Butterflies

Talitha de le Poer · 04-10-2011, 11:30 PM

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Dating this in my post log as happening on 10Apr2011.
Word Count → 8+

One long, fragile finger rubbed at the corner of a crimson eye while she moved across Inferni's lands. Paint of the most basic colors stained russet fur. She'd locked herself away in her den with the bones of a hallucination, spending lost hours decorating a masterpiece. For a while she'd forgotten how much she loved the feel of a brush in her hand, of paint on her paw pads, the smell of colors on the wind. The fumes had been getting to her, clearly. Damaging as it was, it was better than her normal vice of strong liquids in shiny glass bottles. It brought about a beautiful end. What she had fused back together now sported designs of the most magnificent colors. Inferni lacked art. She hoped to rectify it.

The only reason for leaving her home had been a lack of red paint. The mansion was sure to have something similar to the color she desired; she knew she wasn't the only artist lounging around the clan, since she'd met her sketching cousin and dealt with the explosive German. Somewhere, she knew there was paint. She found herself going upstairs without an hesitation, making that turn to the right in search of a room she hadn't entered for months. It reeked of the familiar male. Ende. The death room. Cotl Ulrich's.

She didn't bother to knock; why would she? If he grew angry, she could always twist her hair about a finger and bat her eyelashes. Cotl's bedroom was the most likely place to find the red that she so desperately needed. To her surprise, and partial relief, he wasn't there. Massacre eyes scanned the surroundings; it wasn't her place to just ransack his personal items, but she was on a mission. Russet hands pulled draws from furniture, rifling through belongings that were of no use to her. Minutes passed, belongings tossed willy nilly across the floor, until she came across what she needed. In the drawer of his bedside table, with his tattoo gun, were inks. And one was just the shade she wanted. Stealing from Cotl didn't seem wrong. The man had already told her how vile he was in one simple statement: his soul was incapable of being saved. Losing his red ink was penance. Or that was what she could claim.

Finished with her task, she started out once more, not bothering to put his things away. Passing his nephew's skull, she halted. A can of something sat beside it. Though she couldn't read the label, she could tell what it was. Something involving air and paint, as proved by the traces of paint on the nozzle. With a glance about the room, as if to check for wandering eyes, she reached to grab the spraypaint as well. It wasn't red. She simply wanted it. With her stolen treasures in tow, she exited the Ende, closing the door ever so carefully. Ghost-like actions were all she hoped to achieve. Cotl couldn't ruin her work just yet.

Fleeing the mansion was not as difficult as it might have seemed; she was ignored, for the most part, which was her preferred position in the clan. Dealing with others was bothersome. They were rude, or naive, or ignorant. Nothing was worth her attention except for her art and her beautiful wolfdog hiding away in the mountains. Of course, then there was Ezekiel. Was he worth the love she gave him? The thought made her pause, glancing toward the caverns while her mind passed over his home. He was always so close, but she had done nothing to reach out to him after their argument.

A shake of her head pulled her back to the task at hand. She needed to return to her project with red medium intact, and before the rightful owner could take it back. Excursions into Halifax were not on her agenda. Finishing the natural sculpture was all that mattered. As long legs carried the misshapen body of the Lykoi princess back toward her home, her eyes caught the sight of something else. Someone new, someone she had let into her home after brief inquiry. Talitha was not interested in friends, lacking in capabilities for simpatico social ties, but she knew little of the seemingly bland woman who had brought her son to Inferni. The dog creature she found physically distasteful.

The sight of her clan member caused her path to turn, a beeline made toward the other female easily. "Wasted time is never gained back." Her words were blunt, but not accusatory. She didn't care what the woman did. It wasn't Talitha's rank that suffered idle hands. Without asking, she sat on the dead earth nearby. Crimson eyes focused upon the face of the coydog with subtle curiosity; emotion still managed to flow freely through the windows of her soul. Her arms relinquished hold of the red ink and spraypaint, letting them rest upon the ground between her knees. "There are always borders to be patrolled; the skulls can't seem to keep out the lowly on their own."

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