Word Count → 000
Micah's got Slade beat. XD
The last thing Micah desired was for more attention to be called to his little art project, but she did just that — the few moments' comfort and the slight emergence from the undergrowth at the sight of a friendly, known face was quickly replaced with a spike in anxiety and panic and a dive further back into the brush, his tremors wild and teeth chattering. How could she do such a thing? What if nobody else liked it? Surely nobody else would like it; there were so many things wrong with it! Teeth chattering, the coyote set his bag aside with horribly trembling fingers and ducked down deep against the earth, hugging his arms, praying the tremors would just leave him be, wishing his anxieties would spare him just this one time.
One by one they responded to her call; Micah watched, bug-eyed, his cheek flat against the soil as he peered from beneath the bushes at a distance. Surely they sensed him there, caught his foreign scent or detected his painting as too horrible for any other members to have created. Surely they hated it — no one said a thing, save a child and his father who properly introduced themselves but had their names suppressed beneath his suffocating panic. The Lykoi clamped down on his tongue, vaguely tasting the salt of life-blood in his mouth but unfeeling of its flow over the wicked quake of his body. His stomach lurched, threatening reflux; his head pounded, threatening migraine. Still he gazed on, watching his fellow members dwell in silence amongst themselves, and both his mind and Storm Lily alike screamed torments and scoldings: He was not good enough to dwell with them. His art was inadequate. He was not one of them.
Pushing himself up to sit on his knees as silently as possible, Micah hugged his ill-afflicted stomach, poisoned with panic, and remained still. A pathetic sight at best, he held his breath and trembled on, praying only that none would venture to collect him.
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