pandakatiefominz
Wraith
"One of the enemy's spies may look fair and feel foul," Rose told Luka, once again referencing her favourite book, "I've known plenty of landlords who seemed relaxed in correspondence, and turned out to be stricter than a nun once the lease is signed."
Before Mitch stepped in, Dark had fallen silent. Not because he was at all offended by what Ishade had said, but because he never spoke unless he knew what he was going to say, and he preferred silence to stammering or using filler words, when Mitch asked about what he did, he refocused his attentions, saying, "I have never made a chair. Or, I suppose more accurately, I have never made a chair any of us here could use, although I did make Ivy's bassinet. No, I make toys, often, mostly for her, but in the neighborhood we used to live, I would donate them to children whose families could not afford to buy from a toy store, or to shelters and orphanages. But I also make boxes and figurines and," he cleared his throat, "urns, twice. I do not sell anything, but if somebody is simply desperate for me to make something for them, I will trade, I will not accept money, because disposable income is harder to come by than making an extra loaf of bread or offering to babysit for many people."
"Baba also made a carnival," Ivy added. She didn't understand most of the grown up talk at the table (she thought art was just fancy things that made you feel something, she didn't know about 'creating with a purpose,'), but now her dad was talking about the things he made, but he didn't even mention his coolest thing, "all the rides move, 'cause--because he put gears in them, and the carousel is a music box. And he made all sorts of tiny people, so there's a little me there, and so are Baba and Mama, 'cept they're working."
"...Except."
"Except."
Before Mitch stepped in, Dark had fallen silent. Not because he was at all offended by what Ishade had said, but because he never spoke unless he knew what he was going to say, and he preferred silence to stammering or using filler words, when Mitch asked about what he did, he refocused his attentions, saying, "I have never made a chair. Or, I suppose more accurately, I have never made a chair any of us here could use, although I did make Ivy's bassinet. No, I make toys, often, mostly for her, but in the neighborhood we used to live, I would donate them to children whose families could not afford to buy from a toy store, or to shelters and orphanages. But I also make boxes and figurines and," he cleared his throat, "urns, twice. I do not sell anything, but if somebody is simply desperate for me to make something for them, I will trade, I will not accept money, because disposable income is harder to come by than making an extra loaf of bread or offering to babysit for many people."
"Baba also made a carnival," Ivy added. She didn't understand most of the grown up talk at the table (she thought art was just fancy things that made you feel something, she didn't know about 'creating with a purpose,'), but now her dad was talking about the things he made, but he didn't even mention his coolest thing, "all the rides move, 'cause--because he put gears in them, and the carousel is a music box. And he made all sorts of tiny people, so there's a little me there, and so are Baba and Mama, 'cept they're working."
"...Except."
"Except."