Jonsi's opinion of his storytelling was erratic. He was always half-convinced he was a god at the beginning, when he came up with a thought that grabbed him by the nape of the neck, and the feeling carried on until he had the story or scrapped it. He felt better than a god when he said something so good it made a girl go all doe-eyed and winsome, to be sure. Call him a half-rate storyteller then, and he could genuinely laugh in your face.
Occasionally, though, he found himself suffering a crisis of faith. Some hardass had stared him down through the whole telling of the Falcon Girl, with a look of such wholeheartedly bored derision, he could not quite shake the experience. So, being unable to do anything else, he had reviewed his performance, and began to wonder if his voices couldn't use some work. Pacing through the forest, ignorant of the unseasonable chill in the air, he thought in character, his head ducking bashfully as he assumed the trembling engenue, small and terrified, but brave. "I'll go," he swore in a thin falsetto, over and over. "I'll go. I'll go." Was it right? He slowed his walk, shortened down to bashful steps, kept his eyes downcast and tried to get his heart hammering in his throat. "I'll go." He jerked his head upwards, his eyes searching the treeline pleadingly. "I'll go."
