Drawing forward, he peered over a shoulder. Perched behind him like some great owl, his head cocked curiously as eyes scanned over the page, watching carbon lines drip from digits, drinking it all in, gaze flitting restlessly until his appetite was sated.
"Interesting style," he hummed, words poured directly into the shell of his brother’s ear, humid breath disturbing his concentration. "Hasn’t changed much." From stick figures carved into paper with the nib of a well worn pen to the fleshy swells that he now saw before him— perhaps there had been some progression of note since their childhood days, but that was of little import when fun could be had. "What’s this supposed to be then, hm?"
Sound waves travel downward in thin strips of shocks, down
his neck and coursing through soft flesh along his spine.
Richard jerks in a straighter position, feeling the strain of
muscles tugging heavily back into the previous, slouched
one. Something he ought to soon rectify.
The first instinct is to snap the sketch book closed in order to
maintain valued privacy. His drawings were windows to his
mind, there was no secret about that. But his mind still
harboured thoughts better left to himself. Scooling his
reaction, he allows a quick strain at the corners of his lips.
A mask resembling a smile that seeks no remedy for the
ailment that has kept him awake so far.
‘———I think it’s supposed to be concept art.’
So far, he has shaped the contour of a book. A thick spine,
lined with claws on each side that end in sharp points,
forming unbreakable arches. The front has not yet
benefitted from a temporal embelishment, however metal
arms assembled in a clockwork position are aligned in the
center of it. In his mind, the mechanism in the center ticks
in an uninterrupted motion. The book’s clockwork heart.