[@Eviledd1984]

	As the morning went on, Caelum continued his sketch. He had grown content with his initial muse, and now patiently included the area arround until the page was full, which it was approaching as much.

	He continued to hum his usual slow-burning elegy—haunting, restrained, and saturated with quiet emotion. Each breath unfurled the melody like smoke lazily listing across the lagoon.

	From off to his left, he sensed a familiar presence approaching. 

	[color=39b54a]“[i]Boo![/i]”[/color] Loke’s familiar lilt—half melody, half trouble—cut through the morning hush. [color=39b54a]"Whatcha working on?”[/color] He leaned onto his usual shillelagh for balance as he peered over the parchment Caelum was consecrating.

	He didn’t hide the parchment, nor did he offer it either.


	[color=D86B3E]"Good morning, Mister O’Toole,”[/color] Caelum quietly hummed—his voice warm in timbre, gradual in cadence. It didn’t need volume to be heard—low, ember-toned, and deliberate.

	It was a greeting shaped like ritual, not mere routine.

	[color=D86B3E]“Just the lagoon from earlier,”[/color] Caelum murmured, continuing to shade a particular tree. [color=D86B3E]“You know I sketch you all, now and then. When the muse is kind.”[/color]

	He didn’t look up. The tree still needed its shadow.

	A moment later, he was satisfied with the shade, lowered the parchment and looked up into the friendly face above. 

	[color=D86B3E]”What brings you to the lagoon,”[/color] Caelum inquired. [color=D86B3E]”Is there something the Tinkers need of me?”[/color]