[ : / /γπ΅ πΈ π» π΄ ]γ : @novasynth
γγπ π΄ π° π π² π· πΈ π½ πΆ γγγγγγγγthe sound of pencil against parchment was something foreign ; raised amongst glass-faced screens & illuminated displays , even sketching was not done in such mundane fashion . the technology of the xianzhou allowed him to fashion digital prototype , sculpted before him using light & mirrors . but the manner in which mr . yang draws , reads , even dresses himself feels old - world in a way that he identifies even having no knowledge of this nostalgia . it's a universal charm . welt is . . . classic . it's a maturation he has not reached even by xianzhou terms , for all the time he has walked , still dressed & carried himself in the manner that would be immediately recognizable of any xianzhou native to be not entirely polished . not yet elder .
γγγred eyes are following the skritching of the pencil , fascinated by the way it deposits the fair , light - gray pigment onto paper , & how the shadows it leaves have taken form so recognizably . under welt's hand , the face of someone who is stranger to him , but no doubt implanted in the other's mind comes to life , & the manner in which he draws the face out of his memory paints it in oblique fondness . it is a craft the blade could observe for hours .
γγγβ Β Β Β Β Β Β who is this . Β β asks the other , voice coming soft from welt's side , where he has sat in relative silence many times now . it is a familiar post when he has been accepted . the other has graced him with understanding not offered by all upon the express . portrait of himself still hides between his portable device & the case which protects it , a couple months old now . it's creases are weak from the blade folding & unfolding this hidden treasure in times of respite .
