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.
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.
