behind blue eyes

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The dozens of conversations being held within the Communal Hall today were...boring. Terribly so. Her interest in listening to deals being struck extended only as far as trying to figure out what was being sold, and when that proved dull as well, she found herself with little in the way of entertainment. It was lucky then she was technically occupied with painting.

Technically.

As it were, she was still tracing over the light lines of a vague sketch she made nearly an hour before. That lay on the canvas was a rough outline of what would become a face, if only one would come to mind.

If the Communal Hall was going to be devoid of decent conversation, then there was little else to do than complete the painting she appeared to be working on. The lack of a clear muse, however, was frustrating. Usually, she was more than capable at scribbling away and listening in on the world around her, all while appearing to ignore it. This time, however, she could not focus on her artwork or the uninspiring discussions in the hall. The most she could manage was to sit and stare at a mostly blank canvas. Had those conversations dried out her muse too?

No.

She refused the very idea. There had to be something. For a moment, she thought of painting her aunt, as if the dozens of Ferrah’s portraits needed more companions. Perhaps something different would be better. Determined to find someone intriguing enough to paint, Minnow lifted her gaze from the canvas and turned her attention to the people milling about. There had to be someone.

And then she saw him.

He was perfect, possessing features she knew she wished to capture on her canvas. As she did with anything that interested her, Minnow stared directly at him, unaware (and perhaps uncaring) of the intensity in her eyes. No, she was far too busy filling in her sketch with the details of his face to care about such a thing. There was no telling how long this impromptu muse of hers would remain where she could see him and the likelihood of crossing paths again seemed slim. She had, after all, never noticed him before and that seemed unlikely for someone as observant as she considered herself.

Time was of the essence.

When she felt her sketch met her standards (or really, close to her ever raising standards), Minnow looked away from that captivating man and back to her canvas as though he was never there to begin with. She’d gotten what she needed. Using her homemade paints she began to bring color and detail to the portrait with graceful strokes of the brush, starting with those striking blue eyes.

Posted 05-10-2021, 06:56 AM

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He wasn’t supposed to come in here again.

At least, the reality of doing any espionage work relied on subtlety; it took habits, and rituals, and principally imbued them into the expected character.

He would have taken a bit longer to return in here--

But as Jessie entered the Eclipse camp again for the second time in a week, the mission that drove him in there stopped him exactly at the guards to check for his weapons-- and saw him, once more, directed towards the communal hall as was the habit here; the fact he’d had to figure out for himself a bulletproof reason for his repeat entrance was somewhat of a given--

That he had one, too.

It didn’t disregard that honestly, it left him feeling a bit uncertain.

But he’d not show that.

Twas once he’d reached the hall that he met up with his target; or rather, his ‘friend’; an ally of convenience of sorts, their conversation would hinge on the usual tit-for-tat based barter; Jessie had something the man wanted, the man and his little groupie had everything Jessie and the military wanted--

So, the conversation went on--

But he did not turn out the world.

It was how he noticed, or rather felt he was being observed; it gnawed and whispered little shivers over his skin, blushing his forearms with goosebumps at various points; it left and it came, but primarily--

It stayed.

Once his work here was done; and until Jessie could finally turn ‘round, and scan the hall in here, wanting to find out who had pierced him with their eyes.

When he saw her, and the canvas in front of her, the contextual clues made his conclusion obvious.

And yet, despite all that, Jessie stared--

Or rather, gawked:

Then, he grinned.

Still ready to be wrong, he made his way towards her with caution, seeing she was a woman, seeing she was quite young, too; to him, that meant any kinda motion sudden in character could trigger any mama bear instinct in men, and women both.

So, he’d not trigger.

He just walked.

Past the others, himself and his heavy backpack bearing gifts of the wastes making some obvious noise, and here the raggedy step, there the raggedy step--

Until Jessie S. Michels had found himself right beside this woman, at which point any notion of minding his own business seemed to flutter right out the window.

For he had peered behind her, and saw--

“Oh, man.”

