Little Missy Muffet comes from a peticular family: human from a mother, spider from a father, she knows her nursery rhyme by heart, and arrives at Monster High slowly, carried by the spidery strangeness of her childhood. But the relationship between...
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˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
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She couldn't hold onto her dreams. Her velvet chimeras tanned the awakening with an unhealthy ripple of truth. Not that she had this right to rest, or a precaution against the healthy voice of her marble laughter, but...
This picture.
And this night she couldn't erase from her own consciousness.
It was hardly her father's. No, not that one. That mirage that returned within the illuminations of dried glories like a work left hanging on an illusion. Dracula had this walled-in tradition of having himself painted up to the truces of watercolors, once when the century was lost. Draculaura had found this regular aspect of its vagaries, like a vein strangely docile to its workings, like a number thirteen on the path of an equation.
"Dad...You know, all your portraits look alike."
"Because you're young, my little princess. There are certain things that are complex for you to notice at our age."
"But you don't age...By the way, why is it a recurrent joke among the lords of the court... That stuff about 'Millennium Claws'?"
"There are things about an eternity that can never do so much harm to those who can go faster. I hope the fact that I've given you the best of my existence, gives you the most beautiful age it can be among the Children of the Night."
Their discussion, though cryptic, had warmed her heart. Her father had never been gifted with affection for every mark on his face, but his actions and certain hours reminded her that he may never have had the emotional prestige of those days. Despite everything, she had always observed the finely real painting. The blind turns of the background, the almost haunted attributes of the arts of the vampiric nobility. She had never seen the slightest demerit linked to mortality on these 'honors'. In a way, it was a way of telling herself that he could still be there.
