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]

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.