Hallo, salut

I love him i hate him i love him i hate himI love him i hate him i love him i hate himI love him i hate him i love him i hate himI love him i hate him i love him i hate himI love him i hate him i love him i hate him

This is what i imagined while drawing:

Now, imagine your a painter / artist, the only one who managed to survive long enough to have your work realized, when forcefully brought aboard The Nightfall with a group of other aspiring, or accepted artists. You are -of course- the underdog, a desperate, cut tooth little thing who crawled your way up from the sub layers of Nostramo, not through artistic talent or privilege (like your “compatriots”) but through grit and need. The fact you could draw, and were considered a young virtuoso, were only bonuses that got you off Nostramo. Now you were here, in a group of remainders from cullings, all those culled, who didn’t capture The Night-haunter correctly. The task; Paint Lord Curze in his own light. it seemed simple until he didn’t like the humble beginnings of a portrait, and demanded the group to sketch him FLAYING the poor soul who’s work he dramatically critiqued

the sole reason you lived to be selected as the artist for his perfect portrait? Your amygdala’s fear response is basically nonexistent. (Completely nonexistent, really. ) Which works in your favor, spending hours upon hours with a man who rules through fear.