible. There was a flicker of mischief in his heart, however, that wished to see how they would respond to him if they didn't recognize him, and since they didn't seem to be afraid he saw no reason to shift back just yet.

Watching a Fae in flight was always a fascinating sight, and the dragon was even more delighted at the bow his friend executed in mid-air. He raised his head - slowly - so that he could give Tarasha a solemn nod in return. As he did, the basket caught his eye and he tilted his head at her, a questioning note rumbling up his range from bass to tenor croon that whistled from his jaws. He snorted a gentle puff of cool air at the elegant construction, poking towards it with his nose before looking back at her in - he hoped - obvious interest.

Well well well well well. The dragon seemed... open, to my greeting. There was really no other way to interpret the nod. This was so exciting! I have never known anyone to actually see a dragon, let alone speak with one. Well, speak... relatively. I flutter closer, still staying carefully out of snapping range (I hope). The basket in my hands seems to draw it’s attention, and I tentatively hold it up for inspection. ”It’s not done yet.” I say with a smile, running a finger along its unfinished rim. ”I meant for this one to go to my mother, but if you are willing to wait, I can make one more suited to a creature such as yourself.” I am aware this is a little silly, but at least if the dragon can’t really understand me, there’s no one around to see my embarrassment. Slowly, I begin to float backwards, gesturing to the clearing of long grass I had been working in, a silent invitation. Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

Tarasha was brave and curious, which were excellent traits for a Loreseeker to have, and Jigano felt pride swell in his chest as they fluttered closer still. He made no fast moves, keeping himself comfortably reclined on the forest floor, though he left his head up now that the initial greeting was over and they were growing more comfortable with his scaly shape.

He continued to examine the basket, though, admiring the choice of shape and the skill of the woven patterns within it. He suspected that Tarasha's dyes could do much to add to the construction, but there was an elegance in the natural colors of the reeds as well. The Fae's offer was unexpected, but met with an excited nod, the dragon's eyes lighting up at the possibility of gaining a gift from his friend - even if they didn't know it was him yet. He'd have to tell them eventually, of course... but for now he was comfortable and they seemed delighted to be meeting a dragon and, well, he was curious what sort of basket Tarasha would make for such an unusual client.

He rose, just as slowly, and stretched carefully for a moment before he followed his guide, padding carefully across the forest floor and threading his way between trees to reach the clearing. Settling around its edge, he leaned against several trees to use them as backrests and reached out a taloned hand to try and swipe up a pawful of long grasses, offering them to Tarasha with a questioning croon.

My offer is met with an eager nod, something that surprised me. I had thought at dragons would be more used to a finer caliber of craftsmanship, but I am eager to show off my skills regardless. ”It is a pity you came across me, and not my sister. She is a masterful weaver, and far faster than I.” I settle into a comfortable sitting position, nestled by the long grass, then turn to watch the dragon settle, a wide grin on my face. ”I suppose you will just have to bear my company a spell longer than you would have to otherwise.” I laugh, throwing my head back, though it is cut off prematurely as I hear a rustle through the grass, opening my eyes to see a handful of grass being offered out. I accept them almost immediately, not wanting to offend the great dragon, and begin to sort through them, just by touch. I don’t want to take my eyes off the dragon now, and maybe if I search it’s features long enough I can find the pieces I’m missing. ”Thank you. This will make it go by a little faster.” Once I have the grasses sorted, I set aside my half finished basket, and I begin to weave. This is a bigger basket than I have attempted before, but it is for a big creature. ”Are you going to attempt to catch the sun?” My tone is casual now, the presence of the dragon feeling like less of a shock and more like the soothing company of an old or new friend. Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

He couldn't scoff in this form, but Jigano snorted his disbelief that anyone could be faster than Tarasha. Or perhaps he was simply blowing a bee out of his nostril? It was a little hard to tell, but when the young Fae's company was offered as something that needed to be endured the dragon offered a reassuring croon. He didn't mind spending the time with his small winged friend - not at all! In fact, he was glad of the opportunity to get to know them better, even if his end of the conversation was a bit less forthcoming than usual.

Most people would consider that a good thing, though.

He was pleased that his offering of grasses was accepted, humming a low, thrumming note that made small pebbles near his chest hop and dance upon the ground. The sun was warm on his flank and he watched Tarasha's fingers fly with curious fascination. The previous year he had received a basket from Deimos - in Sidge Village, no less, when none of the Fae there would trade with them under Delah's scornful eye.

The question earned a draconic grin, a lifting of scaled skin at the corners of his mouth as he returned a definitive nod. He had done it last year - with Caiside, a friend dearly missed and still mourned - and in the red-haired man's honor and memory he would do so again this year, though he had no one left as close as the smith had been to relax with. He tilted his head at the Fae tattooist in return, a questioning croon rising from his sinuous throat.

