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It was a quiet morning, not just in the shop but all along the street, so Lesley was taking some time to add some color to the front counter of his mother's shop. He sat cross-legged with pigments and brushes to one side, finishing up the charcoal sketch that laid out the proportions of what would shortly become a vibrant scene. What he was best at were scenes of combat, but that was not appropriate for an embroiderer's shop, and he was not entirely confident the painting would turn out to his satisfaction.
"It's just paint, mhic," his mother tskd at him. "If it ends up ugly just scrape it off and do it over."
"That's not how it works," he grumbled.
He stood up and backed away, getting a clearer look at the proportions from about the distance most customers would look at it. "Hmph."
Athena, as patroness of both crafts and combat, seemed a decent compromise between appropriateness and playing to his skills. As both a goddess of war, and as sometime-advisor to Heracles, he had painted her before, though at first glance she embodied a far more civilized form of combat than Lesley engaged in. Strategy and tactics and the discipline of armies were generally far from the very personal, very visceral brutality of a gladiator fight - but the goddess of wisdom invoked cunning, too, and Lesley certainly held a good deal of respect for her.
So @athena stood sketched here, in her helmet and breastplate but with distaff and spindle in her hands, her owl perched on her shoulder and her snake coiled around her feet. The arch around her demarcated the rightmost of three panels, and her head was turned to watch over the others. The central panel held an upright loom, the fabric on it nearly completed and stretching almost to the bottom, while the fabric itself depicted Heracles vanquishing the Neman Lion. That image, when completed, would be clearly embroidered, half colored in and half sketched, with a needle prominently resting in the fabric. He intended for a geometric pattern running up the selvages to appear woven in, though at the moment, only the width reserved for it was blocked out. The leftmost panel was the one he was currently frustrated with; he had thought to invoke the muses, but something was off about his sketch - in addition to the fact that his skill as an artist was somewhat lacking where the female figure was concerned. With a growl of frustration, he grabbed a rag and a dish of water, and began scrubbing the charcoal from the wooden panel.
Not Calliope, not Clio, not Erato - No, if he was going to invoke the art of using fabric and weaving to tell stories, then it was Melpomene who belonged here, for it was Philomela who stood out above all in that, and her tale was most certainly a tragedy. Perhaps the others could find space to peek out around a corner, or their symbols could form a border... he wasn't sure. Melpomene, though... that felt right.
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Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was a quiet morning, not just in the shop but all along the street, so Lesley was taking some time to add some color to the front counter of his mother's shop. He sat cross-legged with pigments and brushes to one side, finishing up the charcoal sketch that laid out the proportions of what would shortly become a vibrant scene. What he was best at were scenes of combat, but that was not appropriate for an embroiderer's shop, and he was not entirely confident the painting would turn out to his satisfaction.
"It's just paint, mhic," his mother tskd at him. "If it ends up ugly just scrape it off and do it over."
"That's not how it works," he grumbled.
He stood up and backed away, getting a clearer look at the proportions from about the distance most customers would look at it. "Hmph."
Athena, as patroness of both crafts and combat, seemed a decent compromise between appropriateness and playing to his skills. As both a goddess of war, and as sometime-advisor to Heracles, he had painted her before, though at first glance she embodied a far more civilized form of combat than Lesley engaged in. Strategy and tactics and the discipline of armies were generally far from the very personal, very visceral brutality of a gladiator fight - but the goddess of wisdom invoked cunning, too, and Lesley certainly held a good deal of respect for her.
So @athena stood sketched here, in her helmet and breastplate but with distaff and spindle in her hands, her owl perched on her shoulder and her snake coiled around her feet. The arch around her demarcated the rightmost of three panels, and her head was turned to watch over the others. The central panel held an upright loom, the fabric on it nearly completed and stretching almost to the bottom, while the fabric itself depicted Heracles vanquishing the Neman Lion. That image, when completed, would be clearly embroidered, half colored in and half sketched, with a needle prominently resting in the fabric. He intended for a geometric pattern running up the selvages to appear woven in, though at the moment, only the width reserved for it was blocked out. The leftmost panel was the one he was currently frustrated with; he had thought to invoke the muses, but something was off about his sketch - in addition to the fact that his skill as an artist was somewhat lacking where the female figure was concerned. With a growl of frustration, he grabbed a rag and a dish of water, and began scrubbing the charcoal from the wooden panel.
Not Calliope, not Clio, not Erato - No, if he was going to invoke the art of using fabric and weaving to tell stories, then it was Melpomene who belonged here, for it was Philomela who stood out above all in that, and her tale was most certainly a tragedy. Perhaps the others could find space to peek out around a corner, or their symbols could form a border... he wasn't sure. Melpomene, though... that felt right.
It was a quiet morning, not just in the shop but all along the street, so Lesley was taking some time to add some color to the front counter of his mother's shop. He sat cross-legged with pigments and brushes to one side, finishing up the charcoal sketch that laid out the proportions of what would shortly become a vibrant scene. What he was best at were scenes of combat, but that was not appropriate for an embroiderer's shop, and he was not entirely confident the painting would turn out to his satisfaction.
"It's just paint, mhic," his mother tskd at him. "If it ends up ugly just scrape it off and do it over."
"That's not how it works," he grumbled.
He stood up and backed away, getting a clearer look at the proportions from about the distance most customers would look at it. "Hmph."
Athena, as patroness of both crafts and combat, seemed a decent compromise between appropriateness and playing to his skills. As both a goddess of war, and as sometime-advisor to Heracles, he had painted her before, though at first glance she embodied a far more civilized form of combat than Lesley engaged in. Strategy and tactics and the discipline of armies were generally far from the very personal, very visceral brutality of a gladiator fight - but the goddess of wisdom invoked cunning, too, and Lesley certainly held a good deal of respect for her.
So @athena stood sketched here, in her helmet and breastplate but with distaff and spindle in her hands, her owl perched on her shoulder and her snake coiled around her feet. The arch around her demarcated the rightmost of three panels, and her head was turned to watch over the others. The central panel held an upright loom, the fabric on it nearly completed and stretching almost to the bottom, while the fabric itself depicted Heracles vanquishing the Neman Lion. That image, when completed, would be clearly embroidered, half colored in and half sketched, with a needle prominently resting in the fabric. He intended for a geometric pattern running up the selvages to appear woven in, though at the moment, only the width reserved for it was blocked out. The leftmost panel was the one he was currently frustrated with; he had thought to invoke the muses, but something was off about his sketch - in addition to the fact that his skill as an artist was somewhat lacking where the female figure was concerned. With a growl of frustration, he grabbed a rag and a dish of water, and began scrubbing the charcoal from the wooden panel.
Not Calliope, not Clio, not Erato - No, if he was going to invoke the art of using fabric and weaving to tell stories, then it was Melpomene who belonged here, for it was Philomela who stood out above all in that, and her tale was most certainly a tragedy. Perhaps the others could find space to peek out around a corner, or their symbols could form a border... he wasn't sure. Melpomene, though... that felt right.
