11-11-2010, 01:56 AM
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He liked to make things—to craft and design, reveling in his own ability. He needed to keep himself occupied anyway, and this worked. The flute wasn’t the best, but its notes were lovely, rising on the quiet air as though it were nothing more than the wind rising over the ocean waves. And like the piper luring the rats to the sea, a figure approached, entranced by the dull notes that he played. Crimson eyes turned on the black and white-faced girl, meeting eyes of a nearly equal shade—eyes he’d once have believed were unique. “A flute,” he returned, answering her inquiry. He moved it away from his lips, holding it out to her. He was not so selfish nor so secluded to be unable to share with the curious. He could make another flute anyway—the practice was far more valuable than some whimsical greed that’d hold the crude wooden object to his chest, away from her eyes. A half smile grew on his lips, feigning friendliness, desiring companionship, though remembering his place in the world. “Have a go,” he said, instrument held out lightly between his fingertips. |