Soot sits, rigid under the scrutinization of her Patron. Ruz is intimidating, and not just in the way that an employee fears the careful eye of her boss. But dealing with royalty is always stressful. Especially one with such an overbearing presence. Ruz looms: graceful, omniscient, her perfume cloying, every part of her demanding one's attention. Causing Soot to fidget, uneasily.
‘It is simply the desire to perform’ Soot tells herself trying to shrug off the feeling of being watched by this all encompassing power. Real power. Someone who could destroy Soot’s professional or mortal life with a firm glance demands extra attention. For a palace worker can enjoy a lot of comfort, but it hinges on not disappointing this political titan.
She waits still and silent in front of the fresh canvas as her confidence slowly returns mulling over the requests. When she had spent the morning preparing her studio, a difficult task with how uncooperative her subject had chosen to be, she had assumed that it would be a standard affair. But to satisfy her patrons demands would require… adjustments.
Unceremoniously, she stands, slowly pacing around the room. Moving around to the various anchor points that keep her subject still. Making small adjustments to the rigging as she tries to visualize her finished piece. The background must be dim, to emphasize the figure. The templar must be displayed in rage, a danger. But placated, conquered.
Finally, she nods contentedly. Walking over to move her canvas and seat, and marching her gear over into a new little space. Jammed into a corner of the studio as light poured through the windows of the studio, dancing over the silken lines criss-crossing the room.
The artist is diligent, her work consuming her mind as brush is put to cloth in delicate strokes.
After some time, the piece presents itself in finished form. The final painting is fragmented and divided, the scene slashed into fine shards by lines of silver and rope, all the harsher still is the thick lines of Red paint creating contrast and form in the image like broken shards of stained glass. The figure remains clothed, imagined military gear making him seem larger and imposing, yet unable to move. Above all, his blushing face presents a visage of captured rage. The background is dark, minus the window, a gorgeous blue and gold washing over the scene and reflecting over the figure as the light of the Faithful sheltering the world.
With a heavy sigh she sits back, delicate palace garb stained and with ruddy marks over her face, resting her brushes in foil smelling solvent. She takes a step back, wiping the sweat from her brow and gesturing to the canvas.
‘It is simply the desire to perform’ Soot tells herself trying to shrug off the feeling of being watched by this all encompassing power. Real power. Someone who could destroy Soot’s professional or mortal life with a firm glance demands extra attention. For a palace worker can enjoy a lot of comfort, but it hinges on not disappointing this political titan.
She waits still and silent in front of the fresh canvas as her confidence slowly returns mulling over the requests. When she had spent the morning preparing her studio, a difficult task with how uncooperative her subject had chosen to be, she had assumed that it would be a standard affair. But to satisfy her patrons demands would require… adjustments.
Unceremoniously, she stands, slowly pacing around the room. Moving around to the various anchor points that keep her subject still. Making small adjustments to the rigging as she tries to visualize her finished piece. The background must be dim, to emphasize the figure. The templar must be displayed in rage, a danger. But placated, conquered.
Finally, she nods contentedly. Walking over to move her canvas and seat, and marching her gear over into a new little space. Jammed into a corner of the studio as light poured through the windows of the studio, dancing over the silken lines criss-crossing the room.
The artist is diligent, her work consuming her mind as brush is put to cloth in delicate strokes.
After some time, the piece presents itself in finished form. The final painting is fragmented and divided, the scene slashed into fine shards by lines of silver and rope, all the harsher still is the thick lines of Red paint creating contrast and form in the image like broken shards of stained glass. The figure remains clothed, imagined military gear making him seem larger and imposing, yet unable to move. Above all, his blushing face presents a visage of captured rage. The background is dark, minus the window, a gorgeous blue and gold washing over the scene and reflecting over the figure as the light of the Faithful sheltering the world.
With a heavy sigh she sits back, delicate palace garb stained and with ruddy marks over her face, resting her brushes in foil smelling solvent. She takes a step back, wiping the sweat from her brow and gesturing to the canvas.