ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴏғ (ᴛ)ʜɪs ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ

Testing a new art style

@weirdgodguy

It was a slow day but Amano was still exhausted. Her quirk was the cause of her exhaustion. Her quirk—Nightmare—kept her from having a good night's sleep. She was still learning to control it. But it was proving to be challenging.

The work-study hours had ended and Amano was headed home. Today was a particularly sunny afternoon. The birds were out tweeting away. Amano glanced up to see what kind. She squinted and placed a hand over her eyes to block the sun.

That was when she bumped into someone on the sidewalk.

             There sat a uniformed individual colored so pale from head to toe they could've been carved from white marble. They had been sitting at the rim of a fountain looking down at two tickets in their hand; contemplating on what to do with the second one. The elite Arts school he attends is hosting a puppet theatre and students are allowed to bring a partner to watch with. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐬, 𝐧𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭.

             The sound of the water hitting against water behind them empties their mind and soothes their nerves. They really like this spot. Still, they were unsure on what to do. 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠. He adores puppet shows, but maybe he should just go alone. They breathe out a sigh and started walking towards the sidewalk without looking up. Inevitably, he bumps into someone; the tickets gliding down to the ground. Except, she wasn't just a someone. Vincent recognizes this person.

             His citrine eyes, like two burning pools of sunlight, focused widely; 𝐚𝐬 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞. The black part of her hair flowed as sweetly as a poet's ink and quill, while the white part was of a book's freshly turned page under the clearest of blue skies. They know those locks of hair anywhere and those mismatched eyes. They're not mistaken as to who this is. Every memory of her, their childhood friend, the good times and the bad, come as a hug in a world of thorns and lift his slouched posture back straight. Snowy ponytail swaying in the gentle wind, as if he were conjuring some spell, pale fingers raise up chest level and gestures symbols organized in a linguistic way. A silent language they both share.