Darksteel

Chapter 8; Inklings and ink pots.

Lunch was spent acquiring a Healing Potion for Adar, and while Asta was happy to help, he knew that there was a sandwich, somewhere, waiting for him. Unfortunately, he never got his sandwich, for by the time they had gotten the potion, the chimes rang, signaling the end of their break.

Not even bothering with so much as a simple thank you, Adar strode off to his next class, leaving Asta wondering why he had ever offered to help him in the first place. 

Oh, right. Because he was doomed without him. THAT was a comforting thought.

Pulling out his wrinkled schedule, the stiff paper crinkling between his fingers, he saw with a thrill that he had Fine Arts next. 

He wasn't sure what was more exciting; an art class or the fact that it appeared to be a NORMAL class, for once. Thus, with the hope that this class would have nothing to do with monsters or big men with battle axes, Asta practically skipped all the way to the Art building.

Once he reached the small, stone building, he cracked open the door and stepped inside, gasping at the raw, chaotic beauty around him.

 Large tables, piled high with paints and stacks of paper, were set randomly around the room, not facing anyone direction and giving the appearance of a mouthful of broken teeth. 

Stained glass windows turned the sunlight into a thousand fragments of broken color, splashing it wildly around the room like paint splatters-- they hung in the air, flickering and shimering.  And as for the air iteslf, it was thick and fragrant with the bitter smell of paint and wooden pencil shavings, yet it held a distinct sweet scent of lilies.

Odd, but Asta decided then and there that it was one of the best smells in the world.

 Stepping further into the room, he spotted shelves that looked as though they were crudely made by hand, holding sculptures and lumps of unfinished clay vases and bowls. Buckets of paint there were too, and when Asta glanced up at the walls of the building, he found pictures of rolling hills, silver rivers, and misty forests-- entire worlds created with the simple strokes of a brush

Asta stepped in farther, the floorboards creaking beneath him, and picked up a paintbrush from a nearby table, running it against his hand.

"Quite a place, isn't it?" 

Startled, Asta's eyes sprang up from where he had been looking at the brush and shifted over to where the new voice had come from.

To his relief, it was a sweet, elderly woman with a face that reminded one of what every grandmother should look like; warm eyes that sparkled, a kind smile, and an expression that made Asta instantly relax.

Looking closer, he could make out more detail about her appearance; her long, grey hair was pulled away from her wrinkled face and tucked into a braid that hung over one slender shoulder. And though she must have been the art professor, judging by the splatters of paint on her clothes, she was not dressed harshly like miss Bywater was. Rather, she wore woolen trousers and a long sweater that nearly brushed the tops of her knees and, while at one point the sweater may have been a soft orange, it looked to be more of a slew of other colours now.

Almost as if someone had repeatedly spilled paint on her by accident.

Blinking and realizing that he hadn't said a word in response, Asta shyly nodded and set the paintbrush down.

 "Oh, no, keep that. You'll want it for today's lesson," the woman said, smiling kindly. Then, as an afterthought, she extended her hand in greeting, "My name is Beatrice Hodge and I'll be the one who most likey will spill paint on you some time in the future."