How long had he been scribbling in his notebook? Seconds, minutes, an hour? There was a dull ache in his hand, maybe from gripping the writing instrument too hard or maybe from the harsh, dark scratches that were starting to cover up the drawings themselves.

Celehar’s approach might not have been silent, but it still took the elf’s voice reaching him (that comfortable cadence that spoke to a deeper level in Sunny himself) for the teen to look up. His sole eye was dark, darker than its natural color, but some recognition lit up at the sight of the other.

The teen nodded, silent, drawn more into himself than their last meeting but… it was an acceptance. Celehar’s presence was welcome, even now.