Marcus' jaw was tense. Rather than reply, he tugged the damed wheel back towards him and busied himself trying to untangle the mess it had made when the yarn snapped mid-spin. He bellowed for an elf, and snapped out an order for the whiskey and two glasses. The elf tried to apologize for Isaac's presence, but Marc sent it off with a snarled "Get the damned whiskey," and it disappeared.
Jaw tight, he yanked at the yarn until he had the thin strand of it back in his hand. Might as well rejoin the strands and get it set properly before putting it away. He grabbed a puff of the carded wool and drew out a strand, twisting it by hand, the thread strangely delicate in his large hands. He stuck the tip of each bit of yarn in his mouth, wetting them, then twisted them together to join them. He rubbed them hard between his fingers, using the heat of his hands and the dampness to felt the strands together. He didn't speak again until he started the wheel going with his toe, his back to Isaac. "Plants're mine," he admitted.