Delphine
Last night seemed like a dream, but Delphine had woke up early, coaxing Noah from his instinctual need to keep the fire going before the sun had risen. She liked to watch the sun come to life, the blues, the purples, the pinks. She also liked to watch the sun go to sleep, and the darkness of the night sky overtake the world.
Once he'd been coaxed back to sleep, she'd tended the fire and moved a bunch of her pigment vials and jars with various paints, as well as a large canvas to the wall of his room. She needed to plan out what would be going on the walls, to brighten up the home. A home that she was to live in needed to feel less like a cave, or a prison, and Noah's presence could only do so much when the chilled winds and deep snow kept her trapped inside a lot of the time.
Though, once she'd started painting, it certainly hadn't been a plan for the house. The painter had not painted in years, clinging to pigments and herbs, selling her body to get a variety of colors, stealing when she could. But she had never used them, but she couldn't let them go either. And it was clear to see why.
He would wake to find her, pigment dust in her hair in various colors, paint on her hands and cheeks, looking happier than last night or any other time that he's seen her smile. She'd drawn the furs from the window, allowing brilliant sunlight to stream into the room, which meant that the room was a bit cooler than it probably should be.
Instead of furs, she's dressed in overalls, and a thick, long-sleeved shirt. Her hair in a messy bun, hazel eyes dancing across the canvas, the vials. She's a very messy painter, and that fact might surprise those who did not know Delphine before her husband, because the little painter had never kept her own spaces clean. Here she did, because this space was not hers...
Delphine flourished in the dirt, covered in paint and chaos around her. A messy home, after all, was a well-used and appreciated home, no? Like the sunlight that reminded her of home, and the color of her hair, Delphine's fingers ached to dig into soil, to see new life flourish around her.
His room had been commandeered for the morning, and upon waking he would notice he'd slept far longer than he normally did. Delphine had coaxed him to sleep each time, promising to tend to the flames, and that everything was okay. He'd have a hangover, she knew, so when she decided he had slept enough, she stopped minding his movements, and attempts to get out of bed.
The house was warm, and smelled of something baking, something sweet. Which meant during the time she had been awake, she'd gone through the kitchen and managed to find some flour, some sugar, and that was really all she needed, save for a few key ingredients, which she'd managed to substitute.
And in true Delphine fashion, on the table beside of the bed rests a glass of water, a clean bucket on the floor within easy reach, and fresh, toasted bread. Next to the water are some herbs, after all, Noah had only taken what she labelled as purely used for recreational drug use, most of her herb-stash was used for healing.
Delphine is focused on the canvas she'd brought into his room, each brushstroke careful, and thought out. She had to paint slower, now that she had no ability to keep her paints and brushes in the air around her.
On the canvas, for the first time since their deaths, rest her children, the scene? The day the three of them had met Noah. Acantha's dark hair, carefully recreated on the canvas in paint, Bryony's bright, blonde tresses, much like her mother.
The way the sun flows through the window would indicate that morning is over and gone.
Noah
Once he'd been coaxed back to sleep, she'd tended the fire and moved a bunch of her pigment vials and jars with various paints, as well as a large canvas to the wall of his room. She needed to plan out what would be going on the walls, to brighten up the home. A home that she was to live in needed to feel less like a cave, or a prison, and Noah's presence could only do so much when the chilled winds and deep snow kept her trapped inside a lot of the time.
Though, once she'd started painting, it certainly hadn't been a plan for the house. The painter had not painted in years, clinging to pigments and herbs, selling her body to get a variety of colors, stealing when she could. But she had never used them, but she couldn't let them go either. And it was clear to see why.
He would wake to find her, pigment dust in her hair in various colors, paint on her hands and cheeks, looking happier than last night or any other time that he's seen her smile. She'd drawn the furs from the window, allowing brilliant sunlight to stream into the room, which meant that the room was a bit cooler than it probably should be.
Instead of furs, she's dressed in overalls, and a thick, long-sleeved shirt. Her hair in a messy bun, hazel eyes dancing across the canvas, the vials. She's a very messy painter, and that fact might surprise those who did not know Delphine before her husband, because the little painter had never kept her own spaces clean. Here she did, because this space was not hers...
Delphine flourished in the dirt, covered in paint and chaos around her. A messy home, after all, was a well-used and appreciated home, no? Like the sunlight that reminded her of home, and the color of her hair, Delphine's fingers ached to dig into soil, to see new life flourish around her.
His room had been commandeered for the morning, and upon waking he would notice he'd slept far longer than he normally did. Delphine had coaxed him to sleep each time, promising to tend to the flames, and that everything was okay. He'd have a hangover, she knew, so when she decided he had slept enough, she stopped minding his movements, and attempts to get out of bed.
The house was warm, and smelled of something baking, something sweet. Which meant during the time she had been awake, she'd gone through the kitchen and managed to find some flour, some sugar, and that was really all she needed, save for a few key ingredients, which she'd managed to substitute.
And in true Delphine fashion, on the table beside of the bed rests a glass of water, a clean bucket on the floor within easy reach, and fresh, toasted bread. Next to the water are some herbs, after all, Noah had only taken what she labelled as purely used for recreational drug use, most of her herb-stash was used for healing.
Delphine is focused on the canvas she'd brought into his room, each brushstroke careful, and thought out. She had to paint slower, now that she had no ability to keep her paints and brushes in the air around her.
On the canvas, for the first time since their deaths, rest her children, the scene? The day the three of them had met Noah. Acantha's dark hair, carefully recreated on the canvas in paint, Bryony's bright, blonde tresses, much like her mother.
The way the sun flows through the window would indicate that morning is over and gone.
Noah
I don't mind where you come from as long as you come to me.
I don't like illusions, I can't see them clearly.
I don't care, no, I wouldn't dare to fix the twist in you.
You've shown me eventually, what you'll do.
I don't like illusions, I can't see them clearly.
I don't care, no, I wouldn't dare to fix the twist in you.
You've shown me eventually, what you'll do.
