Nįrello in silence, shuffling his feet back and forth. He glanced at the picture of the man and his fingers self-conciously traced it. Before he could draw them away the quick eyes of the elf had caught his movements.
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Come now, when did shyness lock your tongue? Or have your good manners surfaced?
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The boy suddenly felt small. Very small, like a hobbit child. A rather uncommon shade of red came to his cheeks and he began to discover what the skin on the inside of his mouth tasted like.
Not great, he decided. There was no way he could refuse when she offered to tell him the story, so he simply rested himself upon the table and listened to the tale of Mithadan.
Nįrello grinned at the elf's description of her once-firery streak of independence. He had seen at least one of her knives and made a bet to himself that she was at least as good if not better with them then Awyrgan. The tale of the grey-eyed man nearly made him change his mind about leaving, at least for a while, but he brushed it off.
I have made my decision.