Painting Dreams

[Payton Grant]

Payton had one thing on her mind. Art. It has been almost a month since her last real painting, and her fingers ached to grasp her oak-wood brushes. Grabbing a small duffle bag from the hall closet, she rushed to her studio. Where shall she go? The church has interesting features, but the red-head wanted more green. Packing her oil paints, a small easel and a clear, tan canvas, she decided to head to the park. Even though the park attracted beings, it was lush green this time of year. She just hopes that no one will bother her.

Throwing the duffle bag across her shoulder, she moved towards the door. Deciding against a coat, Payton slipped some sandals on and headed out. It was a short walk, and before long, Payton had picked out a perfect spot. It was away from the benches and people, yet close enough to provide a safety net lest something goes wrong.

Laying out a small, blue blanket, she set up her temporary studio. Organized brush set and colors where displayed before her. Picking up a brush, she dipped it into a light green. Bringing it to the untouched canvas, she watched with all her senses as the color dripped down.

[Brendan]

Brendan was wandering again today. It was the main thing he’d been doing most of his life. It was predictable. However, there wasn’t anything else for him to do. He didn’t know how to read, couldn’t get a job, and couldn’t do much of anything. Heck, Brendan couldn’t even die. He would have been with Emilie, trying to find out what was preventing his death and keeping him young but she’d told him yesterday that they wouldn’t be able to see each other today. She’d mentioned something about a big schedule and being ‘on-call’ at the hospital, which sounded important.

It didn’t bother him that they weren’t able to talk and try to see if he could die since he saw her quite a lot recently. Although it was always entertaining and educational when he was with her—she knew many random facts—it was still nice to meet other new people. It was something he’d enjoyed ever since he was first created. People were always so complicated and diverse. It was interesting to see who he would get to meet from day to day.

Today, Brendan was wandering around a part of town, which he was quite familiar with. He was walking through the park, the same one he’d met Emilie in that first night. Of course, he knew not to come to the park at night any more, but it was still a nice place. Passing the bench where she’d seen him, Brendan couldn’t help the kind smile that slipped through his features. Sitting down slowly, gazing down at the bench as he remembered their awkward first meeting, Brendan was busy in thought when he heard some odd sounds. Turning his head to look in the general direction behind the bench, he wondered what was happening over there. He couldn’t see who was making the sounds, but he was curious to find out what they were doing. Of course, even though he’d lived through the renaissance and other famous periods for art and literature, that didn’t mean that he was able to know the sound of an easel being set up.

Standing from the bench and walking in the direction of the noise, Brendan walked through some of the bush, wondering who would be so far away from the trails and paths. Why would they want to be so far away? If something happened then it would be hard for them to find help. However, Ethan had been pretty far out as well, but that had been because he was smoking illegal substances. Brendan didn’t remember much of that day, it’s still hazy and unclear to him.

Coming up to the scene in the park, Brendan watched as the redheaded woman dipped her brush into the green paint. He tried to be quiet so he wouldn’t disturb her. He watched for a few moments, as she touched the canvas, as the paint dripped down, and as she was slow in her movements. He wondered if she was painting or just dripping paint. He wanted to ask but thought it rude. Frowning, he felt conflicted about approaching her. He wanted to ask about what she was painting, but it would be rude, wouldn’t it? Maybe she didn’t know what she was painting yet. He’d never painted before, having no money to buy such supplies, but it looked like fun.

Moving a little closer, he observed what she did next, knowing that he should probably say something soon, seeing as she had to know that he was watching by now. Looking at the supplies she’d brought with her, he decided to say something, anything. “Hello. May I ask what you’re painting?” Brendan was polite and had a gentle smile about him. His ancient eyes looked into hers, knowing that eye contact was necessary to not be rude. Talking to someone and avoiding eye contact was rude and he wasn’t rude. Brendan may not know much about emotions, being a golem made from mud and placed into his creator’s body for reasons unbeknownst to him, but he knew his manners. Still standing a good distance away from her, hoping that he wouldn’t intrude on her personal space, Brendan hoped that he would get to talk to her. Meeting new, complicated and intriguing people was something he enjoyed doing.