It was always a treat to spend a day in the common markets. The fascination wasn’t born out of any condescension or amusement at the expense of the ‘everyday rustic.’ Rather, it was a change of scenery, and an immersion into a world of sensory barrage, a magnificent assault on one’s sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch. The agorá, with its rows and rows of stores, made for a seemingly unending parade of invigoration for Rene, a veritable feast for a lonely girl who ached for interaction beyond the servants and staff of House Nickolaos.
Street vendors peddled every ware imaginable from their carts, from comestibles to trinkets, from leather goods to tools. The smells alone ranged from spiced stews to spit-roasted meat, boiled vegetables and fresh baked goods. The noise of the market was a delightful din of voices, with a backdrop of music here and there where a street performer had set up with an instrument to serenade the ebb and flow of people. Dialogue consisted of bartering and negotiating, offers and counter offers made, sales being pitched, and refusals being issued. In some part, Rene envied them, free from the chains of noble expectation, every day shouting and scolding and going about their lives, heedless of the gift it was to be them, their lives bereft of the backstabbing and treachery of the courts. At least from the perspective she held, oblivious as it was.
In a chiton of the faintest peach, Rene roamed the agorá in wide-eyed enthrallment. Vaguely concealed with a brown robe, hood drawn up over her head, as insisted upon by her handmaiden, Melba, she moved about flow of foot traffic, largely unidentified as wealthy despite being immaculately clean like a pearl in the dirt, and sporting a look of entirely too much excitement.
While Melba had requested to stop at a foúrnos, eyeing the array of pita, bobota, horiatiko psomi, skorthopsomo and tyropsomo, Rene waited patiently. Considering Melba to be a family member and almost surrogate mother, she’d spent more time raising the girl than her own mother had. It was then that Rene noticed something of interest, flashing into her vision amid the continuous stream of market-goers. A man sketched on a wooden panel along the storefront of one particular shoppe. She cast a quick glance towards her handmaid, who was talking to the baker about his delectable breads, and decided she could easily skip away for a brief moment, and make it back in time to be once again waiting for Melba, none the wiser to her ward's temporary disappearance.
Weaving her way through the crowd, Rene came to stand behind the man, about a meter or so away, studying the depiction on the panel. Clearly it was Athena, if for no other reason than the presence of her owl, and for reasons unknown, the artist, a dark-haired fellow, was erasing the drawing. For a moment, Rene studied the individual, body tense as if he was frustrated, engrossed in his work, before her eyes lifted once more to the sketch of the goddess of wisdom. Gently, she lifted her voice to speak. “I do not suppose you intend to replace her with Arachne, even for a weaver’s shoppe?” Everyone knew the myth of the ill-fated weaver, who challenged Athena herself to a contest, and despite winning with her superior skills, she paid dearly for it. It wasn’t wise to provoke the gods.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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It was always a treat to spend a day in the common markets. The fascination wasn’t born out of any condescension or amusement at the expense of the ‘everyday rustic.’ Rather, it was a change of scenery, and an immersion into a world of sensory barrage, a magnificent assault on one’s sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch. The agorá, with its rows and rows of stores, made for a seemingly unending parade of invigoration for Rene, a veritable feast for a lonely girl who ached for interaction beyond the servants and staff of House Nickolaos.
Street vendors peddled every ware imaginable from their carts, from comestibles to trinkets, from leather goods to tools. The smells alone ranged from spiced stews to spit-roasted meat, boiled vegetables and fresh baked goods. The noise of the market was a delightful din of voices, with a backdrop of music here and there where a street performer had set up with an instrument to serenade the ebb and flow of people. Dialogue consisted of bartering and negotiating, offers and counter offers made, sales being pitched, and refusals being issued. In some part, Rene envied them, free from the chains of noble expectation, every day shouting and scolding and going about their lives, heedless of the gift it was to be them, their lives bereft of the backstabbing and treachery of the courts. At least from the perspective she held, oblivious as it was.
In a chiton of the faintest peach, Rene roamed the agorá in wide-eyed enthrallment. Vaguely concealed with a brown robe, hood drawn up over her head, as insisted upon by her handmaiden, Melba, she moved about flow of foot traffic, largely unidentified as wealthy despite being immaculately clean like a pearl in the dirt, and sporting a look of entirely too much excitement.
While Melba had requested to stop at a foúrnos, eyeing the array of pita, bobota, horiatiko psomi, skorthopsomo and tyropsomo, Rene waited patiently. Considering Melba to be a family member and almost surrogate mother, she’d spent more time raising the girl than her own mother had. It was then that Rene noticed something of interest, flashing into her vision amid the continuous stream of market-goers. A man sketched on a wooden panel along the storefront of one particular shoppe. She cast a quick glance towards her handmaid, who was talking to the baker about his delectable breads, and decided she could easily skip away for a brief moment, and make it back in time to be once again waiting for Melba, none the wiser to her ward's temporary disappearance.
Weaving her way through the crowd, Rene came to stand behind the man, about a meter or so away, studying the depiction on the panel. Clearly it was Athena, if for no other reason than the presence of her owl, and for reasons unknown, the artist, a dark-haired fellow, was erasing the drawing. For a moment, Rene studied the individual, body tense as if he was frustrated, engrossed in his work, before her eyes lifted once more to the sketch of the goddess of wisdom. Gently, she lifted her voice to speak. “I do not suppose you intend to replace her with Arachne, even for a weaver’s shoppe?” Everyone knew the myth of the ill-fated weaver, who challenged Athena herself to a contest, and despite winning with her superior skills, she paid dearly for it. It wasn’t wise to provoke the gods.
It was always a treat to spend a day in the common markets. The fascination wasn’t born out of any condescension or amusement at the expense of the ‘everyday rustic.’ Rather, it was a change of scenery, and an immersion into a world of sensory barrage, a magnificent assault on one’s sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch. The agorá, with its rows and rows of stores, made for a seemingly unending parade of invigoration for Rene, a veritable feast for a lonely girl who ached for interaction beyond the servants and staff of House Nickolaos.
Street vendors peddled every ware imaginable from their carts, from comestibles to trinkets, from leather goods to tools. The smells alone ranged from spiced stews to spit-roasted meat, boiled vegetables and fresh baked goods. The noise of the market was a delightful din of voices, with a backdrop of music here and there where a street performer had set up with an instrument to serenade the ebb and flow of people. Dialogue consisted of bartering and negotiating, offers and counter offers made, sales being pitched, and refusals being issued. In some part, Rene envied them, free from the chains of noble expectation, every day shouting and scolding and going about their lives, heedless of the gift it was to be them, their lives bereft of the backstabbing and treachery of the courts. At least from the perspective she held, oblivious as it was.
In a chiton of the faintest peach, Rene roamed the agorá in wide-eyed enthrallment. Vaguely concealed with a brown robe, hood drawn up over her head, as insisted upon by her handmaiden, Melba, she moved about flow of foot traffic, largely unidentified as wealthy despite being immaculately clean like a pearl in the dirt, and sporting a look of entirely too much excitement.
