faderift | Painting Kirkwall [OPEN]

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Painting Kirkwall [OPEN]

WHO: Dolores, And you!
WHAT: Dolores is up early, painting.
WHEN: Early in the morning.
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: None.

The early morning is always a delight. True, it's chilly, especially on the water, and its a bit lonely and foggy, but all those little irritants just make it more special. Dolores adores watching the sun peak out over the horizon, greeting the new day, and reveling in the natural splendor of the world. There is a word for the here and now: the present, and it surely is a gift.

Dolores has taken to sitting outside the Gallows, on the landing that looks over the water toward Kirkwall. There aren't any other folk about, not as the blue-grey morning starts to bleed into a rosy sunlit day, but she doesn't seem bothered at all by the solitude. She has her paints beside her and her canvas in her hands. She is already in the process of capturing the shapes of Kirkwall across the water. They're sketched in charcoal, rough outlines of houses and districts, and waiting for the dawn to hit them so she can begin the color.

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The shore is a better place than most for the Priest's morning orisons. Endowed with a clear view of the sky and the rising dawn, it is also far enough from the Gallows that no disgruntled once-sleeper might interrupt the prayers with shouting.

It is also far enough from the Priest's customary sleeping places that the Priest is not often nearby at the exact moment of sunrise; but as the year has worn old, and dawn grown later, there is more time to be choosy about the precise location to make the invocation.

There is a slap of bare feet on stone behind Dolores, a faint ruffle of cloth as the Priest marches past with but an incurious glance at what she is doing; time enough for questions after. For now: Down to the water's edge to stand in the shallows with hawk-bright eyes fixed on the distant skyline---and wait.

When the sun's first limb clears the horizon, the Priest begins to sing. Alien, snarling, twisting words in a voice too deep and resonant for that narrow chest shatter the morning silence and roll through the fog. This is no hymn of thanksgiving but one of fury and recrimination; not thank you for rising and warmth but how could you have left us through the night.

Not the accompaniment one might wish for painting.

Dolores not only notices Priest approach, but offers a sunny smile and begins to greet them. She is cut off before she can utter a single word, however, as they start...singing...shouting...cawing at the rising sun in an accusatory fashion. For a moment it is all Dolores can do to just stare at them, her expression frozen in polite confusion, her limbs in a similar state. She stays that way for several seconds before tilting her head and losing some of her casual stance.

She doesn't interrupt them, but she does stare openly as they sing. This merits conversation and not about painting.

It is fortunate the morning prayers do not take long; the Priest--sings--until the sun is fully above the horizon before finishing the hymn with the same abruptness it began. Silence settles back over the landing in short order as the Priest considers the rising light--and only then looks to Dolores with a yellow-eyed predator's gaze. An upward cant of the chin, as in challenge or question: Did she have something to say?

The silence persists a moment after they've turned back to face Dolores until, with a start, her smile reappears and she seems to reset to her previous state. She gestures at the water, idly, and then settles her arms at her sides.

"Come out here much?" Dolores asks and then: "That was certainly some singing you were doing."

The Priest's facility at reading the moods and faces of humans is yet poor, but so unusual is the hitch in Dolores' manner that it does not go unnoticed. Something is different here. That warrants investigation.

"Yes," simple and flat, to the question, as the Priest strides over to Dolores. Considers her, considers her canvas. "You are not disturbed by it."

Many others in this Inquisition were.

"Oh not at all," Dolores assures her, quick to answer. She is unbothered by the way they approach, or their increased and uncomfortable proximity. Dolores just smiles blithely and regards them as she would anyone else.

"I ain't bothered by much, though it was interesting to listen to. Do you do it every morning?"

"Yes," again, but this time the Priest's tone is gentler. That difference has found an explanation: This is a worker, or as close to one as might be had among the shifting seething undifferentiated mass of humanity. "The sun must stand accused each day.

"Say what you do here." A spare gesture at the canvas with the anchor-hand, shard glowing green in the dawn. "Whether it is each day as well."

"Oh this?" Dolores responds, mild surprise darting across her face. She steps back, to allow them to see the canvas and the lines she's already put down on it.

"I do this every other morning, drawing or painting something if I can. Usually I just make breakfast and then work, but this is a nice break."

