[RIOT CREATIVE CONTEST 2017] [Narrative] Ivory and Roses
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A vignette featuring one Khada Jhin and one Sona Buvelle, as told from Jhin's third person limited perspective. PDF attached. 750/1000 words.
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Perhaps the part of her most vile was that she had Khada Jhin coming back.
Jule Vernal– that’s what she knew him as. Jule Vernal the smiling, polite artist, one that bowed to her backstage and invited her to his garden so that he might pay the Maven respect. He bristled ever so slightly when rebuffed the first time; time constraints, she noted, but then hastened to add that she appreciated the notion. The second time he couldn’t find her at all after the performance, much to his chagrin, making this now the third time.
He was quiet while he studied her. In the lower right quadrant of her face he noticed a blemish right under the curve of her lip, his sketching constant as he looked. He didn’t want to paint her– not yet. Jhin did well to be patient on the subject, for this was only an introduction even if it was twice late. The flow of his pencil foisted up and down as he continued, Sona herself at ease with hair down. The garden smelled softly of vanilla in one breath and roses in another.
“I won’t bore you with compliments concerning your music,” he finally said, eyes returning to the canvas. “I’m sure you’ve heard them all before.”
As if that makes it any better, he hissed in his mind, fingers on his pencil tightening briefly before relaxing. “But your performance yesterday was stellar, regardless. I enjoyed it a great deal. It reminded me of… oh, of Howitzer’s Quartet. Your instrument is legendary… if only anyone knew where it came from.”
She smiled at him. He hated the curvature, but liked that she couldn’t reply. In its own way, it was as if it was a soliloquy with himself and his thoughts, accompanied only by a model to be used later once the greetings and hellos were over. Later, when he could show her Khada Jhin. Then her showing him—through only his help—perfection. Beauty. A standard of artistic merit well above what she called music.
Jhin barely noticed the canvas wincing under the pressure of his pencil. His nose wrinkled and he leavened the force, still fixated on getting her head and face right. He was on the last quadrant now, one involved with her right eye. No blemish to be found. That lightened his mood, if only just. His exterior still extruded merry and focused, the minimum mask to wear even if it was ill-fitting.
A steely wind breathed through her hair and shocked a hedge beside her before dying. It was a Demacian midsummer, inundated with frequent but short wind and rain. More pleasant than they dry hillwork Jhin knew back at home in the mountains of Zhyun, and almost… homely.
He caught something different in her eye and adjusted his stool to get a better look. Ivory– the seat just below him crafted from the marrow of the husk previously known as Jule Vernal and its prior arms the stool’s legs. Jhin had quite a time with the process– the husk had a habit for biting back, but as always he managed and it relented. Somewhere in the garden, a pomegranate sapling’s mound was fertilized.
She was wincing.
“Is something wrong?” He didn’t like the way he said it, almost too expectant. She gestured at the air.
“The wind, yes. Don’t worry. I’ll be finished soon and we can be inside for tea.” She nodded at that and Jhin detested the fluency at which it happened.
At last, the quadrants were finished. He breathed an arid sigh of relief and left his pencil down to stretch his working hand, only to seize it again moments later. Jhin was hardly finished yet.
He moved from her face to decorating the rest of the canvas, a far more favored activity. Getting faces as they were from his mind to a page tested his patience almost as much as Sona did by virtue of existing. It demanded his focus and unduly charged for more. It was her fault, and the faults of everyone like her, that their faces were so horrible and boring that Khada Jhin had to spend so much time and willpower illustrating that dullness alright.
At least she would be more interesting soon. It was the main reason he kept a reflection of cheeriness.
“I do hope you come back,” he found himself saying. “For a fourth time. I’ve a love for your company.”
His smile belied pointed, pearlescent teeth.
Jule Vernal– that’s what she knew him as. Jule Vernal the smiling, polite artist, one that bowed to her backstage and invited her to his garden so that he might pay the Maven respect. He bristled ever so slightly when rebuffed the first time; time constraints, she noted, but then hastened to add that she appreciated the notion. The second time he couldn’t find her at all after the performance, much to his chagrin, making this now the third time.
He was quiet while he studied her. In the lower right quadrant of her face he noticed a blemish right under the curve of her lip, his sketching constant as he looked. He didn’t want to paint her– not yet. Jhin did well to be patient on the subject, for this was only an introduction even if it was twice late. The flow of his pencil foisted up and down as he continued, Sona herself at ease with hair down. The garden smelled softly of vanilla in one breath and roses in another.
“I won’t bore you with compliments concerning your music,” he finally said, eyes returning to the canvas. “I’m sure you’ve heard them all before.”
As if that makes it any better, he hissed in his mind, fingers on his pencil tightening briefly before relaxing. “But your performance yesterday was stellar, regardless. I enjoyed it a great deal. It reminded me of… oh, of Howitzer’s Quartet. Your instrument is legendary… if only anyone knew where it came from.”
She smiled at him. He hated the curvature, but liked that she couldn’t reply. In its own way, it was as if it was a soliloquy with himself and his thoughts, accompanied only by a model to be used later once the greetings and hellos were over. Later, when he could show her Khada Jhin. Then her showing him—through only his help—perfection. Beauty. A standard of artistic merit well above what she called music.
Jhin barely noticed the canvas wincing under the pressure of his pencil. His nose wrinkled and he leavened the force, still fixated on getting her head and face right. He was on the last quadrant now, one involved with her right eye. No blemish to be found. That lightened his mood, if only just. His exterior still extruded merry and focused, the minimum mask to wear even if it was ill-fitting.
A steely wind breathed through her hair and shocked a hedge beside her before dying. It was a Demacian midsummer, inundated with frequent but short wind and rain. More pleasant than they dry hillwork Jhin knew back at home in the mountains of Zhyun, and almost… homely.
He caught something different in her eye and adjusted his stool to get a better look. Ivory– the seat just below him crafted from the marrow of the husk previously known as Jule Vernal and its prior arms the stool’s legs. Jhin had quite a time with the process– the husk had a habit for biting back, but as always he managed and it relented. Somewhere in the garden, a pomegranate sapling’s mound was fertilized.
She was wincing.
“Is something wrong?” He didn’t like the way he said it, almost too expectant. She gestured at the air.
“The wind, yes. Don’t worry. I’ll be finished soon and we can be inside for tea.” She nodded at that and Jhin detested the fluency at which it happened.
At last, the quadrants were finished. He breathed an arid sigh of relief and left his pencil down to stretch his working hand, only to seize it again moments later. Jhin was hardly finished yet.
He moved from her face to decorating the rest of the canvas, a far more favored activity. Getting faces as they were from his mind to a page tested his patience almost as much as Sona did by virtue of existing. It demanded his focus and unduly charged for more. It was her fault, and the faults of everyone like her, that their faces were so horrible and boring that Khada Jhin had to spend so much time and willpower illustrating that dullness alright.
At least she would be more interesting soon. It was the main reason he kept a reflection of cheeriness.
“I do hope you come back,” he found himself saying. “For a fourth time. I’ve a love for your company.”
His smile belied pointed, pearlescent teeth.