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.
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.
