Aamu
Aamu is still amused and fascinated by the Firling. It grows much too fast, and its merry giggling seems to get louder and louder. Sometimes he stops by just to slap its boughs for some instant cheer. He still hasn't figured out what it's for, but he's alright with that: it does more than enough at the moment.
When the notice of making decorations for the Firling is posted he is (naturally) intrigued. He does his best to findMabel and see if she'll want to go with him, then turns up at the Artist's Sanctuary.
He's not sure what he's expecting (or what he's not expecting, either), but somehow he gets the impression he wasn't expecting this. A long table is laid with all sorts of materials and tools, pots of paints like splashes of color in between it all. At the head sits a lone man: beautiful, majestic, dark somehow. He assumes it to be Bastien. Aamu tilts his head to the side. He's a fool for feeling surprised by the scene, and he knows this. "Hello," he says, his voice light, gentle. "I am Aamu."
Then he slips towards the table. Pulls out a chair. Pauses. His eyes roam the offered options while his mind wishes for a cup of silver and a forge. Instead he holds his long braid to his chest while reaching over to select a block of wood and a whittling knife before finally sitting down on his chosen chair. He turns the wood over in his hands a couple of time before putting it to the knife, hoping more will turn up. His own silence feels awkward.
When the notice of making decorations for the Firling is posted he is (naturally) intrigued. He does his best to find
He's not sure what he's expecting (or what he's not expecting, either), but somehow he gets the impression he wasn't expecting this. A long table is laid with all sorts of materials and tools, pots of paints like splashes of color in between it all. At the head sits a lone man: beautiful, majestic, dark somehow. He assumes it to be Bastien. Aamu tilts his head to the side. He's a fool for feeling surprised by the scene, and he knows this. "Hello," he says, his voice light, gentle. "I am Aamu."
Then he slips towards the table. Pulls out a chair. Pauses. His eyes roam the offered options while his mind wishes for a cup of silver and a forge. Instead he holds his long braid to his chest while reaching over to select a block of wood and a whittling knife before finally sitting down on his chosen chair. He turns the wood over in his hands a couple of time before putting it to the knife, hoping more will turn up. His own silence feels awkward.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
