put your head on my shoulder // o

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    It had taken him days to fully explore the prison, which would seem like a feat of impossible standard, but to him just felt like it was much too large. The only good thing he had discovered was the basement, full of tools and paint cans, old tires and the sort. Raphael wasn't the first of the Renegades to find it, but it felt like he was a successful explorer. He had been looking for a true safe place for him, where he could feel at home. The smell of drying glues and old wood was exactly what he needed, like a workshop so to speak. The child set to work immediately organizing, making a "junk" pile to be recycled. He was no inventor, or fighter, or even a leader, but damn could he redecorate a room. The concrete floor was still dusty - something he would figure out the solution to later - but the rest of it was cleared of clutter, rotting boxes piled up by the stairs to be burned. The tom puffed out his chest, letting out a sigh of satisfaction. It was still very unorganized, but in his mind, everything had a place, and everything was beautiful. The paint selection wasn't great, mostly tans and grays made to patch up the walls, but he could work with it until he came up with ways to procure new colors and pigments.

    Just as he had done in the mansion of the Sanctum, in his room around the same size as the new workshop, he began to paint. Brushes were clunky when you didn't have opposable thumbs, so he would jab one of his partially healed paws into a pot. Soaking his fur with the cool sticky brownish grey, the first slap onto the wall on the north of the basement. Whenever he came across a hole, he'd fill it with a mix of cement and glue, the opposite paw, now crusty from the mixture. Raphael had paint, and glue sticking dirt and dust into his short coat. Tufts of fur were stuck up around his face where he would wipe while thinking of his next move. Grays, browns, black, stripes and spots dotting a landscape of abstract quality.

    Abstract art is under appreciated, it is meant to be pondered. Explaining your work takes the fun out of it, why not look at it with your own eyes. You have to be the one to pick out faces or blood. Even when in the same color theme, one can imagine the reds and blues, the color. Color doesn't come from the world, comes from within. Shapes, people, the depth in the work comes from the artist, and the person viewing enjoys or cries. That is art.

    His work wasn't done, but the feline was exhausted, and not yet figuring out a bed situation, he fell asleep. Right on the ground in yet more filth. The rich smell of paint filled the air, he was finally home.





    [ tags ]

    and you're kissing to cut through the gloom

    with a cough-drop-coloured tongue — tags

    the serval is a painter and he got that from his pa. his earliest memories included watching the black serval work, paint sticking to his paws and sometimes staining them. as a child, he was lifted up so he could see what it was that had been done, but as he grew, he had began to see all on his own and mimic it for himself, although his only contained landscape and objects. he couldn't capture people in his personal paintings and a part of him liked that. people shouldn't have to be captured like that, was his way of thinking. it was a complicated motto, but he was unsure of how to really justify himself, when he saw no reason to. the being would pause for a moment, noisily sucking on his straw. he smelled the familiar scent of paint and what appeared to be raph- an interesting combo. following it because he was bored and curious, he'd peek around for a long time, occasionally making awing or cooing noises. he had eventually noticed the figure on the floor, but he hadn't immediately tried to bother the other, which in itself was a surprise. he'd scamper out, returning with a bundle of things he would put in a spot that relatively looked clean. his movements were calm and precise for once as he attempted to sweep the room, shying away from the sleeping figure. he was using a small brush that he could manipulate better than a bigger one, trying to be stealthy. the sad part about all this remained in the fact that his room wasn't as clean as this.

    unlike the others, imperia’s preferred medium is simple graphite. perhaps charcoal, when she has such supplies readily available. she keeps a sketchbook hidden carefully between the spines of hundreds of other books lined neatly upon her bookcase. every night, she sits down to record her day in little images and blurbs for which to look back on in the future. many of the earlier pages feature jerseyboy and jaune, her first loves. others are filled with herbs and flowers, reminiscent of her time in medic training. her drawings are personal, overflowing with the rawest of emotion and the most innocent of hopes; thus, her hesitance to share them with others.


    in spite of her secrecy, peri cannot deny her adoration for the arts. perhaps that is why she is drawn to raphael’s room. the scent of chemicals and crushed pigments permeates the air, luring the passing canine to inspect the secluded sector of the prison. she finds two children: one unknown youth resting atop a pile of junk and the other, lavenderwish whom she met earlier in the day, doing what appears to be making some additions to raphael’s paintings. “what are you doing in here, chéri?” she asks softly, keeping her voice low so not to disturb the sleeping figure. imperia hovers by the doorway, hesitant to enter since she has not yet been invited into raphael’s private chamber. peri wants to be sure that lavender is not causing any trouble, but she is also curious about the art. “if you are thinking about painting, perhaps you should ask permission first before adding any of your own.” this is only assuming lav is doing what imperia thinks he is doing because she is a little unclear.