This is dedicated to Toria, for asking me the opening question while I was writing 'Ill Tempered Exterior'. In reply, after a paragraph of explanation, I decided it was imperfections – being able to learn and describe each feature and tinker with its image until I can define it in words. A little bit of thought, revision, relation to Winry, and badda bing, badda boom, you have yourself a story. Read and review if you have the time, please and thank you.
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"What is your inspiration?"
A few flickers of the eye and a pause of wistful state usually concluded with a reply such as 'seeing people happy,' or 'shiny material,' and people would shrug, smile, and accept this.
It was those people who would question her daft azure orbs afterward that she found the time worth confessing to.
But the only one who had needed just to offer a meet with those golden eyes in exchange and she would spill.
Every fibre sewed and kneaded with passion had an outcome, some vibrant and exotic, and others bland with numbing threads attaching civilizations and realities with ideas and feelings. And each work was beautiful, and fragile, and personal. Though some lacked this, rays of talent seeped through in short gasps to make up for the ending result.
For every piece of lone grass or maternal strip of bark was a creator too tired to work out the flaws, for the positives outweighed those faults.
This was her job. She would take the defective or omitting limb and reconstruct the spoiled pallet.
If there were no glitches in humanity, then there would be no meaning for her profession, no melodic clank on her wrench against cobalt set steel, and she would expire in due time.
And he had only one inquiry to this logic.
"If your passion is taking in imperfections and fixing them, does that make me your masterpiece?"