Score.
PicassoAh, the summer rainfall, would it never end? It felt like every year it was the same, the fickle Evelonian weather waited until after everyone had booked holidays to rain. The holiday cottages in Sa'fir had never been so full, yet it was in this week of holiday madness; it rained. It rained kuhnas and lucain, it rained tali's and doomkitties. Endless amounts of rain poured from the sky, the deluge seemingly unstoppable. It left nothing dry.
Today was no exception, huge thick globs of rain hammered down onto the foolish tourist, soaking them to the bone. Umbrellas blown inside out from playful gusts of wind. Umbrellas lay discarded by bins, walls, they hung of trees, they littered the ground. It seemed it wasn't only rain the sky was pouring onto the region of Sa'Fir; it was umbrellas too.
Ominous clouds hung over head, threatening to crash down at any moment, possibly bringing merciless thunder with them; the beginings of a storm. Grey on grey, the sky had never been such a monotone, a whole spectrum of grey hung in the skyline, from the very near white, to the blue-purple grey; almost threatening colour on the grim sky, you could even pick out a deep grey, a creeping, dangerous grey, so dark it seemed like pieces of the night sky had wedged themselves in with the afternoon ceiling.
Gusts of wind had picked up without notice, causing the shower of broken, and battered umbrellas. Setting the occasional one free to cascade across the skyline, hopefully not hitting a passer by. Children and animals chased after multi-coloured umbrellas, dashing across the constant monotone. It was the winds game, playful and light, though surprisingly warm. It curled the umbrellas out of their reach, letting them get close before whisking it away. The adults watched in a bemused fashion as their umbrellas were stolen right out of their hands by a demon breeze.
It was in this grey, changeable day, an A single figure made it's way across the black sanded beaches, a chombones padding out in front; occasionally snapping it's teeth together, as if guiding the figure, obviously male, across the beach. The figure, upon closer exception, was a rather strange fellow, he was young, perhaps around twenty in age, perhaps a little less. His clothing was slightly eccentric and spattered with paint, stained with colour after colour, after colour. The paint stains on his shirt and waistcoat were a whole spectrum ranging from teal to yellow and all the way back again, it was hopeless to see what colour it had once been for chalk, paint, oil pastel, pen, and charcoal smudges. Even so he didn't look unclean; just scribbled on. Flecks of paint littered his face and charcoal smudges plagued his chin, almost as if he'd thought for a moment before continuing his art work. He was also soaked through, his hair clung damp to his scalp; though that didn't seem to bother the young man, infact he seemed overjoyed to be out. Heavy black sunglasses framed his face, it seemed a strange choice of accessory, considering the current weather.
"Snap." The chombone's voice rang out, echoing around the little bay. A warning tone to it's normally carefree voice. The young man's head snapped up. "What is it Picasso?" He replied, in perfect accentless English. He bent down to the ground only to feel the bitter cold of the sea, the tide was coming in. "Ah," He said simply. The chombones darted in the other direction, emitting several small snaps as it did so, again he followed it.
Score had been blind since birth, he'd never known anything but the colours and shapes he sometimes saw in dreams. Yet, he found art, he would never be able to admire his abstract work, he it was all he had. He felt the colours, Synaesthesia it was called; a curse for some; an defect, but for Score it was a gift. Inpiration was always there for him, painting his emotions onto the canvas, wall or any surface wall or any surface he could find. He had never found anything he was more passionate about. Score never considered anything else. Art, was where he wanted to go and what he wanted to do, he would never, could never be anything else but and artist.
Picasso, his guide of sorts had been with him as long as he could remember. She (her naming was unfortunate, yes) was his saviour, his guide, his friend, his loyal protector, his favourite pet and the thing he loved most. The small chombones meant everything to the kuhna, likewise, with her. Score was her feeder, the hand that throws the stick, the thing she looked after, the thing that laughed when she ran around his legs and snapped her teeth, he was her best friend and her loyal owner.
"Picasso?" His voice rang out, calling. A touch of nervousness in his plain voice. All he heard was the sound of the waves creeping in; possibly cutting him off from the rest of the beach in Sa'fir. "Picasso!" He called again; this time with much more urgency. Score tried to calm himself, it was possible she'd just followed another animal and was going to return to him in a few moments. But a small voice at the back of his head worried over her; the small chombones could have gotten anywhere.
(A note to who ever joins, this may sound picky, or petty, or just plain rude, but I'd love it if you could be able to write atleast three good paragraphs at once/come close to what I write, it's just I'm trying to get my post length average up and well, rping with someone that only writes small paragpraphs isn't going to help my aim of five paragraph average to nine on a good day. ^^)
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