[IC]Níeven listened closely, his eyes showing the same passionate hunger for knowledge that they always had. He smiled rather gently as he was given this information. "Well, if you help me learn, I'd be more than happy to teach you conversational Sindarin, or even Quenya if you'd prefer. I rather like the idea of passing on the knowledge I'd spent so long holding. It only seems right. It makes me feel bad that I was so unwilling to teach my little cousin these things, yet I am so willing to teach someone I had just met --" He giggled at the very thought of that. Then again, his cousin called him 'Sissy Boy' due to his family situation still.
"See, they wanted a young strapping lad to inherit the family talent, blacksmithing, making hunter's knives and such. We make ornate weaponry that still remains practical. Not that I'm advertising. We don't own a shop or anything. I do sell my weapons, but on a rare occasion. Just enough to live rather comfortably. But eh -- it's not exactly interesting." He shrugged. "It is probably the only reason my father ever wanted me around, though. I always tended to excel in that wheelhouse. Moreso than my brother. But that doesn't mean that my Father prefers me over him. He still loves my brother more than anything. Not that I have a problem with that. Poor bastard will probably go to the beyond soon enough."

[IC]Níeven laughed lightly. "Spend more time with me, and you'll eventually resent me too." He said, but almost jokingly, a cool laugh following his jibe. Níeven shook his head, "Don't get me wrong, I look far better in gowns -- I prefer them, actually. I wore them until my body began to mature. And then my brother began to... that's not important. I've complained in length on him. It truly isn't important." He allowed the change in subject, a small flush reaching his face. It was more of his own shame, rather than flattery.

[IC]Then: Concern.

[IC]Níeven reached out, noticing the increased panic, gently holding his shoulder for a moment, as if he was attempting to calm him. "Nin mellon! Please, calm dad, im foeg baw harm na cin." His voice held a different quality when he was trying to be calming. A lulling, motherly tone, fond, yet fierce in its protectiveness. "Sindarin is a nice language, but I do not blame you for forgetting it as you grew. If you do not hear it commonly, it is easier to forget."