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Seren’s eyes were big as saucers as her little fist closed round one of the Dwarf’s fingers and hefted herself up to her feet. She regained her composure quickly, though, recalling the words he had used in greeting. Her chubby little fists were planted firmly on her hips and she cocked her head back, one eye considering him; her lips set in a disapproving pout.
‘Hey you! I’m not a sprout!’ she said in as forceful a way as her five year old self could muster.
Taffy sighed as he brushed off the knees of his pants and stood up straight. ‘My little sister,’ he said to Skirvir, as if those two words explained everything. ‘Seren,’ he went on, turning back to his sister. ‘This is the fellow who does carvings, too. Master Skirvir is his name, not “hey you”.’ He bent down closer to her. ‘Mind your manners or I’ll tell ma,’ he whispered.
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