honey what's your hurry - p, moomin

[fae .]

The sun was painting the sky and earth in oranges and blues, pouring such beautiful colors over her own pelt, and over the river she was standing next to, hunting the bank for clays. Her one escape from the hellish young life she endured was learning how to make little clay figurines. Until now, though, she never put it into practice outside of reading it from books.

Wow, this was scarier than she thought it would be - it was so far across to the other side, and she never learned how to swim. If she slipped on the riverbank, well, how would she get out? Sometimes you just didn't know. That prospect, of not knowing, terrified her. Maybe she should do this some other time, maybe now wasn't the best... then again, she didn't have much else to do, so if she was super duper careful she should be fine, right? Right.

Dutifully the young femme began poking at the slightly wet ground. Supposedly, she was supposed to be able to tell clay from dirt - that was the only thing she had to go off of, that it was some sort of anomalous other texture. Hopefully she found some soon, though. Even if the river wasn't rapid or anything, it was still making her anxious, hearing the soft motion of it behind her, threatening to pull her under at any second. Truly frightening.

"speech"