Send ‘!!’ and I’ll write a para description of your muse from mine’s perspective
Mesandrèaux and Marint!
He was fairly certain he could do some, at the very least, vague sketches from memory.
Marint certainly had looked at her face long enough and often enough to have the idea of it in head. Part of him was amused that she humoured him. At least, she seemed inclined to. He couldn't even say when he'd begun to think on that project of his. That collection of moments frozen in the stones of time that would convey thought and emotion alike. He just knew when he was considering concepts and ideas he wanted to portray that Mesandrèaux would be perfect for it.
She didn't see what he did. Not at all. Didn't know she was beautiful. Didn't know she was charming. How had no one ever told her these things before? He had joked and said it was because they must have found her intimidating, but... She wasn't. At least, he didn't think so. She was so easy to speak with. So easy to spend time with.
Mesandrèaux always seemed to ask him a lot about himself. He never knew if that was a good thing or not. Could have simply been her curiosity. He suspected it was really that. People in the past had expressed such things, but considering the lines of work he was in, he'd never known if they just wanted information or if they were genuinely interested in him. In how he thought. In how he felt. In how he perceived the world. He thought Mesandrèaux was genuinely interested in him and that was a nice feeling.
As he sketched, thoughts of her swam about his head. Sharp features. Wide glowing eyes. Dark hair. Dark skin. She had said that she didn't think she was particularly pretty based on those features. Marint wanted to know who'd given her such an idea, so he could give them a solid right hook in the face. She didn't seem to think much of herself at all. Maybe a result of being so sheltered. That humble demeanour of hers was charming. As much as it was when she seemed completely befuddled by the idea that he was interested in her. As much as it was when she softly blushed that shade of violet each time he said something kind to her.
She must have thought him full of so much flattery. That wasn't the absence of truth, however. Flattery could be honest. When he gave it, it usually was. He didn't think himself the kind to flatter for no reason at all. If he'd been a more terrible man, he supposed he could have done that with purely the intentions of capturing the Moon Maiden's heart, but he didn't work like that. Mesandrèaux had no reason to believe it, though. She was right to be wary. Uncertain.
If she was to give him any of her time, Marint wanted to earn it. He wanted to be worthy of it. He wanted to bask in it, as if her time and any sliver of potential affection was moonlight. And of course, anything she did give him had to be of sound integrity. There had to be trust.
She made him more nervous than she knew. Marint wasn't an easy guy to do that to either. He could talk to people without breaking a sweat. He could even cunningly threaten in the most gentle way without ever shifting from that facade he sometimes had to play. He was a fairly calm, composed, level-headed man when it came to some of the work he did. He didn't worry about keeping his hands clean for he had clear lines there. And yet he worried a little when it came to Mesandrèaux.
Worried she'd get hurt. That he wouldn't be able to protect her the way he wanted to. Worried she wouldn't want him to protect her. Worried she'd think he wanted anything of her that she couldn't give. He liked her, of course. Was fond of her, without doubt. But he prioritised what she wanted above all else. As he had reassured her, his respect for her wouldn't change. It wouldn't shift. He would still see her the same way.
A curious young woman who spent so long sheltered that she viewed the world with no shortage of interest and fascination. She worried over how others perceived her. Worried that her habits others would find off-putting. Worried that she lacked the social grace she wanted to have. She worried so much.
It was likely that Mesandrèaux would never see the version of her that he saw. She didn't realise how perfect she was for that idea. Reverence. He revered her, in his own way. A gentle sort of fashion that was inconspicuous. That wasn't what made him think it, though. It was the way she looked at certain things. Statutes. The sky. The way he thought she saw things that no one else could.
She didn't know that she had reverence in those eyes of hers.
( @kharrisdawndancer 🌙🌟 )