The Priest steps in at Dolores’ tacit invitation. Fingers reach to brush the canvas where she has drawn on it; the touch confirms its appearance of flatness. Interesting—but not so strange; there is abundant light here. It must be so where her kind evolved as well to make something so fit the environment.

They would not have so much need to touch their artwork. “You do not give it shape,” the Priest remarks at last, comment and half-question; steps away to return Dolores’ position. “Carry on.”

"Shape?" Dolores prompts and the accent seems to fall off her word here, giving her tone a flat affect without her southern drawl.

"Elaborate, please?" she requests in that same tone, her expression a bit blank with the asking.

Yellow-green eyes snap to Dolores once more. The Priest's expression is more unreadable than usual; a cold sense of unreality prickles between the Priest's shoulderblades.

This--woman--had been one thing up until this moment. Now she is another thing without any indication as to why the mask dropped. "Shape," the Priest echoes back. "Form. Dimension. That it can be felt with hands as well as seen."

Humans do not tolerate such close packing as the djur do. That much the Priest has realized though the fact has little changed the Priest's behavior--except this: The Priest knows standing too near them is uncomfortable. It is a threat.

Two steps to close the gap between them, to loom over the smaller woman. "Why did you change just now?"

A question is rude but rudeness may be warranted to something that wears a false face.

Barnabas is also waking the docks, in a more business view, keeping in touch with the various shippers of questionable goods, the people who know how to get things from place to place without anyone asking any pressing questions. He sees Dolores by the water, and walks on over.

"Mornin Dolores! Painting again, eh? I dunno if I tell you enough, but you are damn good at it. The huge mural in the shop! Fantastic work. That a scene from your homeland, I take it?" He glances at her work in progress and then out to the waterfront. "You've got a good eye, there'll be some fantastic colors once the sun really gets up there."

"Good morning, Mr Vilm," Dolores says mechanically, her tone cheerful, and doesn't turn her attention away from her work. Her strokes are calm, even, and perfect in length as she travels down the canvas, gradually rendering the shadows of the distant buildings.

"All that's mighty kind of you to say--are you headed to the shop today?"

"Ahh, at some point. Nice thing about being my own boss, no one to tell me off for being late! People do really like your recipes, so there may be a bit of a line whenever I do get in." Barnabas leans on the boxes, looking out over the water.

"Much more relaxing, I'll tell you that...Much better than my previous job..."

"What was your previous job?" Dolores asks on reflex, her attention not straying from the canvas. Over the water the sun begins to climb up and cast a rosy light over everything.

"Pretty much same thing as I'm doing now. I worked for the Carta, a Drawven orginization. They didn't see the profit potential from the rifts though, so we're on a break now. Sorta. It's kinda complicated."

Barnabas isn't sure just how much he should tell her, but it was his own fault, talking about his last job. To be fair, it dosn't seem like she really cares one way or the other.

Dolores hangs a bit as Barnabas explains and looks over at him, as though the visual component will help her understand better. If the blank look on her face says anything, it does not.

"That...doesn't sound like much of anything to me, but I'm glad you found a job you enjoy." She pauses her work and turns to him fully. "I used to be a rancher, you know? Just like my daddy. But there aren't many ranches around these parts. I'm glad I have a new job as well."

Barnabas nods. "True enough, farming is rough work. Never really appealed to me, I'll be honest. Always liked selling things to people, and well, when you're good at something, never do it for free."

Barnabas nods at the painting. "Case in point there. You could make some decent money from your paintings. Ever think about doing something like that?"

"Oh no, I just do this for fun. I can't imagine selling them," Dolores admits and pauses as she stares at the canvas. Was it them? Where were all the others? What had happened to the other paintings she had done.

She knows she hasn't gotten rid of any but there aren't any stored in her rooms either. No, she only has the one, why would she have more than one. She hangs for a moment and then smiles as she turns back to her painting.

"I'm no good at selling things, anyway."

"Well gosh, if only you knew someone who was good at selling things, someone you already know...Oh for such a world..." Barnabas glances over at her, seeing if this reaches her. She's a clever girl, but sometimes she is a bit...literal. Odd, but everyone's a bit odd in some way.

"What I mean is, if you want, I could ask around, see if any art galleries would be intrested."

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Painting Kirkwall [OPEN]

arrives, like the worst songbird,

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