MABEL
Conversations spiraled around them from the elder contributors; Mabel merely listened to Azrael, attempting to absorb herself into the art forms. Her eyes darted to the clay the younger Ascended was working on – and a little smile dipped along her mouth at Bastien’s suggestions towards his child, missing the antics of the other, unknown soul entirely. She was engrossed in their partaking of the artistic assurances, uncertain, unsure, but taking the plunge anyway. No one had judged her yet for the faulty lines wobbling on the orb. “I think I’ll paint some of the forest,” a whisper coaxed its sway towards Azrael, a shrug of her shoulders to indicate a lack of meaning, when there were truly entirely too many. The woodland, the stretch of home surrounding the farmhouse, eaves and boughs before they were christened into something else. The brushstrokes held – light and airy, ethereal and eldritch all at once, darkening tips of the emerald green flickering across the bauble.
I bare my teeth
and stretch my claws out
and stretch my claws out
