Snippet #1207492

(Ophelia Evans, First District, Melody's Residence)

Ophelia wasn't exactly sure what to do when Nightstalker (she wondered if she would ever know his real name) moved to the doorway. She went rigid at his proclamation of company, and her flight instinct forced her to her feet, covering the distance between herself and a better vantage point in cautious steps. As it happened, she came to stand near Mr. Crawford, her back similarly close to the wall. She could feel the fear threatening at all edges of her consciousness, waiting to break the tenuous restraints placed on it by her subtle comfort level with the people who surrounded her. In truth, she had probably chosen the worst company for this encounter on a level of utility, but contrary to sense as it was, something about Mr. Crawford was less... threatening... than the others. Melody was friendly enough, and had given Ophelia no reason not to trust her, but it was clear that she hid much. Nightstalker was much the same. Mr. Crawford... well, he was emotionally unstable, and probably very dangerous, but at least this wasn't something he was keeping secreted away from her.

She was making no sense. Shaking her head, Ophelia flinched as her arms accidentally came into contact with the fabric of her paint-spattered jeans. Hissing a bit at the resulting pain, she realized that this might sound strange to the man next to her if his eyes had been fixed ahead as hers had. Ophelia quickly glanced in the man's direction, forcing a halfhearted smile to show there was nothing actually wrong. She didn't want to startle him, after all. Amber-colored eyes soon swung back to the scene unfolding before the two of them, as though they were but spectators in some great play. A drama, perhaps; the interplay of powerful people and the subtle machinations of personality, spread out before them as a display not for the eyes, but the mind.

A woman of good height brushed past the still-taller Nightstalker, and the artist had the impression of pride, haughtiness; a head held high, an angled face, straight nose, lower lip fuller than the upper. Rouge, brocade- Gothic architecture, perhaps. Yes, that was most certainly it. Where Melody was Celtic and tapestry and rich red, where Mr. Crawford was abstraction, distopia, impressionist, gray undertoned in purple, where Nightstalker was modern, sharp lines, the interplay of crimson and ebony, this woman, whoever she was, was most clearly Gothic; Victorian, perhaps, and muted silver.

She was getting the itch to paint, and the notion was almost enough to make her laugh. In the midst of what might be a dangerous meeting, and she wanted to leave it and take brush in hand instead. Perhaps it was a good thing; in a sense, this was the best way she'd ever dealt with the potential for confrontation. Nothing had exploded or been set on fire yet. But the artist's soul played host to the rational mind, and it was not long before the vivid impressions faded from her mind, to be replaced only by a curiosity. The woman freely gave her name, and seemed to almost demand something of Melody, not that the latter seemed particularly ingratiating to this fact.

In actuality, she seemed almost dismissive, and for whatever reason, that put Ophelia at ease. She briefly contemplated accepting the wine, but ultimately decided against it. Ophelia didn't usually hold her alcohol too well, and even a pleasant buzz was enough to make whatever inner mechanism governed her power go haywire. She declined politely, and was momentarily torn between the desire to see how this little staging would play itself out and the admittedly pressing inclination to be virtually anywhere else.

So the woman went for a compromise, and decided to stay close, but not in this room. Murmuring a thanks to Melody, she headed for the hallway the woman had mentioned, opening several doors with some residual hesitation. Most of them were guest bedrooms, plainly but tastefully decorated, but the last one held her attention. Within it, a few cabinets were pushed against one wall, the center of the room was dominated by a chair and a blank canvas, almost as though someone had been about to sit for a portrait. Judging from the entrance hall, that might well be the case, but why had it been interrupted?

Feeling slightly guilty for prying, Ophelia nevertheless pulled open a few of the cherry-wood cabinet drawers, smooth with wood stain and polish, and was surprised to find a number of art supplies, including paints, charcoals, and pastels in a wide range of colors. She shouldn't, but... the woman glanced back at the blank canvas, depressing her lower lip with a few teeth. If Melody really minded, a canvas wasn't outside her price range yet...

Her worried expression became a smile, perhaps a slightly-mischievous one, even, and Ophelia perused the cabinet further, pausing now and then to select some supplies, piling them carefully on the small table beside the easel.