Confusion colored her features as he spoke. How was what he made not beautiful? Dalgina had watched it come to life under his strokes, bold and large. They almost seemed to be struggling to escape the page. His words were quiet, almost as if stating fact. They were ugly facts though, and immediately Dalgina wanted to deny them. They are beautiful. They might not be real, like the ones around us, but they are still a creation. I can see them, fighting to come to life. To waltz off and bloom. They want the color, and they exist because you made them. Her tail swayed, eyes half closed as she imagined the art rising up, tail swaying faster and faster with excitement.
Told that he would show her Dalgina let out a small gasp. Sitting forwards her hands clasped on her lap. Brown eyes watched his hands as they brought out ink and parchment. It was better than the scraps she had used to draw on, weathered with age. Nodding she tried to imagine what he was making, watching the lines come out. They were so clear, the ink flowing smoothly onto the paper. The curves drew her in, breathing as they stretched out. What would the form be?
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