Exton

Stoney smiles, caressing lightly along Alise' spine.

Well, mon petit Chaton, you would not be having the back pain, nor the added burden of our petit bebe's. 

His fingers work out the kinks, easing tired muscles. A wicked grin chases over his lips and he sends her an image of his fingers creating her sculpture, the exquisite care her took creating each curve and dip, each curl of her hair, then the way his fingers traced the reality of his sculpture once she became flesh.

Oui mon petit. Tara would be a lovely name, and perhaps Sara if both are femme? he sighs, letting her see the tiny little streetgirl who sang for pennies under the streetlamps.  No one knew where she was from, Ob kept her safe from human predators, The London shifters prowled the shadows when we could not. She would hide in my wings during the day to sleep. He pauses thinking of one sad night and the shifters' howls. She died one winter day. We could not keep her warm enough, and there was a plague that was taking the less healthy of the humans. She had never been that strong. His sadness touches the memory, letting Alise see he considered her a child he claimed.

"Mon Dieu. Mon amour... I could not create you as ethereal. She shows the Goddess in you." He looks up from the sketch. "Star..." he cuts himself short seeing Erik sweep her into his arms.