[PAINTING LESSON] Blank Canvas

[OPEN] [PAINTING LESSON] Blank Canvas

Erebos Posts: 474

Aurora Basin General atk: 7.5 | def: 11.5 | dam: 6.5

Stallion :: Unicorn :: 16.1hh :: Four HP: 75.5 | Buff: DANCE

Orsino :: Plain Kitsune :: Dark Illusions & Enyo :: Common Griffon :: Draining Clutch Heather

01-13-2016, 04:49 PM

Active and energetic, coiled and contorted, embroiled in the arts of chaos and the scars of devilry, he wasted no time in chasing down and watching several high-ranking members of the herd. He witnessed his father wander into the confines of the mysterious tent, the gilded Thief whom he’d recently sparred (looking significantly wider – which was very odd – had she eaten something fattening?), one of the Time Menders, and some older beast he’d yet to meet. The particulars, the details, the pondering left him quite curious; even the tent itself (how on earth had Rikyn, Aithniel, and he never managed to discover and plays in its strange periphery?) nestled a dozen or more questions. What was going on? What were they participating in? Was he allowed to embark into the folds and fabric? And if not – would be he able to eavesdrop?

He and Orsino stared, yards away. The boy’s brow arched, then the fox’s, until they resembled a reflection of mischief and audacity, brazen interludes blazing within both. Would it harm anyone to take a peek? To gaze inside and see what was happening? What could go wrong?

One more look, one more exchange, between the duo, and they both nodded, consenting to shenanigans. Their march was not slow, not chaotic, but contemplative and strong, long limbs on the colt, swinging tails on the kitsune, until they waltzed beneath the veils and curtains and listened in on the truth of the matter.

Painting! Nothing wild, nothing savage, nothing sinister, but mere strokes on canvas, on tapestries, on oiled walls and blank surfaces. He nodded first to all those contained within, but his interest, his inquiries, and his questions were centered on the objects lingering upon the ground. The lad’s gaze swung to the collected items: berries, leaves, flowers, and ash, perfected courtesies and tokens for them to deliver artful forms and drawn musings. In regular boyhood exuberance, he leaned closer to snag a leaf between his teeth, dipping it in a bundle of splattered berries (avoiding the obvious brown choice), and proclaiming their fortune. “Cool! Great idea!” He immediately dashed outside, Orsino following along, chasing after dreams and ambitions all the more – until he managed to drift along the outer corridor of the tent, towards the middle of the back, pinpointing towards the lake, pines and fir. With his maw, and a fine, swift stroke, he painted the first mark upon the cloth: beginning an outline of a trio (one full of feathers, two lined with horns) draped in red.

They were what he wanted to remember, to honor, first.

Then an explosion of ideas came to him, one by one. Perhaps he’d make emblems, faces, features of the creatures who used to be, who’d been apart of the blood, of the stone, of the ice and chill – but had since gone, disappeared, deceased, or disregarded.

It was so simple, so easy.

He became lost in his work, so much so that he didn’t notice Orsino making his own lines at the bottom of the tent, trying his best to model a little filly furnished in gold.