I blame Michigan.
Who: Judas Iscariot, Ethan Rayne, whoever might want to join!
When: The art class on Saturday (yeap, something else that got backdated).
What: Ethan trolling Judas. And Judas gets mad.
Where: The art room!
Warnings: Probably some crude art and language.
Judas loved the arts, despite singing being his only talent in the area. He scribbled on the papers in front of him, his poor art mostly depicting vague forms, a cross, and blood. His mind couldn't extend much past the things he'd seen in his last week alive in terms of expressing himself. Normally, song helped him not only work through his nervous energy but also his desire to voice his thoughts. It'd begun when he was younger, when he and his father attended a performance. Despite his noble status, his caterwauling as a child had not in any way been appreciated, so most days were spent out in the vineyard, honing his voice without the aid of a formal teacher and most nights, drinking to the point of misconduct on his part.
"Does anyone have a black crayon?" the Apostle asked, albeit less than patiently as he leaned on his elbow.
Here, he had to be patient with other people, despite his desire to just impatiently demand everything, as his name alone damned him much more than he'd expected.
"A black crayon," he insisted again as his eyes scanned the table for one.
When: The art class on Saturday (yeap, something else that got backdated).
What: Ethan trolling Judas. And Judas gets mad.
Where: The art room!
Warnings: Probably some crude art and language.
Judas loved the arts, despite singing being his only talent in the area. He scribbled on the papers in front of him, his poor art mostly depicting vague forms, a cross, and blood. His mind couldn't extend much past the things he'd seen in his last week alive in terms of expressing himself. Normally, song helped him not only work through his nervous energy but also his desire to voice his thoughts. It'd begun when he was younger, when he and his father attended a performance. Despite his noble status, his caterwauling as a child had not in any way been appreciated, so most days were spent out in the vineyard, honing his voice without the aid of a formal teacher and most nights, drinking to the point of misconduct on his part.
"Does anyone have a black crayon?" the Apostle asked, albeit less than patiently as he leaned on his elbow.
Here, he had to be patient with other people, despite his desire to just impatiently demand everything, as his name alone damned him much more than he'd expected.
"A black crayon," he insisted again as his eyes scanned the table for one.