Paint the colours of the wind

He watched her carefully, observing the moment she understood. The hesitation and doubt, and then excitement. ‘I've never painted before..’ she said. He wasn't sure… wasn't sure it would suit her style, or something she would enjoy. But he had seen the trader, and found the paints… the creeping whisper in his heart had told him to buy them. “Yes, well. I've seen your sketches. They're good.” He told her. Still watching her almost wearily as she took in the expensive gift. He was afraid… afraid his deeper feelings would ruin the friendship building between them. He had come to realise that she was something he could lose, because he wasn't allowed to hold her tightly. He was afraid.


He grimaced at the nickname that spilled from her lips. “Basilisk.” He corrected her sharply. “Or Warlord, Master, Lord, he who owns me…” his voice turned dry, and then teasing the more he spoke until he found himself reaching forward and tugging teasingly at her ear. “there's a horse hair paint brush around somewhere, And you don't have to remain in the cave. The table folds up, so you can carry it around and paint where you like.”