While Melba had requested to stop at a foúrnos, eyeing the array of pita, bobota, horiatiko psomi, skorthopsomo and tyropsomo, Rene waited patiently. Considering Melba to be a family member and almost surrogate mother, she’d spent more time raising the girl than her own mother had. It was then that Rene noticed something of interest, flashing into her vision amid the continuous stream of market-goers. A man sketched on a wooden panel along the storefront of one particular shoppe. She cast a quick glance towards her handmaid, who was talking to the baker about his delectable breads, and decided she could easily skip away for a brief moment, and make it back in time to be once again waiting for Melba, none the wiser to her ward's temporary disappearance.
Weaving her way through the crowd, Rene came to stand behind the man, about a meter or so away, studying the depiction on the panel. Clearly it was Athena, if for no other reason than the presence of her owl, and for reasons unknown, the artist, a dark-haired fellow, was erasing the drawing. For a moment, Rene studied the individual, body tense as if he was frustrated, engrossed in his work, before her eyes lifted once more to the sketch of the goddess of wisdom. Gently, she lifted her voice to speak. “I do not suppose you intend to replace her with Arachne, even for a weaver’s shoppe?” Everyone knew the myth of the ill-fated weaver, who challenged Athena herself to a contest, and despite winning with her superior skills, she paid dearly for it. It wasn’t wise to provoke the gods.
"Hmm?" Lesley glanced up from his work. Pretty girl. Not old enough to be particularly interesting. Or maybe too innocent-looking. Not that he objected to conversation or thought she'd be particularly boring to be around - she just wasn't the type to draw his eye, so he simply returned his gaze to his now-clean canvas, and picked up his charcoal. "No, not at all. Philomela. And my mother is a dyer and embroiderer, mostly." Apparently the muse he'd chosen agreed with his choice, for the proportions came out right this time. A tall woman in a peplos, a theater mask dangling loosely from her left hand, her right raised in an orator's pose. No details; those would come later. "Are you interested in buying anything? Mama, that pale green himation with the dark blue would go well with her chiton, don't you think?"
Once he was satisfied with his sketch, he leaned over to retrieve the first of his pigments. With charcoal dust on his hands, he wasn't going to touch the fine fabrics for sale, and it wasn't like he was watching the shop in his mother's absence so he simply remained focused on his work. As Rana rummaged for the piece of fabric he'd suggested, he reached a bit further for one of the eggs he had set nearby with the rest of his supplies. A black line peaked out past his sleeve as he did so. A tattoo? Not common to see on a free man in Greece, though actually, he didn't look entirely Greek. Something in the line of his jaw, or in the tint of the relatively light tan. His mother was even paler, and more delicate-featured. The curling lines of ink around her wrists were a faded blue, if one was looking when they happened to peek out from her own sleeves as she moved. Slave-marks, maybe? Yet the artist had spoken with a confidence that was rare in a slave. Maybe he simply had a true artist's singular focus. Maybe he hadn't taken her for anyone important, despite the keen observation that had caught sight of her fine dress beneath the more pragmatic cloak.
With a practiced tap on the edge of the dish, Lesley cracked the egg just wide enough for the white to slide out, and once it was finished separating, he opened the shell the rest of the way and popped the yolk into his mouth. A boy who'd grown up hungry did not waste food. He mixed egg white and red powder together, eying his layout thoughtfully, then began laying down the first bits of color.
"What do you think?" asked the woman behind the counter, producing a gorgeously decorated himation for Rene's perusal.
This character is currently a work in progress.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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"Hmm?" Lesley glanced up from his work. Pretty girl. Not old enough to be particularly interesting. Or maybe too innocent-looking. Not that he objected to conversation or thought she'd be particularly boring to be around - she just wasn't the type to draw his eye, so he simply returned his gaze to his now-clean canvas, and picked up his charcoal. "No, not at all. Philomela. And my mother is a dyer and embroiderer, mostly." Apparently the muse he'd chosen agreed with his choice, for the proportions came out right this time. A tall woman in a peplos, a theater mask dangling loosely from her left hand, her right raised in an orator's pose. No details; those would come later. "Are you interested in buying anything? Mama, that pale green himation with the dark blue would go well with her chiton, don't you think?"
Once he was satisfied with his sketch, he leaned over to retrieve the first of his pigments. With charcoal dust on his hands, he wasn't going to touch the fine fabrics for sale, and it wasn't like he was watching the shop in his mother's absence so he simply remained focused on his work. As Rana rummaged for the piece of fabric he'd suggested, he reached a bit further for one of the eggs he had set nearby with the rest of his supplies. A black line peaked out past his sleeve as he did so. A tattoo? Not common to see on a free man in Greece, though actually, he didn't look entirely Greek. Something in the line of his jaw, or in the tint of the relatively light tan. His mother was even paler, and more delicate-featured. The curling lines of ink around her wrists were a faded blue, if one was looking when they happened to peek out from her own sleeves as she moved. Slave-marks, maybe? Yet the artist had spoken with a confidence that was rare in a slave. Maybe he simply had a true artist's singular focus. Maybe he hadn't taken her for anyone important, despite the keen observation that had caught sight of her fine dress beneath the more pragmatic cloak.
With a practiced tap on the edge of the dish, Lesley cracked the egg just wide enough for the white to slide out, and once it was finished separating, he opened the shell the rest of the way and popped the yolk into his mouth. A boy who'd grown up hungry did not waste food. He mixed egg white and red powder together, eying his layout thoughtfully, then began laying down the first bits of color.
"What do you think?" asked the woman behind the counter, producing a gorgeously decorated himation for Rene's perusal.
"Hmm?" Lesley glanced up from his work. Pretty girl. Not old enough to be particularly interesting. Or maybe too innocent-looking. Not that he objected to conversation or thought she'd be particularly boring to be around - she just wasn't the type to draw his eye, so he simply returned his gaze to his now-clean canvas, and picked up his charcoal. "No, not at all. Philomela. And my mother is a dyer and embroiderer, mostly." Apparently the muse he'd chosen agreed with his choice, for the proportions came out right this time. A tall woman in a peplos, a theater mask dangling loosely from her left hand, her right raised in an orator's pose. No details; those would come later. "Are you interested in buying anything? Mama, that pale green himation with the dark blue would go well with her chiton, don't you think?"
Once he was satisfied with his sketch, he leaned over to retrieve the first of his pigments. With charcoal dust on his hands, he wasn't going to touch the fine fabrics for sale, and it wasn't like he was watching the shop in his mother's absence so he simply remained focused on his work. As Rana rummaged for the piece of fabric he'd suggested, he reached a bit further for one of the eggs he had set nearby with the rest of his supplies. A black line peaked out past his sleeve as he did so. A tattoo? Not common to see on a free man in Greece, though actually, he didn't look entirely Greek. Something in the line of his jaw, or in the tint of the relatively light tan. His mother was even paler, and more delicate-featured. The curling lines of ink around her wrists were a faded blue, if one was looking when they happened to peek out from her own sleeves as she moved. Slave-marks, maybe? Yet the artist had spoken with a confidence that was rare in a slave. Maybe he simply had a true artist's singular focus. Maybe he hadn't taken her for anyone important, despite the keen observation that had caught sight of her fine dress beneath the more pragmatic cloak.