First, there was fear; concern; he couldn’t have his likeness in here; it had to be removed.

But then--

“Oh my god, you can paint,” he gushed, actually bending down a better surely to level with the canvas and the presented creation, before, not even bothering to share anything polite like ‘scuse me, may I, and hi, I’m a rude-ass cheeky cunt--

He just admired what he saw--

And smiled.

He looked charmed. Bewildered.

“You got my eyes so right…”

And so, so very blue.

And like that: he looked at her, squinting at this stranger woman in a mixture of shock, and admiration.

Posted 05-10-2021, 09:33 AM

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She was lost in her artwork. It was so easy to forget where she was as she witnessed her creations come to life under her hand. The eyes, so blue, were her favorite. She spent a great deal of time perfecting them, adding in highlights to mimic how stunning they were. Beautiful and blue and...bemusing.

There was something wrong.

Perhaps to the unartistic eye, everything would appear fine. Capturing realism was her specialty and yet, she was dissatisfied. Something was missing. Of course, when she glanced up brief to check her reference, he was gone. Part of her was disappointed. Would it have been too much to hope he might linger long enough for her to add her missing piece?

Yes, the cynical voice said. It is.

Normally, this kind of familiar frustration would make her throw the canvas away entirely. Her need to truly express herself demanded it. And yet, this time, the canvas was not torn to shreds or stomped under an angry foot. It was rare to come across eyes so blue and full of color like the ones she unnamed muse possessed. She could not throw this away now, even with her dissatisfaction.

No.

Instead, continued, carefully painting the tone of his skin. Her face scrunched up in concentration, determined that she could not get the eyes exactly right, she would do the rest of the portrait perfectly.

Or rather, as perfectly as she could manage now that her reference was nowhere to be seen.

Consumed in her work, she did not care to look around the community hall again, fearing that doing so would cause the fleeting image of the face she now painted to grow even fainter in her mind. It was frustrating, truly. Portraits took time and reference, yet she now had no reference. Her memory of his face persisted long enough to mix the correct paints together for his skin tone, but now, she had nothing. She pouted, biting her inner lip with a huff. She supposed it was her fault for trying to paint someone who was not actively sitting for her, and yet, how could she resist?

Those eyes…

Eyes that were evidently trained on her canvas.

Minnow jumped, surprised yet silent, when she heard his voice. Turning, shock flashed in her eyes when she realized who stood behind her. Her muse. And he looked...excited? Admittedly, Minnow was confused. For a moment, she thought he approached to ‘kindly’ prompt her to mind her only business, before he started gushing about her unfinished portrait. No one ever seemed to appreciate her artistic skills outside of forging passes and even then, she’d never been caught secretly creating a portrait while eavesdropping. And that appreciation was what kept her from fleeing the moment he spoke to her.

Leave before he harms you, the cynical voice said.

Yet she did not listen.

Instead, she spoke.

"Do you want it?" She asked softly. She watched him carefully unsure of his intentions. She did not detect any obvious signs of malice (or perhaps she ignored them if present) and ventured to ask him another question.

"Will you sit for me?" She smiled slightly and sheepishly then, so unaccustomed to this kind of appreciation. Even in refusal, his approach offered her another chance to correct her portrait and warmth that only recognition could provide her.

Posted 05-10-2021, 11:47 AM

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And then, she jumped, and his eyes followed her like the curious rabbit he was, big, and blue; and emotional; in a state of a whirl even if his calmness was a mismatch sure; that calm, gentle smile, that growing, aging tenderness in his eyes he couldn't ward off, not when the moment was, what twas:

Fake, he'd claim, it had to be.

When he found this moving. When he found this inspiring; when Jessie this sweet, and honeyed, and a lot like the cinnamon he had smelled through the walls of the neighboring home; that apartment; their fondness of cinnamon. When he thought well beneath the man taught to find this a liability: dismiss and remove before it could keep a record and what she asked him, that latter question--

When he thought back to the parts of him that remembered the many pretty, pretty paintings in his home years back; years, years old, and ugly, when he remembered the bad man.