[/size]

[Payton Grant]

She layered the paint carefully. She wanted a blueish hue to her already green canvas, but if she wasn't careful, there would be too much blue. Choosing a sea-foam color, Payton swiveled the horse-hair brush against the canvas, creating spirals that looked like the cowlicks she gets when she does not style her hair in the morning. She thought that it was ironic, the type of brush she is using. Horse hair....Funny.

This specific brush was hand-made by the redhead, with her own horse hair she had collected when she lived out in the country. It was easy. Shift into her equine form and catch her silky mane onto a fence post and voila, horse hair brush. Her father carved the oak handle and Payton designed the tiny details that overlayed the white wood in black. Over the years, she had collected numerous brushes this way. She wanted to use real brushes, not the crap ones she would buy at an art store.

Her paints were specially made from certain seashells and inked to create the colors. Every couple of years, she would mass order them via internet. True they are expensive, but Payton has never worked with such beautiful paints. It was worth it. The colors were bright when they needed to be, and dull when Payton painted her sour moods. Most of the time, they remain neutral, reflecting her inner soul.

Today, Payton was not sure what she wanted to paint. The brush moved almost like notes on a music page, flowing from one point to the next. All she knew was there was a lot of green. She could almost see a cabin in the sea of paint. Picking a light, almost pale tan, she slowly outlined the shape. Payton was entranced in her search for the cabins walls, she almost did not notice the man standing behind her. It was when he spoke that she almost jumped out of her skin. Gasping a little, she quickly removed the brush from the canvas, not wanting to screw up her tiny cabin.

Closing her eyes, letting her heart slow its fast beat, she set the brush down. Opening them, she turned her pale blue eyes to the stranger, hoping he was not here to harm her. If she needed to, she could shift into her animal form. Payton doubted he could keep up, unless he could also shift. But she would not leave her precious art supplies. She has worked too hard to get them.

He did not seem like he wanted to harm the woman. Why didn't she pay attention. She did have the hearing of a horse. Glancing at the easel that held the canvas she said, I don't know. I usually don't until I am done. The man had old eyes set in a young man's body. He stood a distance away. At least that helped her hands to stop shaking. Payton was not social, and mostly kept to herself. She avoided talking when possible and is a flightly girl.

The man seemed interested in the paints. Has he never painted before? Payton felt saddened for anyone who has not had the pleasure of holding a smooth brush between their fingers. She could not imagine life without art. It would be too horrible. Payton forced herself to hold his gaze. Her mother would be so disappointed if she disrespected anyone by not looking at them straight in the eye. Shyly returning his grin, she let out a breath, wishing that he could not notice her nervousness.

[Brendan]

He didn’t expect the woman to jump when he spoke. Her surprised reaction caused him to take a step back, as if jumping himself. Hadn’t she heard him approach? How could she not have heard him? It wasn’t as if he was light on his feet. Well, he didn’t know if he was light on his feet—he’d never been asked or had to know if he was—but he wasn’t exactly silent when approaching the woman. He looked down, placing his hands in his pockets before making eye contact again. He hadn’t meant to frighten, shock, or scare her. He didn’t know what he had done or what kind of reaction he’d evoked from her, but it wasn’t his intention. Brendan hoped that it would be okay with her.

Frowning a bit, he looked to the painting, moving a tiny bit closer to the easel, looking at all the green and the details she’d been adding before he shocked her. How could she not know what she was painting? He’d never painted before so he had no idea how someone would go about doing it. Brendan thought that you’d have to know what you were doing before you started. If you didn’t, then you could start, get to a certain part while working, hate what you’ve just done, and then you would have to start all over again. Was it possible that you didn’t need to know and that wouldn’t happen? Brendan assumed that that would happen at some point, to someone, maybe not her though.

Making sure that his smile was warm and friendly, Brendan moved a little closer to her as well as the easel, still making sure to keep a good distance from her. He didn’t want to intrude on her personal space after all. Leaning down and toward the painting a bit, he took his hand from his pocket and pointed to the cabin details she’d been adding before he interrupted her. “It looks so small,” Brendan paused for a moment, thinking about the canvas. In that, vast area of green and blue that she had mixed, the cabin was so small and distant in the image. He wondered if it was right for it to appear so far away. Realising that his comment could be considered rude to state, he immediately cleared his throat, removing both hands from his pockets to hold them up in the air defensively and started to stutter. “Sorry if that sounded rude, I didn’t intend for it to sound that way. What I meant is that it looks far and distant compared to the rest. It looks proportioned though,” Smiling nervously, Brendan hoped that he wasn’t being awkward or bothering her. He didn’t like bothering people, which he seemed to do quite often.