With a practiced tap on the edge of the dish, Lesley cracked the egg just wide enough for the white to slide out, and once it was finished separating, he opened the shell the rest of the way and popped the yolk into his mouth. A boy who'd grown up hungry did not waste food. He mixed egg white and red powder together, eying his layout thoughtfully, then began laying down the first bits of color.
"What do you think?" asked the woman behind the counter, producing a gorgeously decorated himation for Rene's perusal.
Rene’s contented smile at watching the artist work flattened as she was thoroughly dismissed. It was something she was entirely too familiar with. The upside was that when one had spent one’s entire life being dismissed by family, then dismissal by any other was far less humiliating. Relegated to the status of shopper, she almost huffed in frustration, but kept her face fixed, the performance everyone always expected, and even worked up a gracious smile at the woman behind the counter, ‘Mama’, presumably.
The older woman in the shoppe had produced the himation that her son had recommended, and it was indeed stunning. Rene surveyed the rich garment, nodding once. “Oh yes, it is beautiful. I should love to have it. As well as the pastel blue one...over there..with the rose trim,” she motioned to another. Of course she would support the local artisans, but it was secondary to where her attentions were really drawn, the sidewalk art in development. The man continued to work, hardly interested in socialization. “I enjoy art as well. I like to paint, but I think my real passion is in sculpture,” she offered up to his back. “I aspire to be a famous artist. Some day.” A lofty ambition perhaps, and one dominated by sexism, but she was happy to take down that glass ceiling if she could. One awkward attempt at conversation after another continued, always happy to encounter a kindred spirit in the arts. “Do you sell your pieces?”
Rene’s large blue eyes drifted up the drawing of Philomela, a tragic and gruesome story to be certain, involving rape, mutilation, murder of one’s own child, cannibalism of said child, the list went on. An odd choice for the decor but…...perhaps he had his reasons.
“You have a nice eye,” she noted as his sketch took form, this one better than the previous. As the initial application of paint subsequently began, Rene watched with an unspoken appreciation for the careful ratio, the consistency and hue born of just the right mixture. “That’s very nice. It usually takes me a few tries to get the exact color I see in my mind’s eye,” she admitted, eager gaze traveling back and forth between the sketch, the keen and careful strokes of the brush, and the artist himself. Rene knew very well she wasn’t being taken seriously. It was the story of her life, and still, she subjected herself to the blasé acknowledgement being levied in her direction. After all, it was not her first trip to market, and it was nothing if not a blistering glimpse of a reality that was not her own, attitudes that were not her own, behavior, dress, the list went on.
Fearless when it came to others, as she’d never known a reason to be guarded or feel endangered in her life, she crinkled her nose, canted her head, and stared for a moment at the ink peeking beneath the man’s sleeve. “Those markings, were you a slave?” Her voice was considerably quieter, azure pools settling on the man’s face, as if she sought to decipher truth from his reaction. One small creamy hand emerged from beneath her cloak, a hand that had never seen so much as a minute of manual labor, devoid of calluses or creases, aging or dryness. She pointed, closely, but did not make contact, to the markings on the fellow’s arm.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Rene’s contented smile at watching the artist work flattened as she was thoroughly dismissed. It was something she was entirely too familiar with. The upside was that when one had spent one’s entire life being dismissed by family, then dismissal by any other was far less humiliating. Relegated to the status of shopper, she almost huffed in frustration, but kept her face fixed, the performance everyone always expected, and even worked up a gracious smile at the woman behind the counter, ‘Mama’, presumably.
The older woman in the shoppe had produced the himation that her son had recommended, and it was indeed stunning. Rene surveyed the rich garment, nodding once. “Oh yes, it is beautiful. I should love to have it. As well as the pastel blue one...over there..with the rose trim,” she motioned to another. Of course she would support the local artisans, but it was secondary to where her attentions were really drawn, the sidewalk art in development. The man continued to work, hardly interested in socialization. “I enjoy art as well. I like to paint, but I think my real passion is in sculpture,” she offered up to his back. “I aspire to be a famous artist. Some day.” A lofty ambition perhaps, and one dominated by sexism, but she was happy to take down that glass ceiling if she could. One awkward attempt at conversation after another continued, always happy to encounter a kindred spirit in the arts. “Do you sell your pieces?”
Rene’s large blue eyes drifted up the drawing of Philomela, a tragic and gruesome story to be certain, involving rape, mutilation, murder of one’s own child, cannibalism of said child, the list went on. An odd choice for the decor but…...perhaps he had his reasons.
“You have a nice eye,” she noted as his sketch took form, this one better than the previous. As the initial application of paint subsequently began, Rene watched with an unspoken appreciation for the careful ratio, the consistency and hue born of just the right mixture. “That’s very nice. It usually takes me a few tries to get the exact color I see in my mind’s eye,” she admitted, eager gaze traveling back and forth between the sketch, the keen and careful strokes of the brush, and the artist himself. Rene knew very well she wasn’t being taken seriously. It was the story of her life, and still, she subjected herself to the blasé acknowledgement being levied in her direction. After all, it was not her first trip to market, and it was nothing if not a blistering glimpse of a reality that was not her own, attitudes that were not her own, behavior, dress, the list went on.
Fearless when it came to others, as she’d never known a reason to be guarded or feel endangered in her life, she crinkled her nose, canted her head, and stared for a moment at the ink peeking beneath the man’s sleeve. “Those markings, were you a slave?” Her voice was considerably quieter, azure pools settling on the man’s face, as if she sought to decipher truth from his reaction. One small creamy hand emerged from beneath her cloak, a hand that had never seen so much as a minute of manual labor, devoid of calluses or creases, aging or dryness. She pointed, closely, but did not make contact, to the markings on the fellow’s arm.
Rene’s contented smile at watching the artist work flattened as she was thoroughly dismissed. It was something she was entirely too familiar with. The upside was that when one had spent one’s entire life being dismissed by family, then dismissal by any other was far less humiliating. Relegated to the status of shopper, she almost huffed in frustration, but kept her face fixed, the performance everyone always expected, and even worked up a gracious smile at the woman behind the counter, ‘Mama’, presumably.
The older woman in the shoppe had produced the himation that her son had recommended, and it was indeed stunning. Rene surveyed the rich garment, nodding once. “Oh yes, it is beautiful. I should love to have it. As well as the pastel blue one...over there..with the rose trim,” she motioned to another. Of course she would support the local artisans, but it was secondary to where her attentions were really drawn, the sidewalk art in development. The man continued to work, hardly interested in socialization. “I enjoy art as well. I like to paint, but I think my real passion is in sculpture,” she offered up to his back. “I aspire to be a famous artist. Some day.” A lofty ambition perhaps, and one dominated by sexism, but she was happy to take down that glass ceiling if she could. One awkward attempt at conversation after another continued, always happy to encounter a kindred spirit in the arts. “Do you sell your pieces?”