And that bad woman.

Parents.

When he remembered them without, but the paintings lounging ‘bout; their evidence, their righteous flex of the luxury they’d been birthed into, and had managed to maintain decades down the line.

Paintings upon the walls. Millions worth in old money.

Nothing, in the present realistically: nothing to ward off the dark of the infected mor, the hideous plague wearing a human face, yet a blood-thristy animal.

A vulgar, zero.

And yet here to happen in the middle of some nowhere; in a world weird, and ugly; and crooked; and sandy; or abandoned; overgrown and endless; majestic with their crowns and violence and gore. Death. And survival. Bland in every sight.

At every angle.

Beautiful.

And no matter the lack of taste he found in her present object; no matter the way this wounded Jessie S. Michels; Jessie experienced a need to be seen.

Even for a while.

To watch pretty things come to life.

Even if just for now.

In pretty, pretty colors that over-saturated the background world.

“Yes.”

Jessie smiled at her.

(Beamed.)

Without ado, he sought to discover a seat for himself, grabbing so early and to a quick perch: lowered his things, keeping them between his legs and making it easier to sit right:

And changed the smile to a grin.

Sporting that perpetual cheeky quality he ain’t hold off as he chattered to her, delighted so-

“Ohh, how long have you been painting? Where did you learn? Can you also do landscape? Ooo can you do a flower.”

And at that, Jessie sighed dreamily, and cooed sweetly--

“Red carnation…”

He snapped himself back.

"Oh, what am I doing. I'm stupid."

He refocused, and prattled off in a tease--

“So how do you want me?”

And with that he allowed a spread of his lips-- a shit-eating grin--

And the brow waggle, naturally.

Posted 05-10-2021, 03:18 PM

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He was...chipper, if nothing else. Though if she were truly honest with herself and not still so caught up in the foreign sensation of attention, she found his behavior odd. All the same, it was intriguing, though whether that was because he showered her talents with praise or because she was simply drawn to the odd, she did not know. And, it did no matter. The moment he agreed -- whether to take the portrait or just sit for her, she did not know -- her intense focus was on him. Her hand was moving, adding more to the portrait nearly before he sat down.

Unsure of how much patience he possessed, she pushed herself to work faster in capturing the details she couldn’t have seen all the way across the hall. How could she have missed that? Or that? Still, she could not chastise herself for long. After all, he agreed to sit for her, which meant, at least for a time, she had a chance to see all of those little details. His questions earned him short answers, so typical of her preference to speak little in the presence of so many people.

How long? “Fifteen years.”

Where did she learn? “I taught myself.”

Could she do landscapes? “Yes.”

Could she do flowers? “Yes.”

Minnow said nothing when he called himself stupid. It didn’t feel right for her to do so. She felt stupid. Here she was, painting a stranger who approached her rather than keeping her distance as that nagging voice urged her to do. In the moment, however, she didn’t care. The appeal of being recognized was so much greater than any logical (and likely rightful) idea that she should not have engaged with this man at all. He had an odd smile and a look in those eyes that should have unsettled her.

But that was exactly what captivated her.

She offered him a slight smile, choosing without words to reach out and adjust his posture herself into something that captured the alluring oddities she saw in him. After that, she stared into his eyes, looking between them and the canvas, looking for that missing piece. Running a thoughtful tongue across her upper lip, Minnow squeaked in excitement when she found it. That wildness. That was what she’d been looking for. Quickly, she made her adjustments before she observed him thoughtfully, thinking back to what he mentioned before.

“A red carnation?” That...did not sound like a bad idea. “Do you want one? In the portrait?”

Posted 05-10-2021, 06:25 PM

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This is dangerous.

Jessie’s heart thrummed to confirm; but he could not look away; she answered with such few words, but they were practical, helpful and told him exactly what he had asked for.

How long? This long.

Learned from? Myself.

