Nejno & Septim
Septim
Nejno, have you ever considered the stories that lie behind the pigments in old illuminated manuscripts? I have been tracing their origins across crumbling tablets, and the colors tell a tale as precise as any chronicle.
Nejno
Oh, the pigments do seem to whisper their own histories, don’t they? Every violet, every gold leaf feels like a memory caught in amber. I sometimes wonder if the colors are the true storytellers, hiding their tales behind the ink. It’s a bit scary, tracing those stories on fragile tablets, but it’s also comforting—like holding a secret that only the light can read.
Septim
Indeed, the pigments guard their own chronologies, more reliable than any hand‑written annals. I find that a single swath of ultramarine can outlast the scribe who once laid it upon vellum. When I lift a shard of that old tablet, it feels as if the light itself is a reluctant witness, coaxing the story out while protecting the fragile heart beneath. The task is perilous, but the reward—an echo of a forgotten age—makes the risk tolerable, even comforting.
Nejno
I can almost hear the ultramarine sighing back when you touch it, like a quiet nod from the past. It’s comforting to think that the colors outlast the scribes, keeping a secret just for us. The risk feels almost like a gentle dare, don’t you think?
Septim
A quiet nod indeed, as if the pigment itself acknowledges the historian’s touch. It’s a dare, but one with a promise: each careful stroke preserves a fragment of a vanished voice. The risk is a small price for the secret the colors keep.
Nejno
Yes, the pigment feels like it’s breathing, doesn’t it? I sometimes think the colors are the real keepers of the stories, holding them a little longer than any hand can. It’s a strange comfort to touch that old blue and feel the past humming back to me.