Shaking his head, he offered his hand to her in a friendly handshake. “I’m sorry, my name’s Brendan. I don’t mean to bother you while you paint. The last person I saw paint was Van Gogh, and he wasn’t as friendly as some would think,” Not realising the name he’d placed into his ramble, Brendan chuckled nervously, hoping that he wasn’t scaring or possibly “weirding” her out. He’d heard Emilie say that word and thought it odd. He’d never heard it used in that manner before. However, he didn’t want to do it, whatever it was that that word meant.

[Payton Grant]

A smile crept onto her face when the stranger had spooked at her jumping. How could someone like her scare him? She didn't know and didn't think on it. He seemed entranced by her painting. He moved closer, removing his hand from his pocket. Payton raised her head slightly higher, as a horse would when frightened. Her long wavy hair fell from her shoulder, cascading down tow the middle of her spine. Her layers and bangs shifted to lay in front of her eyes. Slowly, Payton lifted her hand to move the red hair from her face. Her hands and arms were covered in designs, and self-consciously she pulled her sleeved over them.

Small? Payton turned her eyes towards where the man was pointing. Yes, she supposes the cabins details where small. It was like peering in the distance as you pass the building from a road. I suppose it is. I guess that way I can add larger detail, to make the cabin seem to be far away. This man was curious indeed. His quick apology made him look nervous, but thankfully it rid Payton of some of hers. She now believed he wouldn't hurt her. He was just wondering.

Furrowing her brow, she looked at him. Do you paint? He didn't look like the type to worship the brush as she does, but if he could sketch a little, then he could have potential. His nervous laugh put her at ease. He had put out his hand for a shake. Keeping eye contact, Payton put her hand into his, holding it slightly. My name is Payton. Payton smiled genuinely. Then realizing what he said, she cocked her head to one side. Letting go of his hand, her curiosity was spiked. Van Gogh? I have got to hear this. Moving over, she motioned an invitation for a seat. Would you like to sit down?

[Brendan]

It appeared that he may have snuck up on her, but he was glad that she didn’t seem wary of him. Maybe it was the fact that they were both nervous, possibly by nature, but it seemed to put them at ease with each other. He noticed the odd position she moved into as he moved closer to her painting. He wondered what she was doing; standing straighter and having her hair cover her face and such. For some reason, Brendan half expected her eyes to bulge just slightly when she raised her head. He had no idea why, but it just seemed like something she would do, or rather, something you would see when someone did it.

Nodding his head, he thought about what other details could be placed in to make it even better. Maybe there was someone looking at the cabin and she would actually paint that person up close on the canvas. He tried to think of other important details that would be added and she had been subconsciously adding to the canvas. Tilting his head to look at her, he frowned slightly and stood up from the painting. Shaking his head, he had always wanted to try painting, to see what it was like, however, he’d never been fortunate enough to be able to do so. Something always prevented him from trying the art out. “Sadly, I haven’t been able to try. Always something stopping me,” he smiled to her. Looking down to the paints and the brush, he noted that the brush was a red colour. Weren’t paintbrushes made of horsehair? He’d seen many black, dark brown and even blonde-beige brushes before, it all depended on what type of brush was needed, but he’d never seen red brushes before. He wondered where she had gotten them; they must have been expensive or custom made.

As she shook his hand, his smile widened slightly. Payton, he’d never heard that name before. Then again, he didn’t know much about names, he’d met a rather small amount of people compared to how long he’s been living. Most of the time he never received a name from those he spoke to since most brushed him off. Looking at her curiously, he watched her, as her eyes seemed to sparkle the tiniest bit. That meant that she was curious, right? As if receiving the answer to his assumption, Payton mentioned Van Gogh and motioned him over to the bench that was a few feet away from her ‘work station’. She ‘had to hear this’. Brendan was assuming the story as to how he’d met Van Gogh and seen him paint. Even in a world such as this, the idea that people could live for so long without aging a day still seemed to amaze some people. It never got old to Brendan though, it always made things interesting to talk about.

