Blood and Ink

[Thalia]

Thalia’s studio lay in the heart of Arbatskaya, its rent – and in such a prime location, it must have cost a small fortune – covered by an anonymous patron. It was far better than her previous; the lighting was fantastic, thanks to its perfect placement of north facing windows slanting up to the pitched ceiling. Cabinets containing paint and other equipment didn’t compromise the room for a generous easel and desk arrangement; she’d never had so much space. Canvasses, a mixture of primed and stretched as well as finished pieces, lined in neat piles. None of them decorated the walls, which were plain. Books lay in odd corners, some splayed open with faint rainbow fingerprints thumbed at the corners. Other pages had been torn out completely and pinned to a board against one wall. There were photos on there too, both people and landscapes; postcards, printed quotes and brief sections of prose. A thousand memories, thoughts and ideas, layered so deeply the board itself was utterly lost beneath the clutter. When she had need of references, she generally used a screen, else projected an image from her Wallet, but she liked the chaotic tumult of all those pieces of paper.

Her main project of the moment, though it was still in its earliest stages of colour and line, dominated her workspace. Its size and scope was massive, its colours vibrant and powerful, though in her mind it tasted like shadows and smoke and change. She still had no idea what it was going to turn into, but it nonetheless curled persistent little hooks in her thoughts, like the image was desperate to resolve itself in blood, sweat and acrylic faster than her mortal fingers could work. And maybe at the expense of a little sanity. Thalia didn’t work on it now; if she did she was liable to become immersed and never hear her Wallet beep. She’d sent a message to Rune, detailing the studio’s address or offering to meet her somewhere of her choosing. Whichever was more convenient. So for now she waited, Rune’s artwork in a folder beside her on the couch, legs tucked up underneath her while she doodled faces in an old sketchpad and refused to look at the behemoth in the corner of her vision.