The dragon makes a sound as if it is chastising me for putting my company down, and I have to laugh again, bright and bubbly. ”Don’t worry, she may be faster, but I promise you I am better company than her. She’s barely seventy after all, still like a baby.” I snort and shake my head, not needing to look at the pattern I’m weaving, over and under and around, looping again and again to add texture and open spaces where I can. A warm hum comes from the dragon, making my fingers pause their dance as I turn to consider him. Consider the nod, a very mortal reaction. The sense of familiarity, of something being not quite right returns, and I angle my head as I look upon it. My question is returned before I can really think too hard about the dragon, and I laugh again at how easily it comes across. ”Catching the sun is a ceremony I usually practice with my family. There’s a pond, in my mothers planting grounds, with a clear view of the sky.” I look up into the bright blue now, a smile on my face. ”We pack a meal, and take turns casting our baskets into the water.” It is a fun day, one that we’ve practiced since I was a child, barely able to flutter around our home, lt alone the vast gardens that surrounded home. I sigh wistfully, and return to my work, fingers flying again. ”Sometimes, I swear the water stays golden for a moment after the sun has set.” Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

'Barely seventy' and still a baby? Jigano was glad his dragon face was less expressive than his human one so he could keep a politely curious expression on it as he watched Tarasha's fingers weave with such expert motions, instead of laughing at how easily they glossed over a human lifetime. He was glad of the Fae perspective on time, though; it was a reminder that all the trauma and sadness of the past year and a half was little more than a drop in the bucket in the greater flow of time, and even his own life. It helped to smooth some of the rough edges off his mourning and soothe his heart, as much as the warmth of the day and the good company he had found to spend it with.

The Fae had their families too, of parents and children, outings and holidays, joy and love. The dragon thrummed approvingly at the recounting, something like a hum - but deeper, as much rumble as musical note - of curiosity emerging at the lingering gold in the water. Inching closer (an inelegant but effective way to move without being threatening) he stretched out his neck so he could gently nose the basket Tarasha had set aside, clearly admiring it.

Already, the basket is growing into a shape, instead of just a mat of braided grass in my hands. Patterns that don’t quite make sense sense, but do give a sense of elegance, of grandeur already weave along its sides, and I’m quite pleased with how it’s turning out so far. I hold the design out, wondering if the dragon will approve of it, or if I’ll be changing my idea. It’s better know earlier than later. The dragon moves closer, writhing along its belly like a particularly inelegant snake, and I raise a hand to my mouth, covering the beginning of a laugh there. I’ve always heard dragons are vain, and I don’t want to bring any ire down on myself. It seems the creature is interested in my other basket, and I pause my weaving again to lean over and tip it on its side, the pattern of blooming flowers more easily seen that way. ”It’s for my mother. Every year, I make her a slightly bigger one. They sit inside one another.” I laugh, and return to my work with a smile, though I do fix the dragon with a faux stern look. ”You know I will never finish your basket with all these interruptions, right?” Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

The narrow silver head tilted and shifted so he could get a better look at the basket from all sides as Tarasha presented it, and he crooned his approval at the abstract patterns that caught the eye and flowed without creating anything so specific as a repetitive motif to dull the mind. It was a masterful piece already, and there was still plenty of space left for the Fae to twist and weave into further beauty.

Admiration of one basket turned to greater curiosity about the other. Jigano knew that his wriggling was far from dignified, and he tilted his head up at his Fae friend with sly amusement in his opalescent blue eye. Vain he might be, regardless of his shape, but he could still laugh at himself, too. Besides, he was learning to appreciate this scaled form in spite of the Voice's tarnishing touch upon it within the Spire. Tarasha's cleverly woven flowers, however, were elegant indeed, and the thrummed again, pleased at the explanation and his friend's close relationship with their mother. Then he stopped and snorted softly as he considered just how many baskets that good lady must have by now, if Tarasha had been continuing this tradition for years, and Fae lived for centuries!

The gentle chastisement had him dropping his head back to the ground to look up at the tattooed weaver with big, sad eyes, appearing utterly chagrined as he tried to charm his way back into their good graces.

It is always an honour to have my work appreciated, but to have a dragon doing the appreciation is a rare treat indeed and I preen under the attention, the smile on my face so wide it makes my cheeks ache. ”I am glad you like it.” There is a quaver only my voice as I speak, a joy I can’t really contain, and I set about my work again, putting all I can into it. It is going to be a thing of beauty. A soft breath sags out of me when the dragon joins in my poorly hidden amusement. At least I have not been rude. It feels more like we’re sharing a joke, and that is a way of thinking that I find far more agreeable. The dragons snort draws a matching one from me, one of my brows rising in a high arch. ”It’s not as many as you might think.” I explain bright, just knowing that is the cause of the noise. ”This will be forty two. I picked up the skill of weaving rather late, I’m afraid.” ”Now how can I stay upset at a face like that?” I laugh, reaching out to boop the dragons snoot. ”If you really want my forgiveness though, I could use another handful of grass.” Already the basket is as big around as my circled arms, with my fingers barely touching. Tarasha They are neither pink nor pale; And they will never be all mine;

The quaver in his Fae-friend's voice was somewhat concerning and Jigano peered at them, worried that he might have done something to frighten or distress them at first. Their expression was all joy, though, and he felt abashed at his prank being taken too far. Somewhere along the line he had reached a point where he had dug himself in too deep, and he risked offending his friend now when he revealed that he wasn't a real dragon... but he hated to dim the happiness he saw in their eyes now, too.

He vowed to tell Tarasha the truth before the day was done, but for the moment he decided to let them enjoy this a little longer, even as it made his own stomach squirm with rising guilt. Even so, thinking of their mother having forty two baskets was enough to draw a huff of amusement from him. That was still quite a lot of baskets, no matter your race!

His attempt to win them back over was, at least, successful, and he thrummed amusement at the small hand that gently thumped his nose. The request was met with a toothy grin of agreement as Jigano lifted his head and turned to survey the clearing with its rich golden stalks. He shifted, rising to take a few careful steps towards the center to claim a clawful of the yellow grass, then prowled to the more shaded edge to collect those with a greener tint. He returned to deposit the pile beside his friend, sitting proudly up and tilting his head down to watch Tarasha and make sure he had found appropriate material - ready to go back for more if he was directed to.