As well as prompt 4, this is also a continuation of the interaction begun in prompt 1.

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"You shouldn't be a stitcher," Denyl finally blurted, then dug his gaze into the ground in embarrassment at the outburst. She shouldn't. She wasn't good at it; her stitches were all uneven and crooked, and her seams bunched and stretched. She was so much better at the crops, knowing just when to give the plants water and when to prune them back and just the best time to pick them. If she really wanted to help the village, that's what she should be doing.

Syra's face bunched up in a sisterly huff, hurt and trying not to let her little brother know it. "Here's your kite," she bit off, and handed him the completed motley. He tried not to snatch it it away and stroked his fingers along the joints and seams, wishing he could smooth them with a touch.

"No," she sighed, watching him, "I shouldn't. You should, but then you're going to be a fisher, aren't you?" Denyl glanced sharply at her. "Don't give me that look. I can see you're counting every time I messed up. You've got the fingers for it--all thin and fast and all that--and the eye. But it's not what you want to do, so you wouldn't really be best at it, you know." She reached out and took his small hands in her own and felt clumsy. "And I really love this. So I'll get better, I know I will. And you'll be a good windfisher because it's what you really love. So let's just believe in each other, okay?"