Thistle's workshop hums with it's usual energy - cluttered yet laser focused at the same time. Tools and half-finished devices crowd the benches, coils of wire hanging from hooks along the walls. A string of holiday lights is stretched across a central table, several bulbs dark while others flicker stubbornly.
Art sits off to one side on a stool, a book balanced on his knee as he makes careful notes. Without looking up, he comments, “Perhaps that light is just meant to be a different color.”
Thistle, working the tangle of wires with steady focus, jabs a humming arc-probe into the strand. A sharp crack and a brief spray of sparks skitter across the tabletop, drawing no reaction as a few bulbs flare and then dim again.
Citrine gives a peal of delight at the colorful show, clapping enthusiastically as though it was a light show just for her. She darts in and out of the loops of the light strand in, metallic wings buzzing and laughing in little bell tones that lighten the air.