❝ do you remember the last thousand years? ❞
in a vicious melody spread through numerous lifetimes, a time warper spends the last thousand years trying to remember her lover and bring his soul back.
in exchange for the death of an undying god.
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1 5 6 6 the vagabond's muse
ONE OF KLAUS' JUDGMENTS in the case of painting was its depth, in retrospective, how closely it brought him to understanding every stroke and shade. Art was unending, so conceptually beautiful, that people tend to forget the meaning behind the piece, the artist's thoughts, and its complexity. One would only look at it, call it pretty, and move on to the next. Preposterous.
With the blank canvas, he could create anything he desired, control the flow of a brush and cauterize the colors into their respective shading. Add tone here, and there, put some shadows. Make it darker. Yes. There. A caliginosity of auburns and crimsons and ebonies, redefining lines into a fiasco of sunsets and sangre.
For days, he'd keep to his art, immersing himself in its notional silhouette. And when it fogged, he would leave it to ferment, until another blank canvas presented itself to be ruined, and made art of. It was the same with partners, men and women alike. Drinking, murder, painting, sex — it was all an art. And he was, indeed, an artist.
Wine was not at all red, or purple. It was a saturation of both, perhaps more of red, at times more of purple. But never exclusively one color. Sometimes, it would feel bitter on his tongue. Sometimes sweet. Other times, it tasted like her. And when it did, he'd drink it all up until every drop had been devoured.
Blood, though, was entirely another melody. It was always sweet, always saccharinely hypnotizing. He would lick it off his fingers, and grin as the ferrous nectar coated his tongue. It was his one consistent lover aside from art. Blood and art, art and blood. Always hand in hand, always beckoning his trance towards them.
Parties were a consensus, and they were never without his personal constants. There was always someone to drain, someone to fuck, and someone to paint. He would thrive, for with his pleasant smile and devilish gaze, few failed to succumb to his daring charms.
The jewel encrusted goblet felt heavy in his hand, the stones glinting under the coruscating chandeliers. He wondered, how such a prodigious empire would be fickle with their negotiations. A stranger, another stranger, how dare they touch him, talk to him when they were nobody? Not to him. He couldn't care less.
A flash of a polite smile, an excuse, a sigh in relief from his success in escaping. He was a people person, yet these hooligans were too obnoxious for his impeccable taste. So he carried on, wasting the night away, until he caught sight of dark hair and elegant gait. A grin made its way on his face, swiftly acquiring a goblet from a server as he approached her.
Chillingly, he'd whisper, run a hand down her spine, and it would send him riveting when he caught a whiff of her perfume as she shivered beneath his touch. Klaus, not here. Oh, but what if he couldn't possibly wait? Couldn't be bothered to resist her debauchery? He made it a point to question her later, Don't you imagine things? Things that involve you? And me? And this? He knew she would answer them, and he smiled in delight to himself.
