Winn obviously didn't really get a chance to answer Rhiannon's question, given the circumstances. For all that was going on and being said, though, the boy's reaction might have seemed just a little off, because he suddenly wasn't visibly bothered by the frustrated-to-all-heck imp girl, nor was he any longer visibly engaged in the aircraft and trade-knowledge conversation. Instead, Winn seemed amused by something that had been said, his brows popping up for a second as he nodded either insincerely or distractedly (it was hard to tell which) during the pilot's explanation.

"That's fortunate," was all he said in the end, detachedly.

Without any of his statements replied to in much interest, the pilot finally fell into an observant silence as he turned back to his machine. For the umpteenth time in the last few moments, he allowed his fingers to brush over the Eternal Wheel (as the other boy had so claimed it to be), particularly the spot where the symbols were scuffed.

Afterward, he rose a hand, absentmindedly holding his jaw while tapping an elbow with his opposite fingers in a thoughtful manner.

"Seems I will need to find a person who knows how to repair this," said the pilot, breaking the short silence.

Barely turning his head back towards the other two (and perhaps the imp girl if she was actually listening), his eyes seemed more focused on the aircraft as he asked a question.

"Are any of you familiar enough with this town to know anyone capable of doing so?"

Winn sighed and struck a rather distinct expression. It faded after a couple solid blinks into dead space, and was replaced by a tired look.

"Look," he began in earnest, "I don't remember much, but I do remember that... folks in my profession? We don't like lay-people who push diagnoses. If you want a defixio fixed, you ask a fabricator-assembler what's wrong with it. Never try to tell'em."

He crossed his arms. "Unless you can find one of us who managed to forget his dignity along with his memories," he added quietly.

So he was a little moody. Maybe that's just what you get personality-wise when you try to blend an engineer, finicky by trade, with a wizard, broody by nature.

"Hff. 'Scuffed symbols'..."

If the pilot was offended by Winn's suggestion, he didn't show it. In fact, he appeared to consider for a moment, and after a few more taps on the elbow, he swiveled back to the boy.

"Very well, then," he stated, his tone holding a new consideration. "What do you think is wrong with it, if I may ask for your opinion? My knowledge on this seems to be quite... minimal despite my apparent experience with flying. "

Winn took in a breath, thought a moment, then drew his goggles up from his neck and pulled them across his eyes. The eyewear promptly began to glow. His right hand raised; the small device strapped and nestled into his palm glowed similarly, casting odd light across the engine, which, all at once, appeared to disassemble before their very eyes. Except, it didn't—it was instead an odd, ghostly-looking image of the engine that warbled about and floated toward Winn, expanding in an obvious, exploded view, its spectral parts popping out every which way.

"... huhhh."

That was one of those vocalizations one never wanted to hear from a doctor, mechanic, or pilot.

There was a small, but conspicuous space, represented by the outline of a part, which seemed to form to fill in a gap, hazy at first, then more structured the longer Winn focused on it, almost as if it was being mentally conjured then and there, imagined into place. It soon looked like a gear of some kind, but oddly, it couldn't seem to decide how big it was, and the image of the engine kept shifting around it, readjusting unstably. Then, just like that, the entire picture disappeared.

Winn removed his goggles and looked blankly at the engine. He soon approached and physically stuck his arm into the compartment, reaching and feeling around for something.

"Okay, uhm. Well. I was partially wrong," he admitted, "this is one of the nicer ones. Very nice, really."

He kept fishing. He soon came out with a fragment of some kind, unidentifiable, kind of brassy, yet also kind of veiny in its streaky coloration.

"It's just... there's... a small, but crucial, component missing. This might have been it at one point."

The shard he was holding was barely bigger than a thumbnail. He looked troubled about it in an almost sheepish way.

Rhiannon observed the whole spectacle in silence. She wore a very subtly placid smile throughout, her eyes intently following the two key players and their mannerisms, expressions, and props. If any of the display was novel or surprising, one wouldn't find evidence of it in the witch's expression, which went unchanged throughout the young technician's diagnostics. This wasn't to say she found it uninteresting, however. In fact, her unblinking, unfaltering gaze might have been considered unsettling by some, and perhaps just impolitely prying by the less paranoid.

"That's quite fantastic," the girl at last said, with a tone and inflection suitable for language instruction. "I don't recall much about fabricators. Is it merely a matter of crafting a replacement for the damaged part, then?"

Winn raked his bottom teeth slowly down his upper lip once.

"Nnnooormally, it would be," he hesitantly half-confirmed in a very quiet voice.

In the expansive silence following Winn’s statement, the imp—who had been pacing back and forth, stewing, stopped in front of Winn.

“Oh, are the Big People having a problem? Can’t they figure out what’s wrong with their pile of metal?” she spoke to the boy, unkindly.

"Can I ask my question now or are you going to interrupt me again?"

"Less than a few moments ago, you seemed quite dumbstruck by the 'pile of metal,'" observed Rhiannon rather blandly.

It wasn't a statement of sarcasm or sass, but was more akin to pointing out the temperature, or color of the sky. The witch's wandering gaze shifted, settling into an unabashed, unwavering stare at the boisterous little demon child.

“Well, maybe a few moments ago, y—“ she bit down on what she was about to say.

She looked away, with a nervous blink.

“So,” she said. She looked back and made hesitant eye-contact.

“Are you a hag or what?"

The reply the imp received consisted initially of a blink.

Singular.

Sharp, and very deliberate, so one could be irrevocably certain that it was precisely what Rhiannon meant to do.

And then she smiled. Not vapidly, or with malicious intent, but in the way that one smiles when sort of embarrassed on someone else's behalf.

"I am a person," she answered with a nod that implied she wasn't likely to expound on it.

“Well, sooo-orry,” the imp replied.

“What do you call it, then?"

Rhiannon's head fell to a scrutinizing cant, loosing a lock of wavy platinum from behind her back, which swung 'round her shoulder, and came to rest over her arm.

"Something of a less abrasive manner, more likely to be heard in civilized conversation," replied the girl in an instructional tone that somehow managed to avoid being condescending. "Of which there are many colorful options to suit one's every mood for flounce and puffery, but 'witch'" -- Pausing, she dipped her head in a sort of 'at your services' gesture -- "Will do."

The imp looked critically at the witch for a moment, and then said:

“Which will?"

“Quite right," answered Rhiannon at a chirp.