[ Reynir moves without consciously making the decision to. He can see that Onni is overwhelmed, that words are escaping him for the moment. So he uses those long legs of his and steps in close, bending down enough that he can press his forehead to Onni's, eyes slipping closed. It's a strange gesture, maybe, but Reynir isn't worried about being strange right now. It feels right.
And he can feel it now. That gratitude. The grief and the joy and the other unnameable things in between. Reynir recognizes that feeling. He thinks it is a little like what he'd felt, when Onni recognized him as a mage, spoke to him with respect in a way no one really had before. Talked about his potential. Looked at him like he was someone worth knowing.
After a moment or two of silent pressure, forehead to forehead, Reynir steps back, downing the rest of the cup of mead (maybe it's arrogant to drink it all so fast, but his tolerance has gotten better, since he became a faun). And he lifts up the pipes once more, saying in a brighter, more confident voice: ]
This one's an old Icelandic song. It's one of my favorites.
[ And he starts to play once more, the melody lilting and repetitive but infectious, in the way that some folk songs could be. The sort of tune that would get stuck in your head, rising up in little snippets when you least expected it. Reynir's eyes grow bright with that feverish zeal once more, and he's swaying as he plays, half dancing, dizzy with happiness. ]
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And he can feel it now. That gratitude. The grief and the joy and the other unnameable things in between. Reynir recognizes that feeling. He thinks it is a little like what he'd felt, when Onni recognized him as a mage, spoke to him with respect in a way no one really had before. Talked about his potential. Looked at him like he was someone worth knowing.
After a moment or two of silent pressure, forehead to forehead, Reynir steps back, downing the rest of the cup of mead (maybe it's arrogant to drink it all so fast, but his tolerance has gotten better, since he became a faun). And he lifts up the pipes once more, saying in a brighter, more confident voice: ]
This one's an old Icelandic song. It's one of my favorites.
[ And he starts to play once more, the melody lilting and repetitive but infectious, in the way that some folk songs could be. The sort of tune that would get stuck in your head, rising up in little snippets when you least expected it. Reynir's eyes grow bright with that feverish zeal once more, and he's swaying as he plays, half dancing, dizzy with happiness. ]