03-19-2014, 03:42 PM
Security Expert. She considered that curiously, and probably would not have pressed for an answer if Kat hadn't quite freely offered an explanation. Thalia grinned, and it caught a glitter in her eyes. She certainly understood the subtext there, and wondered what kind of recruitment process was entailed in such a job. Or, more specifically, what kind of trouble Kat had gotten into to come to the attention of someone who could make use of her talents.
She shrugged away the girl's self-deprecation. "Pretty is subjective." Art was not a vocation she had consciously honed, and it was not a talent she felt like she'd earned. It was a compunction she'd never had much choice in or control over since childhood, but that wasn't a motivation she ever shared. Wiser not too. It would either be considered the conceit of someone enamoured of their own mystique or a complete crock of bullshit. Or a bit of crazy, which in actual fact it probably was.
Crazy. She wasn't over fond of that word.
Anyway, she mostly enjoyed scribbling down sketches, capturing essences and glimpses of truth filtered through her own perception, so the fact the need to paint was intrinsic not chosen mattered little. That she was apparently good enough at it to pay the bills was a bonus.; there was just no vanity for what she did, no artistic ego, so she dismissed the idea that it was something special. Katya's brand of creativity was perfectly valid, and beautiful in its own way. "And functional has its uses," she mused.
The carriage began to fill up, but Thalia paid it little attention. Neither, for that matter, had she noticed the man quite openly listening to their conversation. She'd spent years in old Arbatskaya selling portraits to tourists, and had long since acclimatised to the itch of watching eyes. No self-consciousness filtered her words or actions, and no concern touched her demeanour. If she thought anything of Kat reaching to clasp something in her pocket, the same anxiety did not spread to Thalia.
"Ah." And how to say the image had already blurred, that she was half way to forgetting but for the faint wisps of emotion that had accompanied the finished product? Fire burned. Death lingered like ashes. Change was coming, and on dark wings. The despair drained out her heart, but by now that chill sense was kind of like watching a movie. You felt the empathy, but it didn't actually touch you. She flopped her legs down to sit cross-legged on the seat, and sought inspiration from the ceiling. It didn't occur to her to lie.
"It wasn't exactly intended to be a flurry of colour. More, uh, frustrated artist loses her cool?" That was probably diplomatic enough, and now that she was removed from the situation it struck her as funny. She bit back her amusement for half a second, and then it spilled over the brim. She laughed, and it was quite clear she was laughing at herself. She glanced at Kat. "Crap, I'm going to have a lot of cleaning up to do when I get back. Hey , do you know what stop we just passed?" She felt the sudden need for orientation, now that she'd snapped from her mood. "I could murder a cup of tea."
She shrugged away the girl's self-deprecation. "Pretty is subjective." Art was not a vocation she had consciously honed, and it was not a talent she felt like she'd earned. It was a compunction she'd never had much choice in or control over since childhood, but that wasn't a motivation she ever shared. Wiser not too. It would either be considered the conceit of someone enamoured of their own mystique or a complete crock of bullshit. Or a bit of crazy, which in actual fact it probably was.
Crazy. She wasn't over fond of that word.
Anyway, she mostly enjoyed scribbling down sketches, capturing essences and glimpses of truth filtered through her own perception, so the fact the need to paint was intrinsic not chosen mattered little. That she was apparently good enough at it to pay the bills was a bonus.; there was just no vanity for what she did, no artistic ego, so she dismissed the idea that it was something special. Katya's brand of creativity was perfectly valid, and beautiful in its own way. "And functional has its uses," she mused.
The carriage began to fill up, but Thalia paid it little attention. Neither, for that matter, had she noticed the man quite openly listening to their conversation. She'd spent years in old Arbatskaya selling portraits to tourists, and had long since acclimatised to the itch of watching eyes. No self-consciousness filtered her words or actions, and no concern touched her demeanour. If she thought anything of Kat reaching to clasp something in her pocket, the same anxiety did not spread to Thalia.
"Ah." And how to say the image had already blurred, that she was half way to forgetting but for the faint wisps of emotion that had accompanied the finished product? Fire burned. Death lingered like ashes. Change was coming, and on dark wings. The despair drained out her heart, but by now that chill sense was kind of like watching a movie. You felt the empathy, but it didn't actually touch you. She flopped her legs down to sit cross-legged on the seat, and sought inspiration from the ceiling. It didn't occur to her to lie.
"It wasn't exactly intended to be a flurry of colour. More, uh, frustrated artist loses her cool?" That was probably diplomatic enough, and now that she was removed from the situation it struck her as funny. She bit back her amusement for half a second, and then it spilled over the brim. She laughed, and it was quite clear she was laughing at herself. She glanced at Kat. "Crap, I'm going to have a lot of cleaning up to do when I get back. Hey , do you know what stop we just passed?" She felt the sudden need for orientation, now that she'd snapped from her mood. "I could murder a cup of tea."
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