“Ah, yes, well-right then,” stumbling over words, thoughts coming too swiftly to break apart and make sense of. For a moment, breaths, seconds, and then he is falling into ease again. Straightening his posture and lifting his head, each crystal shard of his mane catching the light and reflecting against the tree.
(Locally sourced Christmas lights, and he hadn’t even meant to create those.)
He had heard a compliment before, always from his family, the type of praise you can never be too certain is heartfelt. They were kin after all, sort of obligated to say ‘hey that’s great’- weren’t they?
Then again, Father had been consistent with one doing their best, trying their hardest and come to think of it, he never missed a beat to correct him. Their education endless and ongoing, home schooled by the wisest man he knew. It was probably all in his head, thoughts making his amber eyes foggy and withdrawn. When he came to, he found his stare reflected back, mirrored from the portals against her blue facade. They were brighter than his own, or appeared to be, against the midnight shade of her hair.
“You think they are? Well, I’m sure we could make it a bit more festive, but I do wonder?” Looking around, then back to the woman, brow tilted in consideration.
“Who made the snow, was it you?” There she was, kindly fueling his sculpting and all this time, she had been capable of matching his skill. A chortle leaves him, it was silly, it was smart- cheeky. He thought she was spunky, ears wiggling in good nature, flicking around against his icy mane.
“Well, I must say, this is quite the spectacle- right in the middle of an island. You’re very talented Roma.” Looking around, he found the would be beaches divine with frost, blanketed in the purest, whitest of snowfall. Clever. Who would have thought of starting a party here, not himself, that’s for sure.