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Darkened Art
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"I've seen many children cry before, but never weep." The woman commented with a only shrug. She knew that to be her truth at least, but perhaps the other had some truths of her own that differed. Since that seemed to be the case, she would listen, and see. Her eyes roved over the painting again, looking for some detail that she may have missed, or a subtle suggestion that hinted at the meaning of the painting. The searching sweep enlightened her to nothing though, besides the clear statement of sorrow throughout the piece. It was clear that only the artist held the answer.
"What is their reason then? Do they mourn for themselves or those around them?" A faint tilt of her skull indicated the painting once again. Despite the demanding nature of her wording, her tones were just as gently spoken as before; not pressured by inflections that demanded an answer. Aoves would have come closer, possibly risked caressing the canvas with a gentle brush of her hand - she would then maybe sense the intimacy of the picture by the damp paint on her fingers. It seemed wrong in the moment though, and she did not want to risk offending the artist out of an explanation. For now she would keep her distance, instead choosing to shift her position; a hand uncrossing from her back, and running slowly, thoughtfully through the curly length of her dark hair.
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