Rene’s large blue eyes drifted up the drawing of Philomela, a tragic and gruesome story to be certain, involving rape, mutilation, murder of one’s own child, cannibalism of said child, the list went on. An odd choice for the decor but…...perhaps he had his reasons.
“You have a nice eye,” she noted as his sketch took form, this one better than the previous. As the initial application of paint subsequently began, Rene watched with an unspoken appreciation for the careful ratio, the consistency and hue born of just the right mixture. “That’s very nice. It usually takes me a few tries to get the exact color I see in my mind’s eye,” she admitted, eager gaze traveling back and forth between the sketch, the keen and careful strokes of the brush, and the artist himself. Rene knew very well she wasn’t being taken seriously. It was the story of her life, and still, she subjected herself to the blasé acknowledgement being levied in her direction. After all, it was not her first trip to market, and it was nothing if not a blistering glimpse of a reality that was not her own, attitudes that were not her own, behavior, dress, the list went on.
Fearless when it came to others, as she’d never known a reason to be guarded or feel endangered in her life, she crinkled her nose, canted her head, and stared for a moment at the ink peeking beneath the man’s sleeve. “Those markings, were you a slave?” Her voice was considerably quieter, azure pools settling on the man’s face, as if she sought to decipher truth from his reaction. One small creamy hand emerged from beneath her cloak, a hand that had never seen so much as a minute of manual labor, devoid of calluses or creases, aging or dryness. She pointed, closely, but did not make contact, to the markings on the fellow’s arm.
"Oh, don't-" the shopkeeper began, as she reached down the fabric Rene had pointed out. Then she sighed and shook her head, dismissing her own words. Lesley often didn't like being interrupted while he was working on something. But actually, he seemed to have been in a patient mood lately.
"Don't what?" Lesley looked up again, the flicker of exasperation holding no heat for once. He wasn't upset about being interrupted; he didn't like his mother's worried tone, but he realized saying something about it was pointless, and it was his turn to sigh and shake his head. "Nevermind."
The brief look he gave Rene seemed meant to convey that he was listening even as his eyes returned to his work. It was mostly prattle, and he was listening, but it also didn't seem important enough to need to focus properly on her. When she asked about his tattoos, he realized he'd reached carelessly further than he'd thought, and tugged his sleeve back down sharply. The brief glare implied that if she'd been a boy, he'd have slapped her hand away.
"You shouldn't hide them," came his mother's light scolding.
"I show them when I should," he argued, then rolled his eyes. "Yes, mama. Can we fight later instead?"
"I'm not fighting with you, Lesley."
"Of course not," he grumbled. Then he put down his paintbrush and looked up at Rene, mouth expressionless and dark eyes hiding secrets behind a warning tightness that reached to his jaw.
"Yes, I was a slave, no, I'm not any more, and no, that's not why I have tattoos." Clipped and resentful. "If you want to stare, wait for the next time I fight at the arcus." She'd hit a sore spot, apparently.
He set his hands on his knees to keep them from becoming fists, and took a deep breath, trying to release some tension with it. Well, there was his concentration gone. Staring at the painting he'd started, he could no longer see the finished image he'd had in mind only moments ago. Hades' balls, he really was only good at one thing.
"No, I don't sell my paintings," he answered her earlier question finally. His face twisted in thought for a moment. Had she been implying she thought he should, or was interested in commissioning something, or had she just been making conversation? "Never thought about it."
Raina leaned on her elbows on the counter. She didn't seemed ashamed of her tattoos at least. "These are tribe-markings. Where we're from, they told everyone what family we are from. They don't mean the same to him - he was too young when we left, I suppose." Yet, the first thing he'd asked her for when he was freed was to re-ink them properly, to darken them and repair where scars had cut through the design. Her son was a mess of contradictions that she still didn't fully understand. "Lesley, dear, you're not actually putting Philomela on the front of my shop, are you?"
"What? No." He blinked at her, startled, then laughed at the absurdity of it. "Athena and Melpomene." Had he said something about Philomela out loud? He must have.
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"Oh, don't-" the shopkeeper began, as she reached down the fabric Rene had pointed out. Then she sighed and shook her head, dismissing her own words. Lesley often didn't like being interrupted while he was working on something. But actually, he seemed to have been in a patient mood lately.
"Don't what?" Lesley looked up again, the flicker of exasperation holding no heat for once. He wasn't upset about being interrupted; he didn't like his mother's worried tone, but he realized saying something about it was pointless, and it was his turn to sigh and shake his head. "Nevermind."
The brief look he gave Rene seemed meant to convey that he was listening even as his eyes returned to his work. It was mostly prattle, and he was listening, but it also didn't seem important enough to need to focus properly on her. When she asked about his tattoos, he realized he'd reached carelessly further than he'd thought, and tugged his sleeve back down sharply. The brief glare implied that if she'd been a boy, he'd have slapped her hand away.
"You shouldn't hide them," came his mother's light scolding.
"I show them when I should," he argued, then rolled his eyes. "Yes, mama. Can we fight later instead?"
"I'm not fighting with you, Lesley."
"Of course not," he grumbled. Then he put down his paintbrush and looked up at Rene, mouth expressionless and dark eyes hiding secrets behind a warning tightness that reached to his jaw.
"Yes, I was a slave, no, I'm not any more, and no, that's not why I have tattoos." Clipped and resentful. "If you want to stare, wait for the next time I fight at the arcus." She'd hit a sore spot, apparently.
He set his hands on his knees to keep them from becoming fists, and took a deep breath, trying to release some tension with it. Well, there was his concentration gone. Staring at the painting he'd started, he could no longer see the finished image he'd had in mind only moments ago. Hades' balls, he really was only good at one thing.
"No, I don't sell my paintings," he answered her earlier question finally. His face twisted in thought for a moment. Had she been implying she thought he should, or was interested in commissioning something, or had she just been making conversation? "Never thought about it."
Raina leaned on her elbows on the counter. She didn't seemed ashamed of her tattoos at least. "These are tribe-markings. Where we're from, they told everyone what family we are from. They don't mean the same to him - he was too young when we left, I suppose." Yet, the first thing he'd asked her for when he was freed was to re-ink them properly, to darken them and repair where scars had cut through the design. Her son was a mess of contradictions that she still didn't fully understand. "Lesley, dear, you're not actually putting Philomela on the front of my shop, are you?"
"What? No." He blinked at her, startled, then laughed at the absurdity of it. "Athena and Melpomene." Had he said something about Philomela out loud? He must have.
"Oh, don't-" the shopkeeper began, as she reached down the fabric Rene had pointed out. Then she sighed and shook her head, dismissing her own words. Lesley often didn't like being interrupted while he was working on something. But actually, he seemed to have been in a patient mood lately.