“Yes, thank you,” Walking over to the bench, Brendan sat down, still looking at the ‘work station’ for a moment longer before turning to look at her. How would he start this story? Would it make sense to summarize his history quickly to get to his meeting Van Gogh, or would it be best to start with how it was possible for him to have known Van Gogh? He figured that he would tell the story that involved Van Gogh first and if she asked about it after, he would tell her his history. She wanted to hear about Van Gogh after all, not how he couldn’t die and originated from ‘magical mud’.

“Well, I’ve been travelling around for quite some time. I’ve seen the Notre Dame Cathedral, the Eiffel Tower and other things built. I was travelling through France around the end of the 1880s when he was out painting in a park. Of course, there were many painters trying to make their way with painting during that era, but he was interesting.” Brendan smiled at the memory. The man was spoken about throughout every town he’d ever resided or stayed in. He was famous, yet he wasn’t famous. He wasn’t famous for his paintings but for his odd and irregular behaviour. People doubted his ever making a fortune off his works, questioning what it was that he saw when he painted. It was something new, something Brendan had never seen after the renaissance and he found those paintings to be intriguing.

“While in France, I heard his name quite a few times, he was crazy. At least historians got that part correct. But his paintings were amazing. Everyone laughed at him, saying that his work was horrible, still taking to the older painting styles.” Sitting back a bit, Brendan wondered if he was talking too much. If she had questions, she hadn’t been able to ask them since he’d been talking so much. However, it was the story right? There wasn’t a point to stop half-way through the story. She’d probably ask him to continue rather than a question that would derail where this story was supposed to be headed. “Well, he was sitting in a park In Arles France, it was sometime in December when he was sitting in a park sketching and painting. It was odd, to see him out there and in the open, but I approached, worried that he may actually be crazy as everyone claimed. I watched him, admiring how he saw the area completely different than I could.” Smiling off into the distance, Brendan remembered how his hand stumbled across the canvas with unexpected grace. He couldn’t tell what it was when he arrived, Van Gogh was only starting out when he’d approached so there was no sure way to have known what he was painting exactly.

“Well, he twitched a bit, turned around and saw me watching him. I looked like a pauper, lost and delusional at that time. I didn’t have shoes then, worn out the ones I had and he stood immediately. It was so fast, like a blur. He was shouting and waving his paintbrush in the air as he moved toward me. Apparently, he didn’t like people watching him paint. He kept mumbling something about Gauguin as he did. Of course, he was as crazy as everyone said, so I ran.” Brendan laughed lightly, still feeling the fear he had at that time. He didn’t want to think the man crazy just because everyone said he was. Rumours existed even in that era, so he couldn’t trust what people said just because everyone said it. He was better than that. Brendan didn’t judge a book by its cover. Laughing a little more, he had to finish this story for her. “It was in the papers and talked about not too long after that that he cut off his ear. Rumours were bad about him after that. Now, I worry when I come up and watch people painting,” smiling wide to her, he really hoped that he hadn’t been talking too much.

[Payton Grant]

It was interesting how Brendan had caught her interest. It was easy when somebody mentions one of her heros. Following him to the bench, she took her black coat off, exposing her black tanktop underneath. Damn, she wears a lot of black. Tiny, detailed designs wove up and down her arms, in between her slender fingers. They were not tattoos, merely Sharpie marker. Her only tattoo was hidden by her low riding jeans. The red and black shape of a flame is located on her hip. The top barely showed under the rim of her jeans, and she pulled down the top to cover the rest.

With the sun warming her shoulders, she listened silently to Brendan as he told her of Van Gogh. All she knew was his famous paintings and the information she gathered from the library and her laptop at home. Hearing from a witness was even better than all that. There was one thing that was bothering her. How old is this guy?

She had heard of those who had immortality. Personally, she would not be able to handle that. It is dying that makes living so amazing and complicating. Like that riddle that was never solved. Curious, she wanted to ask, but she is usually not the one to ask questions. It was always the men who wanted to hear about her, before they made a move on the redhead.

Um, I don't know if you would want to answer. But, how did you meet him. I mean...how old are you? Wow, that sounded stupid...Sighing at her lack of knowledge to put her thoughts into words, she shook her head at herself. How embarrassing was it to lose your thought in the middle of your sentence. Apologetically, she looked at Brendan with her ice colored eyes.


