08-23-2018, 05:32 PM
[size=9pt]If Moon could hear what was going through Isidore's head, he'd be quick to correct him. In fact, he'd probably berate him with compliments and approval until he realized how good he was. He didn't like to see self deprecation. He's all too familiar with it; it's not something he puts up with, when it comes to others.
But he couldn't, so, instead, he only squints at the serval's facial expression and hopes what he thought was going through his head wasn't actually going through his head. Then the closet doors are open, and they're focusing on the plants inside, instead, so whatever suspicions he'd had are quickly forgotten. He quirks a brow at Isidore's words, one side of his lip pulling up in a questionable facial expression. "Seriously?" he says, pausing a moment for dramatic effect. "You don't know what any of these plants are. And you were that fuckin' eager to get this open?" He scoffs a laugh, shakes his head and glances back to the closet. So much for thinking he was in the presence of someone who knew their shit. Golden eyes scan the shelves, and he mutters herb names under his breath absentmindedly as he searches for one he thinks might be interesting to draw.
"Here," he says, removing the two he'd chosen with gentle paws. He sets the borage flowers and the honeycomb down on the windowsill, on top of a piece of cloth, and then steps back, as if to admire it. He's trying to get two that go well together, complementary colors or whatever the fuck, but Moon's never really had an artist's eye. At least he doesn't think so. He lifts one paw to his mouth, the one now coated in honey, and promptly sucks it off. "So," says the lion, settling down against the wall and setting Isidore with an expectant look. He doesn't know if he's disrespecting some universal art rule not to speak to the artist while they're working, but he feels like he's done his part in the creative process, anyway. Enough to earn him some answers. "Where'd you come from, tortured artist?"
But he couldn't, so, instead, he only squints at the serval's facial expression and hopes what he thought was going through his head wasn't actually going through his head. Then the closet doors are open, and they're focusing on the plants inside, instead, so whatever suspicions he'd had are quickly forgotten. He quirks a brow at Isidore's words, one side of his lip pulling up in a questionable facial expression. "Seriously?" he says, pausing a moment for dramatic effect. "You don't know what any of these plants are. And you were that fuckin' eager to get this open?" He scoffs a laugh, shakes his head and glances back to the closet. So much for thinking he was in the presence of someone who knew their shit. Golden eyes scan the shelves, and he mutters herb names under his breath absentmindedly as he searches for one he thinks might be interesting to draw.
"Here," he says, removing the two he'd chosen with gentle paws. He sets the borage flowers and the honeycomb down on the windowsill, on top of a piece of cloth, and then steps back, as if to admire it. He's trying to get two that go well together, complementary colors or whatever the fuck, but Moon's never really had an artist's eye. At least he doesn't think so. He lifts one paw to his mouth, the one now coated in honey, and promptly sucks it off. "So," says the lion, settling down against the wall and setting Isidore with an expectant look. He doesn't know if he's disrespecting some universal art rule not to speak to the artist while they're working, but he feels like he's done his part in the creative process, anyway. Enough to earn him some answers. "Where'd you come from, tortured artist?"
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]