"Don't what?" Lesley looked up again, the flicker of exasperation holding no heat for once. He wasn't upset about being interrupted; he didn't like his mother's worried tone, but he realized saying something about it was pointless, and it was his turn to sigh and shake his head. "Nevermind."
The brief look he gave Rene seemed meant to convey that he was listening even as his eyes returned to his work. It was mostly prattle, and he was listening, but it also didn't seem important enough to need to focus properly on her. When she asked about his tattoos, he realized he'd reached carelessly further than he'd thought, and tugged his sleeve back down sharply. The brief glare implied that if she'd been a boy, he'd have slapped her hand away.
"You shouldn't hide them," came his mother's light scolding.
"I show them when I should," he argued, then rolled his eyes. "Yes, mama. Can we fight later instead?"
"I'm not fighting with you, Lesley."
"Of course not," he grumbled. Then he put down his paintbrush and looked up at Rene, mouth expressionless and dark eyes hiding secrets behind a warning tightness that reached to his jaw.
"Yes, I was a slave, no, I'm not any more, and no, that's not why I have tattoos." Clipped and resentful. "If you want to stare, wait for the next time I fight at the arcus." She'd hit a sore spot, apparently.
He set his hands on his knees to keep them from becoming fists, and took a deep breath, trying to release some tension with it. Well, there was his concentration gone. Staring at the painting he'd started, he could no longer see the finished image he'd had in mind only moments ago. Hades' balls, he really was only good at one thing.
"No, I don't sell my paintings," he answered her earlier question finally. His face twisted in thought for a moment. Had she been implying she thought he should, or was interested in commissioning something, or had she just been making conversation? "Never thought about it."
Raina leaned on her elbows on the counter. She didn't seemed ashamed of her tattoos at least. "These are tribe-markings. Where we're from, they told everyone what family we are from. They don't mean the same to him - he was too young when we left, I suppose." Yet, the first thing he'd asked her for when he was freed was to re-ink them properly, to darken them and repair where scars had cut through the design. Her son was a mess of contradictions that she still didn't fully understand. "Lesley, dear, you're not actually putting Philomela on the front of my shop, are you?"
"What? No." He blinked at her, startled, then laughed at the absurdity of it. "Athena and Melpomene." Had he said something about Philomela out loud? He must have.
It might have been comical, the back and forth between the man and his mother, his salty tone curbed a little as he spoke to her. Judging by his bristled demeanor, it was likely only his mother who was able to get away with arguing with him the way she did, as he radiated an intolerance for all else. Her eyes tracked between the two, noting the woman’s markings before looking back to the man, who hurried to hide them. Lesley, she called him. With a gathered inhale, she lowered her voice. “I am sorry. I meant no offense. I was not aware there were fights at the arcus.” That was definitely not something her parents would permit her to see. “Where are you from? For what it is worth, I think the markings are very beautiful. They are distinct, though, here, they are unfortunately indicative of slavery. Too bad. Who said the body itself cannot be a canvas for masterpieces,” she commented further. Feeling a little foolish, she shrugged her shoulders a bit beneath her cloak. “I also did not intend to seem predatory. If my staring made you feel that way, I apologize,” she added for good measure. Ironic, Rene thought. She spent her entire life endlessly issuing apologies to everyone around her, family, house staff, the common folk of the markets, as if her very existence warranted atonement.
But eager as she was for interaction, and as she had thus not been ordered to leave, she remained. “I just enjoy studying people, you know. Watching them. You know? You can tell a lot about a person with something as simple as the way they carry themselves, the way they walk, the looks on their faces, their eyes….” She paused to chew idly at her inner lip. “For example, I can draw you, with all of your lovely body art? If you let me?” She remained where she was, having thus far not been swatted or shoved aside. “I really like sculpture, but I have been sketching a lot as well. If you agree to be my subject for a quick study, if you are interested in selling, I shall purchase some of your art so that it is showcased in the halls of my father’s house?”
As she watched him, she noted his hands, course, maybe scabbed or scarred here and there, gruff looking, unlike her own. “Your hands,” she noted before pulling her eyes back to his face, in some part to glean reaction, in some part genuine curiosity. “If you are no longer a slave, why must you fight?” In another effort to take the edge off, she smiled. “Lesley, is it? I am Rene. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I shall make it a habit to frequent your mother’s shop more often.” She was horrible with her own title, frequently forgetting it as it meant nothing more than a means to patronize, nor did she want to be readily identified here anyway.
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It might have been comical, the back and forth between the man and his mother, his salty tone curbed a little as he spoke to her. Judging by his bristled demeanor, it was likely only his mother who was able to get away with arguing with him the way she did, as he radiated an intolerance for all else. Her eyes tracked between the two, noting the woman’s markings before looking back to the man, who hurried to hide them. Lesley, she called him. With a gathered inhale, she lowered her voice. “I am sorry. I meant no offense. I was not aware there were fights at the arcus.” That was definitely not something her parents would permit her to see. “Where are you from? For what it is worth, I think the markings are very beautiful. They are distinct, though, here, they are unfortunately indicative of slavery. Too bad. Who said the body itself cannot be a canvas for masterpieces,” she commented further. Feeling a little foolish, she shrugged her shoulders a bit beneath her cloak. “I also did not intend to seem predatory. If my staring made you feel that way, I apologize,” she added for good measure. Ironic, Rene thought. She spent her entire life endlessly issuing apologies to everyone around her, family, house staff, the common folk of the markets, as if her very existence warranted atonement.
But eager as she was for interaction, and as she had thus not been ordered to leave, she remained. “I just enjoy studying people, you know. Watching them. You know? You can tell a lot about a person with something as simple as the way they carry themselves, the way they walk, the looks on their faces, their eyes….” She paused to chew idly at her inner lip. “For example, I can draw you, with all of your lovely body art? If you let me?” She remained where she was, having thus far not been swatted or shoved aside. “I really like sculpture, but I have been sketching a lot as well. If you agree to be my subject for a quick study, if you are interested in selling, I shall purchase some of your art so that it is showcased in the halls of my father’s house?”
As she watched him, she noted his hands, course, maybe scabbed or scarred here and there, gruff looking, unlike her own. “Your hands,” she noted before pulling her eyes back to his face, in some part to glean reaction, in some part genuine curiosity. “If you are no longer a slave, why must you fight?” In another effort to take the edge off, she smiled. “Lesley, is it? I am Rene. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I shall make it a habit to frequent your mother’s shop more often.” She was horrible with her own title, frequently forgetting it as it meant nothing more than a means to patronize, nor did she want to be readily identified here anyway.