OOC: Eeekk, sorry its so late. My muse is not working with me

[Brendan]

Even while telling his story, he was still attentive to her movements and actions, watching to find more, new information about her. He loved to meet new people. It gave him a better outlook on life and those few people he met, the ones with something to say, told him something that always seemed to point him in the right direction. He was a being created with mud and magic. He was placed into his creator’s body and hadn’t been able to die. He needed guiding sometimes and the hope that one day, he may figure out what he is looking for and what is keeping him alive. He thought about Emilie for a second, and how willing and caring she was about trying to help him. He really hoped that she would be able to figure out why he was still stuck here.

As she slid her jacket from her shoulders, Brendan noticed all the drawings that covered her body. He’d seen many people with tattoos on every inch of their body; however, these drawings didn’t look like tattoos. They looked like marker or something. Like those that people used to sniff to get high in the 80s. What were they called again? Permanent markers? Either way, if those drawings were marker, it must be difficult to keep them there after washing. Brendan blushed the tiniest bit, trying not to waver in his story. He shouldn’t be thinking about a woman washing, it was impolite and lewd of him. He’d never been lewd before, but then again, he wasn’t able to convey himself appropriately most of the time. He was a being originally created without emotions and thoughts, suddenly feeling human and not knowing why or how could be confusing and difficult to deal with.

Looking over to Payton upon hearing her awkwardly asked question, Brendan smiled before looking out to her temporary workstation. How the paint seemed to drip down the canvas just the slightest bit, as if waiting impatiently for her to return. “That’s a little hard to answer, I mean, I don’t know why I was able to meet him,” He turned to look at her and caught the apologetic look in her eyes. That was apologetic, right? He hoped he wasn’t misinterpreting what she was conveying to him. Leaning back against the bench, Brendan placed his hands in his lap, as if waiting patiently for a bus to arrive. “I mean, I’m not human, at least, I don’t think I’m human. I don’t know what I am, but I know what I used to be.”

Glancing over at her, Brendan hoped that he wouldn’t scare her off with his ‘beat-around-the-bush’ style of answering her question. Payton’s question wasn’t an easy one to answer. The last part was easy, but how he was able to meet Van Gogh, wasn’t. He knew that she wasn’t asking in literal terms, as in, how did he meet the man to cut off his ear, but rather, how it was possible for him to alive then, and alive now. “I’m not sure how much knowledge you have of other species, but, I was created by a man named Rabbi Joseph, and I was made from mud.” Brendan chuckled a bit, trying to remember what it was like to be magical mud. It was hard and fuzzy in a way, trying to recall emotions and feelings that a golem never had. Golems weren’t meant to feel or think, they were created to obey. They were supposed to be the perfect servants.

“But to answer the easiest part of your question, I am 530 years old, and I can’t die, age, or become sick or ill. And it sucks,” he laughed at this point. His laugh sounded bitter in a way. He hadn’t meant to sound bitter. You’d think that after being around for 530 years, the golem would have mastered emotion already. Clearing his throat, Brendan sat straighter, trying to appear friendlier and less closed off. “I hope this isn’t odd or weird to you, but if you’d like, I’d be glad to tell you my story, if you’re willing to listen,” Smiling friendly to her, he turned his attention to the painting she’d been working on. In a way, he felt like that painting. It was started and it had been moving along well until something happened and all process of finishing it halted. He could relate to the object as the paint seemed to slowly drip down the canvas. Of course, only what she had last painted dripped just the slightest, but he still felt imprisoned and impatient. He wanted someone to finish him, since he clearly hadn’t been able to find out how to paint his own masterpiece.

It’s okay

[Payton Grant]

The way paint drips down a canvas is the symbol of her life. She is a fantastic artist, creating images from primitive substances. The more she paints, the calmer she is. Her nature is flighty, spooky. An untrained filly in a complicated world. That is ok, though. She has always been like this.

Payton had no idea of golems. She has never heard of them. She was confused. How could someone be created of mud? This had caught her attention, maybe more so than Van Gogh. Leaning back onto the bench, she started to twidle with her hair, wrapping it around her finger. Smiling, confused, she nodded her head. I would like to hear your story. She gave Brendan her undivided attention.


OOC: sorry its short...