It was oddly wonderful; Jessie felt tempted to bombard her with many more questions just to hear those short, practical answers-- even as his mind obsessed, worried no matter what, that he was making a mistake.

You can still look away, he reminded himself.

I guess you’re right, he confirmed, really, really right, but the heart beat too hard in his chest, and he still didn’t.

Eventually, Jessie faced that he just wanted to be here; that he wanted to watch her paint, obsessing over something else here: the glib strokes of her brush would have meant nothing if she didn’t know how painting worked; if she hadn’t done this a hundred, or thousand times before--

And Jessie suddenly thought--

I have something.

At the very bottom of his backpack, thrust in there sat an object he’d thought very little of when packing it there-- if his usual MO was coming in here with a full backpack to create a helpful illusion, he had needed to grab anything to achieve the bulk.

To make it look the same.

--his heart slammed in his ribcage, and she fixed him and he didn’t even know who she was.

What her name was--

But for that duration, he didn’t talk; he didn’t even smile; as if she were an angel, he looked at her, but if she was an angel, he wasn’t thinking beauty, and innocence:

He was thinking unreachable and powerful, and yet his gaze traced her, anyway.

He focused deeply on the look in her eyes as if it were the only book he was allowed to read, but also the only one he loved.

A book he could take to a church, to a class; keep under the desk, and while the teacher prattled off secretly read, fascinated on--

Then, she was done.

She squeaked as if to confirm--

Feeling very much like a model of unlikely times, Jessie grinned-- amused, for sure.

(He even kinda blushed.)

Then, he cocked his head at her.

Surely, what that did was mess with her work; for some strands of his floppy, stupid hair trailed down his face, and it widened his smile you could say, until he looked boisterous and loaded with many cheeky ideas.

He was.

“Can you? Won’t it clash?”

He tried to peer at the painting, but now that she had maneuvered him the way she needed, he dreaded to ruin her good work--

--the reality of his hair being what it was, he’d pardon, meant he wasn’t to be held accountable for any errant strand.

(He tilted his head further, and more strands misbehaved.)

“Blue and red, isn’t there some kinda theory that goes a bit like this: nanana, can’t pair them.”

Amazing.

But he flickered his gaze up at her.

“Maybe, you could draw me with violets. But where would you put them,” he mused, quickly; he frowned, and as he did, he recalled the painting-- it could have been right beside him, but angles--

He recalled it, instead:

Brought it up to the front of his vision like the blueprint of a building he was planning to break into.

Smiling, imagining the details likely to include--

"... in my hair... Imma be a pretty princess."

And there was nothing quite so joyful in the world than that right there:

Jessie S. Michels: the beautiful princess.

Posted 05-11-2021, 10:17 AM

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He was, by far, one of the most fascinating muses she’d ever had the pleasure of painting. Yes, pleasure. Whether because she was so drawn by his oddities or because she had yet to come across someone this appreciative of her talents, Minnow did not know. What she was certain of, however, was that she was thoroughly enjoying her time painting the man with the striking blue eyes and no name. He was perfect and she was sure he wasn’t even aware of it. How easily she adjusted him into a pose that she felt captured all of his personality. There were no complaints or flood of questions. Just silence, a grin, and...a blush?

She ducked her head back down when she noticed, deciding it best not to get too wrapped up in that detail. When she glanced back up, he had moved, and for a moment a frown pulled at her lips. Thoughtful, but all the same, a frown. Why had he moved? And more importantly, why was she not upset? Usually, such a disruption in her vision made her frustrated and eager to start over. This time, however, she felt no such frustration. Yet another reason to be drawn to this man. And that was before he displayed knowledge in the arts.

He was right in a way (even though he moved again), and that made her smile sheepishly. “There is a rule.” She told him as her smile grew wider, slightly more mischievous. “But rules can be broken.”

She might have told him of his luck in coming across her, for those rules were her favorite to break, if she had not noticed he seemed to be in thought. What was on his mind?

