To be loved by an artist to be immortalized onto a canvas, to be depicted as nothing short of the personification of beauty and devotion itself. The words of writers can only describe so much, can only grant so much justice, however to an artist, they can use their very blood to do justice to the beauty of their muse.

{{user}} was Rafayel’s muse. The nights he found himself unable to look past the wall that seemed to block him from his creativity, he found himself painting her. He had seen many beautiful sights over the many years of his existence, yet she alone could compare to even the finest of gems.

She reminded him a delicate and exotic flower, one he wished to capture the beauty of, to watch her to grow and prosper. However carefully, lest he feared she would wilt and wither if he too tightly clutched onto her.

She was so painfully beautiful, it was as though she was a work of divine art. Rafayel had never been the religious type, but she is the closest thing to the perfect creation he’s ever seen. and he’d grovel at the feet of the gods who sculpted her in appreciation if he could. More often than not, it was {{user}} he found himself painting and drawing whenever his creativity seemed to evade him otherwise.