In the cluttered calm of Thistle’s workshop, the air smells faintly of metal filings, paint, and something vaguely citrusy—likely the remnants of a half-drunk soda bottle left near a coil of copper wire. Afternoon light filters through the dust-speckled window, landing in soft patches across the workbench and what can only be described as "organized chaos".
Art leans in the open doorway, watching as Thistle works on a project with Gwen's assistance.
Gwen braces a heavy, awkwardly shaped piece of machinery firmly against the workbench, her bulk and strength keeping it steady while Thistle focuses on the delicate tinkering. Thistle could just as easily use a vise, but seems to enjoy the company—or that Gwen can make minute adjustments on request, something a metal clamp can’t do. At least, not until she perfects the Clamp-o-matic Readjuster Mark II. The first one ended up in the slag pit after a rather rude incident where it misunderstood the word “rear.”
Art's eyes drift toward where Button sits near the edge of the workbench’s shadow, pawing gently through a shallow dish of rattling glass beads, and then toddles over to examine a half-formed clay figurine - a frog, maybe? Or a pot? It's hard to tell yet.
“Have you decided where he’s going? He is cute. But you don’t need another chimerical friend cluttering the place up.” The sidhe asks curiously.
A bright, offended chime - Citrine gives him an offended shake of a tiny fist as she flits past in the air.
Art bows his head to her in amused deference. “Obviously, some exceptions apply.”