A way to harm you, the voice said. Run now before it’s too late, girl.

But she did not move. Instead, she smiled wider, a giggle growing in her throat at his suggestion. Violets? On his head? She glanced to her side to check on her paints and noticed with a faint blush that she had no red. That made her all the more excited to try out this suggestion of her ever curious, ever moving muse. “Violets.” She repeated the word, as though to try it on her tongue.

“Violets… Flower… Princess…?” She thought about it for a moment before she squealed. “Flower crown! Yes! A princess!” Struck by sudden inspiration, Minnow returned to her portrait, painting in these new and exciting details with as much care as she could manage in her enthusiasm.

“This is perfect!” She was overcome with the giddy giggles of an inspired artist, trying to will the paint to dry faster so she could add in the finishing details.

Posted 05-14-2021, 09:16 PM

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There is a rule, she began, and though it didn’t actually segue into what came next, he thought ‘it’ anyway; once upon a time, there was a rule, and this rule shall be broken, maybe at night and with nobody ‘round; a rule for the king to bestow upon his lot, yet not for him to uphold that treacherous ruler made of vice; there was a rule.

And Jessie smiled--

And teasingly warned in a way-- with his tone, and his eyes making sure the meaning translated right: he jested, and he did so with the gusto, the birr presented in his about.

He warned--

“Maybe not the best person to say that to,” he teased, in a drawl-- the cheek in his eyes might have suggested that decades and decades ago, were this the ol’ life he’d’ve dragged her off to tip a cow; and then, skinny-dip, and then a myriad of other secret teenage activities, or talked-about, and happily mentioned ones employed by adults.

Were.

But when she giggled-- when she smiled; he forgot ‘bout the world; he didn’t care he existed in the center of enemy territory, in so many words; neither that he had planted himself here but a sitting duck, as if he wanted someone here to randomly accuse of him being a spy, and then what came next perhaps belonged under R-rated content--

Perhaps, a horror movie plot instead.

Perhaps.

But she indulged him-- and J essie obviously beamed.

“Aw,” he said, and then he made a mistake-- he clasped his hands together either in a prayer, or in admiration. Perhaps, both.

“You indulged me,” he gushed, in a cooing tone, “nobody ever indulges me.

“Yes imma be a princess.”

With that he flipped his hair--

Before realizing--

“Oh, shit, I’m fucking up your mojo here.”

With that, he attempted his best at sitting exactly as she had placed him; he put his hands where she had, turned his head how she had, looked where she wanted him to and sat as well as one remembered her unspoken, and tactile instructions; he did it so well he shuddered-- as if he were going through that blissful memory of her touch that wasn’t sexual, or mean--

Or wrong.

A touch that just was one--

Without ill intent, and yano it’s wrong; in his head his parents whispered, their ol’ and well-remembered tones; she’s lying to you, this is a trap--

Trust no-one and love no-one they had used to say, in their cold, cold way; not as mom and dad concerned for their single babe--

But rather those hoping to see him once indeed without friends beside.

They had managed.

He watched her then.

Giggly and watching his self--

Focused and with a red face--

Focused. So, so very focused, all about her work at the moment.

All about her art--

And as Jessie let the sun on the horizon lie to his eyes, as he allowed its rays to glare through her strands, as they turned up the saturation thereof, he swore he was looking at a burning, live pyre, onto a human form stuffed.

It slipped out of him without thought.

“You’re beautiful.”

But it still did-- until in startle, he blinked--

And said no more.

Posted 05-15-2021, 12:10 PM

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He wasn’t the best person to say that to? What on Earth did that mean? That he wants to hurt you, foolish girl. Minnow did not let her curiosity get the best of her then -- for once -- because it was so much easier to assume he was a fun-loving troublemaker like Ares. His smile suggested nothing nefarious in her eyes, or perhaps, she refused to see it, refused to look for it. Those eyes could not belong to an evil man. Besides, she liked troublemakers like Ares plenty, just as she liked this odd man with the stunning blue eyes.

