#deathscanvas 01

" What makes a man a warrior? What shapes him into someone able to survive the pain necessary for greatness? Some like to say that it's pure willpower. Working sunrise to sunset with sweat on your back and blood in your mouth. Releasing attachments and focusing entirely on the honor of battle-- is that the mark of a real fighter?

Or, some tell me that having someone worth fighting for invigorates their spirit in combat. If there is nobody to return to when it's time to lay down your weapons, then, what is the point in any of it?

Apparently not. And without her servants at her beck and call, she'll have to go about recruiting some new ones to make up for their tardiness.

This particular inhabitant, though not as brilliant as herself, might have some skills that could prove useful to her. She looks over the artist's canvas, and deems it suitable for her purposes.

* Ah... A painter, are you? Fascinating. * Tell me, O Great Painter of Yore...

* Have you much experience in painting... machinery? * I would like you to build me a great machine.

Bags in hand, he walks through the mall in search of a very specific shop. He looks to his left, then his right, and he looks ahead to see if maybe he missed it, but there's no shop in sight. Damn, maybe he's at the wrong mall.

He slows to a stop and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and shakes his head. "Guess I'll just tell Wes I couldn't find it here." If anything, they can probably find that limited edition elsewhere.

Still, he won't return to him empty-handed. He turns to go into another shop, but just then, the melodic keys of a piano reach his ears. YES, it's enough to stop him in his tracks and be tempted to check out who's playing. OF COURSE, he's going to take a look. A fellow musician would never just ignore.