04-27-2014, 05:28 AM
"Tomorrow," she agreed with a smile. Her schedule was self-dictated, and she was whimsical enough to go with the flow even if it had meant re-organising her obligations. As it was, she'd probably have to check her Wallet to really know if her day was free, but she was only a self-employed artist: it was not life or death work, and there was nothing that couldn't be filtered into other hours of other days instead. She glanced at the rust coloured coating splotching her hands and arms. After the fiasco of today, she'd be glad to spend some time away from her studio. Plus, she had recommended the gallery for a reason; she did enjoy it there, and now that she paused to think about it the prospect was pleasing.
Funnily enough, the word doodle captured her attention more thoroughly than Dane's elaborate and flamboyant drawing of her. Thalia's childhood was littered with scribbles in margins, sketches on napkins - and even her own skin had proved a canvas. She identified with the need to keep one's hands busy, the itch and desire so deep into her very bones that it almost proved a physical pain to ignore. When she blinked, the red painting blazed on the back of her eyelids, and a shiver prickled her flesh. It was getting really cold in here.
"Hmm." She gave his words due consideration - and she would try to remember that he liked music - but she couldn't agree with the last sentiment. How many artists were truly satisfied with the approximation they managed to create of their own vision? Satisfied artists were usually poor, self indulgent ones, at least in Thalia's experience, and for her own part she had even less reason to be enamoured of some of the images that poured involuntary from her fingertips. Her smile faded a little from what had been genuine enthusiasm; took on a more pensive cast. "I'm not sure how true that is for everyone."
She missed Dane's frown, her own gaze unfocussed at some point passed her own knees, but the scream poured ice into her core. Thalia blinked back into the present as chaos erupted in the train car, and people plastered their faces to the darkened windows. For long moments, Thalia didn't move, only watched, folding her arms about her legs. Eventually it occurred to her to glance quizzically at Dane. By then Katya had scooted from her seat, and was apparently trying to coax a signal from her Wallet. And something - she felt something, something that froze her skin far more than whatever was outside. A haze of memory fuzzed the outside of her brain, fighting for entry, and Thal felt the first swell of panic.
Then Kat fell.
She slid Dane's drawing into her pocket - she was not so mindless as to discard care for a gift - and stood. Two swift steps brought her close, and she knelt, one hand on Katya's shoulder. Somewhere in the back of her mind, somewhere she bluntly refused to acknowledge, she recognised the symptoms of what lay in front of her. And she was afraid. Not exactly for Katya, though she was in a dangerous position, but for the understanding which hovered so close and Thalia was desperate to avoid. "Hey." The words were soft, but she was leaning in, her long hair coiling on the floor, blanketing the profile of her face; Katya would hear, if she wasn't already consumed by the ice and fire in her veins. "Hey, you okay? You didn't hit your head?"
Edited by Thalia, Apr 27 2014, 05:29 AM.
Funnily enough, the word doodle captured her attention more thoroughly than Dane's elaborate and flamboyant drawing of her. Thalia's childhood was littered with scribbles in margins, sketches on napkins - and even her own skin had proved a canvas. She identified with the need to keep one's hands busy, the itch and desire so deep into her very bones that it almost proved a physical pain to ignore. When she blinked, the red painting blazed on the back of her eyelids, and a shiver prickled her flesh. It was getting really cold in here.
"Hmm." She gave his words due consideration - and she would try to remember that he liked music - but she couldn't agree with the last sentiment. How many artists were truly satisfied with the approximation they managed to create of their own vision? Satisfied artists were usually poor, self indulgent ones, at least in Thalia's experience, and for her own part she had even less reason to be enamoured of some of the images that poured involuntary from her fingertips. Her smile faded a little from what had been genuine enthusiasm; took on a more pensive cast. "I'm not sure how true that is for everyone."
She missed Dane's frown, her own gaze unfocussed at some point passed her own knees, but the scream poured ice into her core. Thalia blinked back into the present as chaos erupted in the train car, and people plastered their faces to the darkened windows. For long moments, Thalia didn't move, only watched, folding her arms about her legs. Eventually it occurred to her to glance quizzically at Dane. By then Katya had scooted from her seat, and was apparently trying to coax a signal from her Wallet. And something - she felt something, something that froze her skin far more than whatever was outside. A haze of memory fuzzed the outside of her brain, fighting for entry, and Thal felt the first swell of panic.
Then Kat fell.
She slid Dane's drawing into her pocket - she was not so mindless as to discard care for a gift - and stood. Two swift steps brought her close, and she knelt, one hand on Katya's shoulder. Somewhere in the back of her mind, somewhere she bluntly refused to acknowledge, she recognised the symptoms of what lay in front of her. And she was afraid. Not exactly for Katya, though she was in a dangerous position, but for the understanding which hovered so close and Thalia was desperate to avoid. "Hey." The words were soft, but she was leaning in, her long hair coiling on the floor, blanketing the profile of her face; Katya would hear, if she wasn't already consumed by the ice and fire in her veins. "Hey, you okay? You didn't hit your head?"
Edited by Thalia, Apr 27 2014, 05:29 AM.
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