[Brendan]

Smiling to her, he was glad that she was willing to listen. He had met many different types of people throughout his life. The most common type of person ignored him, they were the ones to give him dirty looks and rush away if he tried to speak to them. Brendan didn’t blame them though, since he looked like a homeless man whenever he first met them. Brendan had no form of income or any way to attain a job. He couldn’t even read. It was understandable in this new society, how people in power would avoid someone like him.

There was the other, less in number, kind of people who would listen until things became complicated. They were so caught up in their own lives that once they started to hear his story, they would leave, hoping not to become tangled in his complicated mess. They had their own worries to deal with; Brendan understood that it was survival instinct. He would be a hindrance to their survival; he didn’t blame them for leaving him. Then there was his favourite type of people to meet, who were intrigued and interested in what he had to say. People like Emilie and Payton, a few good friends that stretched back centuries and centuries ago. It was sad to acknowledge that they were no longer on the earth and only egged his desire to be able to grow old and pass on even stronger.

Brendan paused for a moment, wondering where he should start this story. It was difficult, seeing, as not many know of the way of golems. Most people have only heard mention of the creatures and had never thought their creation possible. How was it possible to create a moving object just from the word of God? It shouldn’t be possible, and yet he was here. It was different for his case though. He should have died when his creator did, he had no idea why he was in his creator’s body.

“Well, I was created around the end of the 15th century. I was a golem made from mud. My creator, Rabbi Joseph, used the word of God, as well as magic, to create me,” he thought of his creator fondly. Even though Golems were made without emotions or thoughts, what their creators didn’t know was that they retained some form of thought—in the form of information or a memory—and the sense of touch. He could remember a thought that his creator had transferred to him during the creation process and it was a woman. He had later found out that she was his sister who had died.

“Golems were made until the 16th century, at that point the magic used to make us was deemed as the devil’s work and all golems were destroyed. However, I wasn’t a golem when that happened. My creator, Rabbi Joseph, created me for a specific reason. He was testing out a theory to bring his sister back to life,” Brendan frowned at the memory. She wasn’t even his sister, she was this body’s sister, and yet Brendan felt a strong connection and sense of sadness when thinking about her. He didn’t even remember how she died, those thoughts and memories remained with Rabbi Joseph’s soul and were denied to Brendan’s access while vacating this body.

“He created me, his first perfect golem and continued his theory. He thought that if he could put the word of God into an inanimate object, that he should be able to pull a soul out instead of the word. He tried and nearly perfected the process, but something went wrong. I was helping him, I remember it,” Brendan closed his eyes, his voice quieting as he remembered the little he could while he was still a golem. “Everything was going well, but there was a light, and Rabbi Joseph was gone,—shaking his head, Brendan opened his eyes, sadness and confusion in the ancient hazel orbs—I woke up, which was a first—He laughed—And I was in Rabbi Joseph’s body. I was human, and I don’t know why. Ever since then, I’ve been wandering. I go from church to church. They give me solstice and protection. As soon as they find out my story, I am regarded as a work of the devil and asked to leave though.” Brendan swallowed hard. Remembering all the ill intention that had been inflicted upon him throughout his life. “They tried exorcisms, burning at the stake, all sorts of things. But only one thing is true. I cannot die, I cannot age, and I cannot become sick or ill.”

Shifting on the bench, Brendan turned to look at Payton with a sympathetic smile. He hoped he hadn’t spoken too much without pause. If she had had a question, he hadn’t given her time to ask it then. Maybe if she had a question, she would be able to ask it now. His eyes were ancient and reflected his true age accordingly. The hazel colour was still vibrant at the tips and around the edges of his irises. The colour around his pupils was diluted in a way, sort of like a grey. If it weren’t for the mystic aura when looking into his eyes, people could assume that he had grey-brown sunburst eyes. However, the mystical aura that came from his gaze had stopped many in their tracks. It was part of the reason why he had met Emilie. “So, what do you think?” he smiled wider to her, his eyes closing in content as he hoped that she wouldn’t think him odd. He hoped that she wasn’t the type to push him away in fear that she may have to deal with his messy tangle of issues.

Sorry if there’s a lot of speech, I didn’t want to stop halfway through the thing and only post the halfway, because I didn’t want you to feel obligated to do another small post in which all you can really do is say she’s listening, OR, be forced to ask a question to keep the thread going. Tell me if it’s too much though and I’ll tone it down in my next post! xP