Casually and collectively, Edel was sketching the physical attributes of the impaled moth, left fingers suctioned around the utensil with ease, and drawing its bodice down to every last, intercalate detail. The notes left scattered across the page were just as artistic, organized neat and very precise. As he spent his minutes working, the seventeen-year-old experimentally stabbed the paper-thin folds of the wings every now and again, creating punctures he stared at and smiled, oblivious to the exchange going on outside his doors.
The moth's milky wings fluttered weak and unhealthy, before its movements stopped altogether. Edel inched closer, poking it with the tip of his ink-stained pinky. “Hm,” he said, eyeing the dead thing a few seconds longer, before going back to his sketching. The knock of flesh on door was heard, but the sandy-haired male payed it no mind, ears playing the role of a deaf grandmother's.
Vaguely, he recognized that feet were entering the room, but didn't glance up once from the page, not until he was finished with his illustration, and even then, took his time; dark eyes flecking upwards at the stranger invading the space. His space. But Edel still smiled, intensely watching the Preceptor with that slouch in his back, until the comment was made. Slightly, he straightened, tucking the sketchbook under one arm, and standing himself. “Hello, Dairon Kanan. What a pleasure it is for you to grace your presence here, three hours late." Edel smirked pleasantly.
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