[closed thread]
Who: Anton Chevalier and Ruby Vilotte
What: Ruby looks Anton up to claim the sculpture he (sort of) promised her.
Where: The Sculpture Room (The Art Room)
When: Friday Afternoon To Be Determined
Warnings: Violent tempers ahead.
Anton was in a foul mood. Not that that was a rare thing; though the ordinary person would have thought it far too early an hour (it was just after midday) to be in a bad mood, but for Anton, all hours of the day were equal - equally good times to be grumpy, that is.
His Political Science Professor had been picking on him for being slow in his coursework. And on his way out of the lecture hall, some jokers had thought it a fine day to add to his misery - one of them had tripped him with a hockey stick (obviously no respect for the lame), and then the rest had made off with the books and notes that had flown out of his arms when he had sprawled most undignifiedly onto the ground. It had taken him an hour of near begging to get his stuff back from those assholes, and though Anton would’ve liked very much to pummel each and every one of their smirking faces in, he knew very well that he couldn’t take the whole gang of them on and hope to win. He wasn’t suicidal. Not yet, anyway.
So what had he done? What he always did, after these things, which, sadly enough, had become rather common in his life. He had skulked away, alone, to the only place he could violently hack things into a thousand million little pieces - legally: the Sculpture Room. What better place for Anton to vent his anger and hatred?
Now, as he sat in his usual window seat - the curtains drawn this time, to hide the sunshine that was far too bright and cheery; to hide that opening to the outside world - he contemplated the still half-finished bust before him. Progress on it hadn’t been all that great. It now consisted of shoulders, some sort of neck, branching out into a defined jawline.
Disfigured, just like him.
He stared intently at it, as if his gaze could bore holes into the marble and sculpt in the facial features for him. As if. Then, with a loud grunt of disgust, he took his pick to the stone, channeling all his frustration into the tool, and finally got his wish to hack something into a thousand million little pieces.
It was time to start over.
What: Ruby looks Anton up to claim the sculpture he (sort of) promised her.
Where: The Sculpture Room (The Art Room)
When: Friday Afternoon To Be Determined
Warnings: Violent tempers ahead.
Anton was in a foul mood. Not that that was a rare thing; though the ordinary person would have thought it far too early an hour (it was just after midday) to be in a bad mood, but for Anton, all hours of the day were equal - equally good times to be grumpy, that is.
His Political Science Professor had been picking on him for being slow in his coursework. And on his way out of the lecture hall, some jokers had thought it a fine day to add to his misery - one of them had tripped him with a hockey stick (obviously no respect for the lame), and then the rest had made off with the books and notes that had flown out of his arms when he had sprawled most undignifiedly onto the ground. It had taken him an hour of near begging to get his stuff back from those assholes, and though Anton would’ve liked very much to pummel each and every one of their smirking faces in, he knew very well that he couldn’t take the whole gang of them on and hope to win. He wasn’t suicidal. Not yet, anyway.
So what had he done? What he always did, after these things, which, sadly enough, had become rather common in his life. He had skulked away, alone, to the only place he could violently hack things into a thousand million little pieces - legally: the Sculpture Room. What better place for Anton to vent his anger and hatred?
Now, as he sat in his usual window seat - the curtains drawn this time, to hide the sunshine that was far too bright and cheery; to hide that opening to the outside world - he contemplated the still half-finished bust before him. Progress on it hadn’t been all that great. It now consisted of shoulders, some sort of neck, branching out into a defined jawline.
Disfigured, just like him.
He stared intently at it, as if his gaze could bore holes into the marble and sculpt in the facial features for him. As if. Then, with a loud grunt of disgust, he took his pick to the stone, channeling all his frustration into the tool, and finally got his wish to hack something into a thousand million little pieces.
It was time to start over.