[He mumbles to himself about well, I sure as fuck know who didn't teach you that, allowing himself the moment to, ah. Get over it. Though honestly, this is close to the criticism that boy Mal had given him, and look how that had gone over.
Ciri, however, is a trusted... er, whatever she is to him. A friend, at the very least, so he will be wise and accept it.
It's fair enough. The song is about her.]
Very well. [He says, through slightly clenched teeth. He sniffs. At first, it's about the swelling storm in his chest, but then he realizes there's something in the air. Fire, of course, and heat, but a sweeter smell, too. His fingers move to his hat, stroking the peacock feather sticking out of it.]
Contrary to popular belief, not every poem I write is so I can hear stamping feet and empty brains echo it back to me. However, I do enjoy the idea that your song will be one that is celebrated. [He sniffs again. Milk? What on earth is she doing, anyway?] As you should be. [Look, he's turning on the charm again. After a moment, he stands to go to his drawer, pulling out his songwriting journal (with Alina's note still tucked in the back.) He flickers through the pages, returning to his seat.] Rekindled Blade? But it lacks reference to the heroine. It's not about swords. Though I know you're very much all about swords. [The quill scratches over his paper and he hmms.] From Ashes, Comes Steel And Kohl?
[She does, after all, love her lined eyes.] No. Terrible. What -- what are you doing, anyway? Don't tell me you've been inflicted with my little bread-making... ah. Bug.
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Ciri, however, is a trusted... er, whatever she is to him. A friend, at the very least, so he will be wise and accept it.
It's fair enough. The song is about her.]
Very well. [He says, through slightly clenched teeth. He sniffs. At first, it's about the swelling storm in his chest, but then he realizes there's something in the air. Fire, of course, and heat, but a sweeter smell, too. His fingers move to his hat, stroking the peacock feather sticking out of it.]
Contrary to popular belief, not every poem I write is so I can hear stamping feet and empty brains echo it back to me. However, I do enjoy the idea that your song will be one that is celebrated. [He sniffs again. Milk? What on earth is she doing, anyway?] As you should be. [Look, he's turning on the charm again. After a moment, he stands to go to his drawer, pulling out his songwriting journal (with Alina's note still tucked in the back.) He flickers through the pages, returning to his seat.] Rekindled Blade? But it lacks reference to the heroine. It's not about swords. Though I know you're very much all about swords. [The quill scratches over his paper and he hmms.] From Ashes, Comes Steel And Kohl?
[She does, after all, love her lined eyes.] No. Terrible. What -- what are you doing, anyway? Don't tell me you've been inflicted with my little bread-making... ah. Bug.