Gods, he’s insanely cautious. Well, polite is what normal people would call it. But Fíadh doesn’t understand things like “politeness” and “meekness” and “not physically intimidating others.” Still, finally he spits out his name. Farogil. She pauses to take another look at him, assigning the planes in his face to the consonants and vowels she’s been given. After a long, unblinking stare, she responds in kind.

“Fíadh.”

Of course she doesn’t say it’s her name, but she figures he can suss it out. She looks back to her work and continues in the easy silence they’ve cultivated, finally when she finishes the shears she places them aside before picking up the next item and furiously forcing the wheel to pump back into motion.