Light pooled over the page. In a thin haze of golden dust motes, a milk-pale hand worked deftly, moving charcoal in long strokes, thumb-smudging lines to soften them into shade. Alethea looked up over her work often, gazing at her subject with a sharp, but uncritical eye. The other girl sat in the opposite window, illuminated by a softer light, which cast her features into gentle hills and valleys.
The hand paused, thoughtful.
“Nyx, your tail...” Thea said, for the fifteenth time. There was only a bare hint of frustration in her voice – it was such a pleasure to draw her portrait, even if the girl seemed incapable of holding still. The tail, in particular, twitched and swayed like a contemplative cat’s, evading the young artist’s attempts to capture it. She sighed. “It is very hard to get the proportions right when you keep moving,” she murmured gently, setting to work again.
Alethea understood, of course, that Nyx was unpopular among the castle’s younger denizens. She could be...harsh, at times, and her speech patterns were unsettling. But she was also different, and interesting, and the little lady had a weakness for interesting things. Not to mention her eagerness to sketch anyone and everything that would sit still for long enough. That is, if you could call this sitting still.
Taking up an orange-brown pencil, Thea began filling in the midtones, holding the pencil between thumb and forefinger for a lighter stroke. “Thank you for posing for me. I haven’t gotten to draw another person in quite a while – mostly horses, and bugs, and Leto.” The wolf pricked her ears at the sound of her name, half-asleep in the lull of scratching pencils, a ticking clock, and warm silence. Outside, the late afternoon sun made the drifts of snow seem downy, belying the bitter cold. It was hard to believe, within the safety of these walls, that the winter was baring down on everyone in Shaman, merciless.
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