03-19-2020, 07:32 PM
[align=center][div style="font-family: arial; font-size: 11px; width: 60%; text-align: justify; line-height:120%"]Disarray of chaotic gestures, droplets falling about expanse of earth hued canvas, simplistic the joy underlying that which took shape within the smeared lines of violet. Direct opposition the smooth edges of soft blue, a pleasant depiction of the hushed singer, quiet the ache of heart grasped in cloying homesickness. Between the pair equally muddled with the shades of tacky paint did attention turn, lip caught by points, worked over until the pale flesh grew dark.
Hesitance marked the dipping of toes within the offered vessel bearing violet, messy the uneven, lopsided shape of scrawled bloom. Futile the attempt to wipe away the remnants clinging once work was done, nose scrunching as discomfort prickled at their skin. Of no use was complaint, rather, their focus turned to the hue of abandoned sea. Steam and leaves joined their small creation, tip of their tongue poking through as lilac depths narrowed in deep concentration.
Quips over choice of colour did not register within thoughts settled upon the work at hand, only once its creation drew to a shaky halt did their attention deviate. Cut off the sudden sound falling from their tongue, a gentle thing most alike a squeak of utter surprise, useless the tiny adornment of pale wings unfolding to stop backward momentum. Yet there was nothing that may halt such, the scrap of tiny claws enough to rain flakes of bark upon exposed belly, breath forced out in a pained groan.
Others. Unbeknownst to fallen child cousins - or possibly something else, confusing the matter of relations unknown - the little ones speaking in tones of faux anger. Yet it was the last, towering figure of cinnamon laced cream, that caught and held their attention. Quick the crumble of resolve, lips parting though it was not audible protest, words to denounce their trespass of land they had not known was occupied, but a hiccup. There seemed no warning nor build up, trembling their lips as tiny paws streaked with mud rubbed at tear filled eyes.
Another, radiance warm, the gentle brush of coat so unlike their own. It took a deal of effort, aching all and odd the hold of wings, poor the manner of their landing, but against Trygve did they press. To his neck did Eulia hide their watery eyes, sniffling into the coat of rust streaked night, wishing to deny his words yet robbed of their voice.
Hesitance marked the dipping of toes within the offered vessel bearing violet, messy the uneven, lopsided shape of scrawled bloom. Futile the attempt to wipe away the remnants clinging once work was done, nose scrunching as discomfort prickled at their skin. Of no use was complaint, rather, their focus turned to the hue of abandoned sea. Steam and leaves joined their small creation, tip of their tongue poking through as lilac depths narrowed in deep concentration.
Quips over choice of colour did not register within thoughts settled upon the work at hand, only once its creation drew to a shaky halt did their attention deviate. Cut off the sudden sound falling from their tongue, a gentle thing most alike a squeak of utter surprise, useless the tiny adornment of pale wings unfolding to stop backward momentum. Yet there was nothing that may halt such, the scrap of tiny claws enough to rain flakes of bark upon exposed belly, breath forced out in a pained groan.
Others. Unbeknownst to fallen child cousins - or possibly something else, confusing the matter of relations unknown - the little ones speaking in tones of faux anger. Yet it was the last, towering figure of cinnamon laced cream, that caught and held their attention. Quick the crumble of resolve, lips parting though it was not audible protest, words to denounce their trespass of land they had not known was occupied, but a hiccup. There seemed no warning nor build up, trembling their lips as tiny paws streaked with mud rubbed at tear filled eyes.
Another, radiance warm, the gentle brush of coat so unlike their own. It took a deal of effort, aching all and odd the hold of wings, poor the manner of their landing, but against Trygve did they press. To his neck did Eulia hide their watery eyes, sniffling into the coat of rust streaked night, wishing to deny his words yet robbed of their voice.