Burning Like Wildfire

Evelyn Wood · 06-17-2011, 08:42 PM

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OOC:

531 +5

She felt uneasy as the man started to go over her works; is this how every maker feels like when their creations are finally looked at, whether it is leather or wood? Evelyn was before certain that she done well with the tools, but her coiling stomach spoke otherwise: what if Daemon was disappointed, thought that she had better than what she actually had? The trade could only work if both sides were satisfied, and though she was happy with his offering, she feared that her own wasn’t enough. Anxiety that was so unlike her crawled in the back of her mind as she glanced between the male and the tools, almost too nervous to notice the he had lit some candles for light. Then her heartstrings plucked a fast tempo as the furless wolf started to pick up the two knives; was he going to point out flaws, perhaps show his disappointment in them?

But Daemon showed no signs of any such thing as he also picked up the bigger of the axes. She also saw that he was eyeing the pick with interest. Evelyn nearly let out a huff of relief as it seemed that he was pleased with what she had, instead of the disgust that she had dreaded for. After her heart settled down to its normal rate, she finally took noticed of the dyes and focused on them for a moment, curiosity in her blue eyes. The man began to gesture and point once more, first making motions with his knife, and then pointed at the belt, then the dyes, and back again. She was reminded that the belt was plain, but the stuff in the jars was colorful, maybe to be put on the leather? Evelyn stepped closer to inspect the jars, and noticed the labels that looked like scribbles in her eyes.

She first wondered why he would just put random lines on the containers, but then realized in her mind they must have been words, writing of his or another. But it wasn’t the fact that the handwriting wasn’t neat, or that she read a different language; she was certain by the way the words were all bunched and mixed that it was English. In her old pack, she was the one black sheep, being taught to read yet not being able to do so, like her eyes wanted people to stare at her with confusion when they gave her lessons that she couldn’t understand, not matter what language. But Daemon didn’t know this, and hopefully he didn’t want her to read the words, just look at the colors. “I like this color,” she decided after a moment of looking over the dyes, extending an index finger at the deep brown, reminding her of the bark on the trees, which would do well with not looking conspicuous when hunting. Though some flare of color would have been nice, just for the looks, like a splash of red, or perhaps a pinch of blue. But she wasn’t sure if he had other dye colors, and didn’t think about decorations that he could possibly have, and wondered if she could find some herself if not.

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