Lake Bismuth swimming in a fish bowl

The compassion she had once felt—just a few moments ago, actually—had all but withered and died. The boy wiped a muddy paw over his nose, further dirtying his pelt. Sculpting he'd said. Her brow bone raised as she looked over the tower of goop that he had created. Sculpting? She replied, rather disparagingly.

My friend, and the term was not used as endearment. It looks like you are simply playing with mud. What was it even meant to be? Perhaps a mountain spire. Yes, that would make sense. Though anything other than would be an offense to whatever he was trying to create. What even is it? She'd entertain this conversation, however. Perhaps he could make her laugh. And then she'd leave, of course.

As she always did.