paint with color {tuck}

[wil]

Green scratched over white. Slowly but surely, the scene of a park unfolded upon the page. Grass almost supernaturally natural. Trees unfolding with spring's arrival. Even people darting and dashing among flowers and greenery. Just a touch of a lake. everything was there on the page, drawn to life by the person who held the book in her hands.

Wil Scarlet paused. She could lose herself while doing this. Immerse herself fully in the work and forget about things that were, things that are, and things that will be. Nothing mattered by that which was on the page before her. That she could do and handle. It worked. Unlike some things.

A person. He was alone. Sitting there on a bench, much like Wil. But his expression was interesting, something oddly familiar to Wil. Without saying anything, she flipped the page, drawing out a bit of charcoal. Again her hands moved, flicking with a long practiced and developed dexterity. This time, they drew forth an uncanny likeness of the man she'd seen, even down to the lachrymose expression he wore. Or was that accurate? Was Wil possibly seeing someone who looked content, and she couldn't recognize the expression?

She supposed in the end it didn't matter. She was going to recreate the man, regardless. Wait, he was starting to move now.

"Don't move," she said. She looked up to see the man, her eyes locking with his. Hers narrowed into dangerous slits, a look that promised violence. She hadn't told him not to speak though...

[tuck]

Tuck was reading a book on plants, written by a monk at a monastery he had once visited. There weren't a lot of inter-monastery field trips; for the most part, monks stayed in their own location, devoted their time to peace and prayer, and studied things like plants, gardening, and the native wildlife. Tuck had been a bit of a gardener himself, before he'd been sent away from the monastery, and sitting here in this park gave him a sense of tranquility that he couldn't find in a lot of other places.

He was unaware that he was being sketched, not until he finally heard the scratch-scratch sound of charcoal on paper off to the side. At first, he had ignored it, or failed to notice it, but he finally glanced over in the direction of the noise. To his surprise, the artist was glaring back at him fiercely, which caught him off-guard, as did her rather menacing command that he stay still.

He did hope that was because she wanted to keep drawing without him disrupting the scene, and not because she intended to do something violent.

"All right," he agreed, quietly, trying not to move his lips too much when he spoke. "How long ought I stay in this position? Would it be all right if I turned my page?"