Her handsome blue-eyed prince.

Her handsome prince seemed to like to move...a lot, though she found she was not frustrated with him, if only because he seemed to adore her art. Or was it her? She couldn’t quite tell, other than that his cooing made her face tingle within embarrassment.

She wanted to tell him what lay on the canvas was nothing special. That she was nothing special. Yet, when she looked at him, when he praised her, even she could not believe those things. Surely she was special. She had to be. How else would she have attracted the attention of a prince?

If nothing else, she could not help but giggle as he tried to position himself as she had before. How sweet of him. You need to leave. You should not be here. She encouraged him with a soft laugh -- because he was funny in that charming, princely way -- and for a moment, forgot herself to the canvas as she painted his lovely crown of violets.

It was so easy to forget.

With him, she forgot how dangerous it was to fraternizing with a drifter like this. She forgot about the nagging voice in her head that told her she should have packed up and left the moment he came to stand behind her, peering over her shoulder.

And then he caught her off guard.

‘You’re beautiful.’

Her head shot up then, forgetting about the canvas in favor of staring at him in abject shock. Beautiful? Don’t trust a single word of it. She bowed her head, looking away from him as her face flushed red. She giggled, nervously reaching up to tuck nonexistent stray strands of her hair behind her ear.

She was beautiful? It should have been easier to look down at the painting, but even there she saw those blue eyes. “You don’t mean that.” She whispered, stammering over her words. “You can’t mean that- I don’t- No one-” Flustered, she lifted up the canvas, turning it towards him so she could hide her face behind it.

“Here. I’m done. You can have it.” Her words were short, almost pushy as she extended the canvas towards him, despite the fact that the last bits of paint were still drying. It didn’t matter. He had to go. He didn’t mean that. He couldn’t mean that. She was just Minnow and no one else.

No one special.

Posted 05-19-2021, 12:38 PM

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You’ve done it now.

Two words, a contracted word, and she was staring at him, staring, and he cocked his head, almost lost in his own world; a world of whatevers and no trouble at all; no zombies, no vampires as they were called, no nasty ferals skulking about and teaching children about fear and how it dropped their hearts down--

No reapers. Those hideous, truly frightening reapers known to stand in a calm before they moved like the storm--

In Jessie’s mind, he compared them to necromancers, or maybe wraiths, often keen on these magical comparisons though magical reapers were not in any manner.

They just were.

All this was--

So he brought himself back.

Here and now.

To her-- the nameless, and bewitched her blushing so hard it made his breath halt-- it made him nervous-- him; as if he had a charming prince in front of him. One to make his own.

And maybe, he did.

He held his breath-- consciously; felt a fool, such a fool; the more she talked, the greater of a fool.

Until she was hiding her face--

And he felt h o r r i b l e.

And then she was pushing it towards-- and he couldn’t see what it was.

Until he’d started off the stool so hard it toppled almost and he’d grabbed the canvas, too, a reflexive motion, but he was stammering, too, in such a hurry to talk--

“No, no, I’m such a sorry, I’m idiot-- I mean I’m such an idiot, I’m sorry oh god.”

He let a strange giggle out; such a shy one; aware they could be drawing eyes-- aware of his prior conclusion-- she was a woman young, he was a man not, she was one of their own and he’d be easy to kick out.

F u c k

“Don’t go, don’t go,” he rushed to whisper, fretting so, “Oh god, I meant it you’re really gorgeous and I saw the sun in your eyes I mean hair and I was like fuck me, I mean don’t fuck me or maybe you would want to oh god just put a sock into my mouth this talking thing is NOT going… working. In my. Favor.”

He gripped the canvas tighter--

“Right.”

And quite embarrassed, he hoped to thrust the canvas right back-- but she had turned it towards him, and he did look down--

And he could see her work.

And his starling, wicked blue eyes for once not causing him to hate the sight--

For once:

Causing to admire, a lot.

Posted 05-19-2021, 01:39 PM

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