[center][h3][color=009900]Blaine Moore[/color][/h3]
[img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6f/27/8a/6f278a4b4feb69ccb279107658c61eb8.gif[/img]
[color=009900][b]Location;[/b][/color] 6 Cedarcrest Rd, Blaine's residence
[color=009900][b]Interacting With;[/b][/color] No one[/center]
	Blaine was deep in the zone. That zone that, to her mind, every artist entered when creating. She was in her workshop, sporting her most comfortable clothes as not to distract her from the work process. Her tank top allowed for freer movements but did not offer much protection against the slight breeze that blew in from the open windows of the workshop and caressed her sweat dampened skin. Had she been anything else but what she was, she'd probably had to contend with at leas a head cold the following day. Fortunately for her, her Were physiology ran hotter than the average human and she rarely felt cold.

	The carving was calling to her. She'd found the perfect piece of driftwood some time ago and never knew why it had begged her to take it home with her. Until now! She'd woken up this morning with an image of a face in her mind and that half-forgotten piece of log had called out to her. She hadn't even bothered with breakfast or her morning cup of mate tea. She'd gone to the workshop straight from the shower and now, a couple hours later was still carving away in a sort of a trance. Her mind intent on the face that beckoned to be etched on the wood. But different errant thoughts were interspersed within her artistic impetus. Flashes of the fight with the frenzied Weres some days ago. The mysterious hunter that had intervened. The parting gift she'd left Blaine with as she'd unloaded her hail of silver indiscriminately upon the fighting wolves.

	The scar was still new and tender. It had taken her a couple of full shifts to completely heal the silver bullet inflicted wound. Thank god it had gone through and through missing any vital organs, otherwise it could have been potentially fatal. As it were, she now sported a set of fresh scars on the right side of her stomach and back. That Hunter though. At the time she was too preoccupied with the battle at hand. She was outnumbered and the other Weres were strong in their frenzy. It was all she could do to just fend them off. If that Hunter hadn't arrived when she did, Blaine might have not succeeded in besting them. Not that she really did. One had died, a combination of the wounds she'd inflicted and a silver bullet from the Hunter. Or rather Huntress. The others had fled when silver had started raining down on them. As Blaine herself had done. Hence, she never really had the time or opportunity to see the hunter well. Only so much as to know that it had been a woman.

	Blaine's right hand holding the chisel hung suspended in mid-air, a couple of inches away from the sculpture of what began to slowly take on the features of a woman. The artist, it looked, was still in a trans of sorts, but this one different from the one that had spurred her creative impetus up until a few moments ago. She was lost in thought. Or in remembrance. The odd feeling she'd had the day of the attack. Meeting Genevieve. The tingle she'd felt upon making her acquaintance. The almost hope for... something. But what, she didn't know. Or dared not hope.

	It had taken a lot of Blaine to move on from loosing her mate, Clea. And she wasn't really sure she was ready for something new. Not that Genevieve had given any signals to that affect. In fact, she hadn't pinged for Blaine in any sort of significant way. But still, she supposed, the heart wanted what it desired. To connect. Especially for Werewolves. With their pack mentality and the need for strong familial bonds, a mate was almost a biological imperative. A need stronger than anything and everything. It was a need she hadn't felt for the brief time she'd had with Clea.

	Blaine shook herself free of the trance. She lowered her hand slowly, positioning the chisel on the nearby table holding a number of similar, and yet different, implements. The carver looked at the face in front of her that was beginning to take shape. To anyone else it would appear generic. With too many features missing to determine any sort of resemblance. But to her trained artist's eye the face she was gazing at was as clear as it was the day she'd first laid eyes upon it. She felt a strong pull as her heart rate sped up and her breathing fought to catch up. She closed her eyes and tried to calm down, to control her breathing and her erratic heart.

	After a minute or so she managed to get herself under control. She focused on the presences of her wolves within Salem. Their essences were strewn across the town here and there, but few felt concentrated around Washington Square. Founder's Day, she remembered. Of course. People were drawn to festivities. Well, people unlike her that tended to prefer solitude or the company of close friends. Of which she had precious few in Salem. Genevieve's face swam into her mind's eye. Blaine's lips stretched into a tentative smile. They weren't friends per se. Not yet anyway. Still it was Genevieve that had sought contact first after their meeting. True, it was a work commission of sorts. But still, it had planted a kernel of hope within Blaine's heart.

	The Alpha withdrew from the memories about her enigmatic new acquaintance and tried to refocus her mind's eye on her Weres. She sensed William's essence. The young man had visited her not once or twice, looking for some sort of comfort maybe, or a connection that he'd lost upon the death of his parents. And while Blaine could never dream of replacing them in his heart, she did try to offer whatever support she could as well as any advice he chose to accept for himself.

	She could also feel the presence of Devin and Katalina at the same location.

	Something felt odd, though. Her wolves felt unsettled. As if they felt at odds with their surroundings. They weren't alarmed as of yet, but their hackles seemed raised.

	Blaine looked at the face in the wood one last time. Almost forlornly she raised a hand and traced the yet unfinished lips with her fingertips. And then she traced her own lips with the same care and emotion. She then stood up from her work stool, covered the unfinished carving reverently with a piece of cloth and leaving her workshop, headed for the house to shower, dress and go see what had upset three members of her pack.