A stream of stars wake across the vault of the nightheavens.

[ A pile of tangled, frayed garland is conveniently nearby upon the working table. His arm lifts, careful of where she its, and reaches for the pile, and he begins to loosen the strands. ]

Flowers upon garland will allude to its majesty.

[ His voice is no more or less hollow or deep than it had been before, but in response to her words, there seems to be an added firmness to it-- respect, acknowledgement. It is praise for her artistic suggestion, perhaps. ]

Let us craft it, Maiden.