[Recalling the flow and edge of the lines is taking the majority of his attention, but it's disturbingly automatic; all that instinct is still rolled away inside him, even if it's been years since he's had to make use of it. The sigil soon comes into being, something sprawling and triangular and deceptively simple but for the odd, wiggly symbols at its tines.]

Hm?

[He looks up briefly, the latticework of red webbed over his eyes stark.]

Uh, no, this - this should be fine.

[He indicates the page with a loose flutter and holds the pen back to her, his expression grateful.]

Thanks. Ideally I'd paint it on the floor but that's not looking really doable at the moment.