[Well, that's a clear message if he's ever gotten one. He nods, though, not pressing it; he hates when people try to harass him about his issues, after all, so responding in kind would be unfair. He sits down in the grass a few feet away, tugging a sketchbook from beneath his tabard and setting it down between them.]
I can draw. But I can't draw like you. There's no life in what I put on paper.
[Usually, he doesn't care. Truth be told, he doesn't even notice.
Not today, though. Not this time. He needs this to be special, just once.]
[Action] oh well that is a little silly, yes.
I can draw. But I can't draw like you. There's no life in what I put on paper.
[Usually, he doesn't care. Truth be told, he doesn't even notice.
Not today, though. Not this time. He needs this to be special, just once.]