[ She turns abruptly away, but not before he catches a complex ripple of emotions in her eyes, and he's torn for a moment between giving her space and crouching down beside her to see what — if any — assistance he might be able to give. He doesn't know her, doesn't know what might distract her and make her smile, the way he knows how to coax a smile, a laugh out of Maelle or Sciel or Lune: she's a stranger to him, though a fascinating one.

But she turns back again before he's decided what to do, smiling as if something hadn't just struck her, lips turned up in a languid smile that doesn't seem to go anywhere as she looks him over again. His own lips crook up, amused and lightly bewildered — it's a compliment, he thinks, but it almost doesn't sound like one. She assesses him almost impersonally, the way someone might study a statue or particularly fine view, which... isn't exactly anything he expected to field. The words aren't all that different from how Sciel might tease him, but the warm, sparkling smile he can see in his mind's eye, laughing from Sciel's familiar face, is missing from her eyes.

Just as unexpected is her next comment, and he exhales something that's almost a chuckle, head tipping to the side and eyebrows pushing up in a flicker of an expression that says well, you're not wrong. ]

No doubt that'd be a lovely sight. And a lot more welcome than most of what we have to look at here.

[ She offers him one of the little statuettes and he considers it for a moment, then leans — a little stiffly, metal left hand going to his torso — to accepts it. ]

Thanks. Maybe no one will have to know I didn't win this on my own in through some feat of strength or dexterity. Is there a shooting gallery? Maybe I could try that, pay back your generosity.