Magnus accepts the scroll and just as easily unrolls it. His eyes flick over it quickly as he skims the contents. She sinks back, digging a hip into the grass, and unfolds a leg to wrap arms around its bend. The girl's chin cushions itself on the socket of the kneecap, hindering the jaw in its work. But that does not negate the quality of his work.
Pinions scrape the wall, hissing through that makeshift preen.
Every work has its own merit. To not openly look for such merit is to be closed-minded. Syne meets that smile with a quizzical expression of her own, a cock of the head, a furrowing of the brow, before flickering quicksilver through a smile of her own. Magnus's brows rise in mock surprise. His tone gently disapproves.