"Yeah. I'm holding up." He confirmed, taking the opportunity and advice to flex his back. Red, hmm? Reviewing the finished result could prove quite interesting. He felt the movements of the needle, but he didn't pay them much heed. They didn't make a lot of sense, anyway. A tiny bit of applied pressure on his left wing. She touched him again, it would seem. Why does she keep doing that? He asked himself. Perhaps that's just the way she is... And why was he complaining? WAS he complaining? A quick moment of contemplation and he realized he wasn't. "I'm holding up just fine. He muttered, smile still dominating his features.
Dys hummed quietly to herself, lost in her own little world as she inspected the wing-membrane with the delicate touch of an artisan. It was warm –probably because of the blood vessels so close to the unprotected surface- and had an odd, soft quality to it. Odd, she’d have thought it’d been more leathery and stiff, but then again she should have taken into consideration her own wings, which felt very much the same (that which wasn’t covered by feathers, anyway). <span style='color:seagreen'>“A coupla more minutes and I should be ready to continue."</span> She yawned, flopping onto her back, tail lazily curling off the side of the bed. <span style='color:seagreen'>“What’cha wanna do in the meantime?"</span>
Turmoil turned around to better see Dys, and as he did so, the purple bang made itself noticed. WHy was that there, anyway? He didn't even like the color purple... He leaned back, and stretched his arms and wings out carefully. He didn't want to knock something over or of something. "I suppose there are multiple options..." He stated, in a mock serious tone. "But I am temporarily unavailible to conjure anything apart from having a conversation. What about you, young miss?"