It might have been comical, the back and forth between the man and his mother, his salty tone curbed a little as he spoke to her. Judging by his bristled demeanor, it was likely only his mother who was able to get away with arguing with him the way she did, as he radiated an intolerance for all else. Her eyes tracked between the two, noting the woman’s markings before looking back to the man, who hurried to hide them. Lesley, she called him. With a gathered inhale, she lowered her voice. “I am sorry. I meant no offense. I was not aware there were fights at the arcus.” That was definitely not something her parents would permit her to see. “Where are you from? For what it is worth, I think the markings are very beautiful. They are distinct, though, here, they are unfortunately indicative of slavery. Too bad. Who said the body itself cannot be a canvas for masterpieces,” she commented further. Feeling a little foolish, she shrugged her shoulders a bit beneath her cloak. “I also did not intend to seem predatory. If my staring made you feel that way, I apologize,” she added for good measure. Ironic, Rene thought. She spent her entire life endlessly issuing apologies to everyone around her, family, house staff, the common folk of the markets, as if her very existence warranted atonement.
But eager as she was for interaction, and as she had thus not been ordered to leave, she remained. “I just enjoy studying people, you know. Watching them. You know? You can tell a lot about a person with something as simple as the way they carry themselves, the way they walk, the looks on their faces, their eyes….” She paused to chew idly at her inner lip. “For example, I can draw you, with all of your lovely body art? If you let me?” She remained where she was, having thus far not been swatted or shoved aside. “I really like sculpture, but I have been sketching a lot as well. If you agree to be my subject for a quick study, if you are interested in selling, I shall purchase some of your art so that it is showcased in the halls of my father’s house?”
As she watched him, she noted his hands, course, maybe scabbed or scarred here and there, gruff looking, unlike her own. “Your hands,” she noted before pulling her eyes back to his face, in some part to glean reaction, in some part genuine curiosity. “If you are no longer a slave, why must you fight?” In another effort to take the edge off, she smiled. “Lesley, is it? I am Rene. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I shall make it a habit to frequent your mother’s shop more often.” She was horrible with her own title, frequently forgetting it as it meant nothing more than a means to patronize, nor did she want to be readily identified here anyway.
She talked a lot, didn't she?
Lesley ran a hand through his hair, and waited for her to give him a chance to answer.
"I fight because I am good at it and it pays well," he answered the last first. "Mostly I train the others now, though. I'm old enough to heal slow." He smiled wryly. "So I always fight at the festival of Ares, but." He shrugged. "Now and then, otherwise."
He turned his eye back to his painting. Well, the sketch was done, and the paint was drying in the dish; he could at least block in some of the base colours without inspiration driving it. He reached for his brush again.
"My art is all on walls or my skin, and I don't think I ought to take commissions..." He ran his free hand through his hair again. "I'm terrible about finishing things," he admitted. "Maybe I'll get some boards sometime, and if I make something nice enough I'll put it in the shop." There, that was starting to take shape... maybe he could manage this after all. He reached for the next colour. "I've been paid to be a model before though," he admitted. "I don't mind." By which he meant - he couldn't turn down free money. It was no good if it cut into time he was working otherwise, but on the days he spent helping his mother - which much of the time meant simply hanging around so that she had some company - taking a few hours away for something with guaranteed income was perfectly feasible.
He leaned back and squinted at the art taking shape, then scooted over and began blocking out the major sections of the next panel. "And I assure you, if you'd seemed predatory you'd already be in two pieces on the other side of the street." Not a threat, but perfectly serious. Lesley's world was divided up in to three categories: immediate threat, fun to provoke, and everyone else. Very few people landed into the first category, but when they did, the gladiator didn't fuck about.
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She talked a lot, didn't she?
Lesley ran a hand through his hair, and waited for her to give him a chance to answer.
"I fight because I am good at it and it pays well," he answered the last first. "Mostly I train the others now, though. I'm old enough to heal slow." He smiled wryly. "So I always fight at the festival of Ares, but." He shrugged. "Now and then, otherwise."
He turned his eye back to his painting. Well, the sketch was done, and the paint was drying in the dish; he could at least block in some of the base colours without inspiration driving it. He reached for his brush again.
"My art is all on walls or my skin, and I don't think I ought to take commissions..." He ran his free hand through his hair again. "I'm terrible about finishing things," he admitted. "Maybe I'll get some boards sometime, and if I make something nice enough I'll put it in the shop." There, that was starting to take shape... maybe he could manage this after all. He reached for the next colour. "I've been paid to be a model before though," he admitted. "I don't mind." By which he meant - he couldn't turn down free money. It was no good if it cut into time he was working otherwise, but on the days he spent helping his mother - which much of the time meant simply hanging around so that she had some company - taking a few hours away for something with guaranteed income was perfectly feasible.
He leaned back and squinted at the art taking shape, then scooted over and began blocking out the major sections of the next panel. "And I assure you, if you'd seemed predatory you'd already be in two pieces on the other side of the street." Not a threat, but perfectly serious. Lesley's world was divided up in to three categories: immediate threat, fun to provoke, and everyone else. Very few people landed into the first category, but when they did, the gladiator didn't fuck about.
She talked a lot, didn't she?
Lesley ran a hand through his hair, and waited for her to give him a chance to answer.
"I fight because I am good at it and it pays well," he answered the last first. "Mostly I train the others now, though. I'm old enough to heal slow." He smiled wryly. "So I always fight at the festival of Ares, but." He shrugged. "Now and then, otherwise."
He turned his eye back to his painting. Well, the sketch was done, and the paint was drying in the dish; he could at least block in some of the base colours without inspiration driving it. He reached for his brush again.
"My art is all on walls or my skin, and I don't think I ought to take commissions..." He ran his free hand through his hair again. "I'm terrible about finishing things," he admitted. "Maybe I'll get some boards sometime, and if I make something nice enough I'll put it in the shop." There, that was starting to take shape... maybe he could manage this after all. He reached for the next colour. "I've been paid to be a model before though," he admitted. "I don't mind." By which he meant - he couldn't turn down free money. It was no good if it cut into time he was working otherwise, but on the days he spent helping his mother - which much of the time meant simply hanging around so that she had some company - taking a few hours away for something with guaranteed income was perfectly feasible.
He leaned back and squinted at the art taking shape, then scooted over and began blocking out the major sections of the next panel. "And I assure you, if you'd seemed predatory you'd already be in two pieces on the other side of the street." Not a threat, but perfectly serious. Lesley's world was divided up in to three categories: immediate threat, fun to provoke, and everyone else. Very few people landed into the first category, but when they did, the gladiator didn't fuck about.
Good at it, and it pays well…. The words were plain enough. “But do you like it?” It seemed simple enough. Why would someone want to do such a thing? It sounded painful. Gently moving that topic aside, Rene found a better one to replace it. “I shall make it a point to stop in regularly should your panels come to fruition,” she remarked. Surveying the progress he’d made thus far, one corner of her mouth lifted in a half grin. “Well, this is your mother’s shop. You should probably finish what you start. That would be terribly disrespectful if you did not,” she ventured, carefully. Leaving Lesley to his undertaking, she thought the better of any further discourse.
