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He looked over the daisy that laid on the paper. Admittedly, it was not as good has his, but it was to expected, given how young Dalgina was and her inexperience with ink. Nonetheless, he smiled at the picture, finding it endearing in some sort of way, and stated encouragingly, "I think that flower looks just about ready to plucked right from the page." Again, he set aside his work, though this time around he was more willing to do so, and brought out a more wrinkled and ragged parchment, one he had been minding to toss out. Now, it had a better fate than to be left blank.
"When you write with a quill and ink, its different that drawing with a brush and paint. With a paintbrush, its like you are making a thick river, you have to press hard on the tip to guide it. But, with a quill, its different." He began to draw again, though this time it was curling lines and tiny spirals. "A quill is a feather, its used to light air, a light pressure on it. It's still free, like the bird. You can only subtly flick your hand with it, as if you are moving with it, that it's a part of you." When he lifted his quill, he had made a meaningless symbol that contained many swirl and turns, though they somehow fitted to one another.
"Try to draw your most favorite flower, one that you cannot imagine never seeing again. Try to draw it so that you do not have to go on without missing it," the Collins suggested, this time keeping an eye on her so that he could lead her to the right direction.
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