Painting Kirkwall [OPEN]

[somethingyettocome]

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.

Comments

[divineshadow]

"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."

[somethingyettocome]

"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."

[divineshadow]

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.”

[somethingyettocome]

"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.

[divineshadow]

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.