At the notion of being mauled, she chewed at her lower lip a bit, perfectly sculpted eyebrows lifting a little. At a loss for an adequate response, she stifled a shrug and moved inside the shop to collect the items she’d purchased. Producing coins from a small pouch beneath her cloak, she placed a generous stack on the counter. “Is this acceptable for the garments?” She cut a glance back towards the door to ensure she didn’t see or hear her hysterical handmaid running the streets in frantic search. Placing a few extra coins on the countertop for good measure, she smiled, nodded to the woman and collected her pieces. “Thank you. I endeavor to shop here more frequently,” she said graciously before moving back to the exit. Stopping just beyond the threshold, she noted the panel once more, and then its creator. “You are welcome any time, whether you accept my offer or not,” she said quietly to him, extending a small roll of fabric, tied with a small piece of cord. Inside, the fabric was painted with the crest of House Nickolaos.
Stepping out into the sunlight, Rene adjusted the cowl of her cloak over her head and scrutinized the sea of faces before her for Melba’s, genuinely surprised she’d been able to elude her handmaid for this long.
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Good at it, and it pays well…. The words were plain enough. “But do you like it?” It seemed simple enough. Why would someone want to do such a thing? It sounded painful. Gently moving that topic aside, Rene found a better one to replace it. “I shall make it a point to stop in regularly should your panels come to fruition,” she remarked. Surveying the progress he’d made thus far, one corner of her mouth lifted in a half grin. “Well, this is your mother’s shop. You should probably finish what you start. That would be terribly disrespectful if you did not,” she ventured, carefully. Leaving Lesley to his undertaking, she thought the better of any further discourse.
At the notion of being mauled, she chewed at her lower lip a bit, perfectly sculpted eyebrows lifting a little. At a loss for an adequate response, she stifled a shrug and moved inside the shop to collect the items she’d purchased. Producing coins from a small pouch beneath her cloak, she placed a generous stack on the counter. “Is this acceptable for the garments?” She cut a glance back towards the door to ensure she didn’t see or hear her hysterical handmaid running the streets in frantic search. Placing a few extra coins on the countertop for good measure, she smiled, nodded to the woman and collected her pieces. “Thank you. I endeavor to shop here more frequently,” she said graciously before moving back to the exit. Stopping just beyond the threshold, she noted the panel once more, and then its creator. “You are welcome any time, whether you accept my offer or not,” she said quietly to him, extending a small roll of fabric, tied with a small piece of cord. Inside, the fabric was painted with the crest of House Nickolaos.
Stepping out into the sunlight, Rene adjusted the cowl of her cloak over her head and scrutinized the sea of faces before her for Melba’s, genuinely surprised she’d been able to elude her handmaid for this long.
Good at it, and it pays well…. The words were plain enough. “But do you like it?” It seemed simple enough. Why would someone want to do such a thing? It sounded painful. Gently moving that topic aside, Rene found a better one to replace it. “I shall make it a point to stop in regularly should your panels come to fruition,” she remarked. Surveying the progress he’d made thus far, one corner of her mouth lifted in a half grin. “Well, this is your mother’s shop. You should probably finish what you start. That would be terribly disrespectful if you did not,” she ventured, carefully. Leaving Lesley to his undertaking, she thought the better of any further discourse.
At the notion of being mauled, she chewed at her lower lip a bit, perfectly sculpted eyebrows lifting a little. At a loss for an adequate response, she stifled a shrug and moved inside the shop to collect the items she’d purchased. Producing coins from a small pouch beneath her cloak, she placed a generous stack on the counter. “Is this acceptable for the garments?” She cut a glance back towards the door to ensure she didn’t see or hear her hysterical handmaid running the streets in frantic search. Placing a few extra coins on the countertop for good measure, she smiled, nodded to the woman and collected her pieces. “Thank you. I endeavor to shop here more frequently,” she said graciously before moving back to the exit. Stopping just beyond the threshold, she noted the panel once more, and then its creator. “You are welcome any time, whether you accept my offer or not,” she said quietly to him, extending a small roll of fabric, tied with a small piece of cord. Inside, the fabric was painted with the crest of House Nickolaos.
Stepping out into the sunlight, Rene adjusted the cowl of her cloak over her head and scrutinized the sea of faces before her for Melba’s, genuinely surprised she’d been able to elude her handmaid for this long.
The question of whether he liked fighting got a shrug and a guilty glance at his mother, then a wry twitch of his lips and an understated, "Well enough."
He nodded in agreement about the need to finish this project. He did intend to... he always intended to, didn't he? It was public, though, and he did have a bit more motivation, at least. He returned to his work as Rene concluded her business with his mother without bothering to haggle, and looked up again as he was once more addressed directly. A small crinkle of confusion knotted his eyebrows at her words - hadn't he already said yes? Maybe not. Maybe it was one of those days. Lesley had done his damnedest to protect his head in his years of fighting, but he had still had his bell rung more than once. He took the fabric from her and untied the cord as she left. What was revealed made him sigh heavily. Oh.
Well, she couldn't have thought his manners were too atrocious, since she'd still issued an invitation, but he didn't particularly like the idea of venturing into the Inner Circle. Well, he didn't have to decide what to do about it right now. Finish this painting, sleep on it, decide later. He rinsed his brush in a bit of water, and reached for another egg and a different pigment.
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The question of whether he liked fighting got a shrug and a guilty glance at his mother, then a wry twitch of his lips and an understated, "Well enough."
He nodded in agreement about the need to finish this project. He did intend to... he always intended to, didn't he? It was public, though, and he did have a bit more motivation, at least. He returned to his work as Rene concluded her business with his mother without bothering to haggle, and looked up again as he was once more addressed directly. A small crinkle of confusion knotted his eyebrows at her words - hadn't he already said yes? Maybe not. Maybe it was one of those days. Lesley had done his damnedest to protect his head in his years of fighting, but he had still had his bell rung more than once. He took the fabric from her and untied the cord as she left. What was revealed made him sigh heavily. Oh.
Well, she couldn't have thought his manners were too atrocious, since she'd still issued an invitation, but he didn't particularly like the idea of venturing into the Inner Circle. Well, he didn't have to decide what to do about it right now. Finish this painting, sleep on it, decide later. He rinsed his brush in a bit of water, and reached for another egg and a different pigment.
The question of whether he liked fighting got a shrug and a guilty glance at his mother, then a wry twitch of his lips and an understated, "Well enough."
He nodded in agreement about the need to finish this project. He did intend to... he always intended to, didn't he? It was public, though, and he did have a bit more motivation, at least. He returned to his work as Rene concluded her business with his mother without bothering to haggle, and looked up again as he was once more addressed directly. A small crinkle of confusion knotted his eyebrows at her words - hadn't he already said yes? Maybe not. Maybe it was one of those days. Lesley had done his damnedest to protect his head in his years of fighting, but he had still had his bell rung more than once. He took the fabric from her and untied the cord as she left. What was revealed made him sigh heavily. Oh.
Well, she couldn't have thought his manners were too atrocious, since she'd still issued an invitation, but he didn't particularly like the idea of venturing into the Inner Circle. Well, he didn't have to decide what to do about it right now. Finish this painting, sleep on it, decide later. He rinsed his brush in a bit of water, and reached for another egg and a different pigment.
