Clea pondered over the canvas before her, brush in her dominant hand and the pallette in the other. A mix of deep reds, forest greens, pearly white and blues combined here and there to form new hues and shades. Her practiced hand dragged the bristles down to add a deep blue tinged with green to the alive scene inches away from her figure.
The canvas was not some static piece meant to capture a moment in time or a snapshot of her imagination. Instead, the colors flowed like the chaotic currents of the sea. Crashing against others and forming together before splitting off again. Her brush followed the currents...
'Divert here... hmmm... yes, that's it.' A stoic look was on her fair face not giving away just how difficult it was to shape a world that changed with every second. A layer gave way and she applied new details. Her mind keeping track of each one and taking advantage when the paint allowed her to.
Clea pulled her brush back from the canvas a few moments later, a pause in her dance. Her mind had lost focus and continuing would ruin her piece. She had been working on this for some time now, long before her brother met his end and... they... became a bigger problem than they should have been. Ruining the foundations would cause undo stress for the future. A god had to be completely focused when making their world, one fundamental law missed would make it all for naught.
Besides, she was thinking about them, The Writers, their very title made her sick.
They despised Painters, and her specifically, for the war she had brought onto them. Writers were antithetical to Painters. Letters, hidden meanings, apt descriptions... they all relied on the readers imagination to 'paint' their world for them. Everyone would see something different... the complete opposite to a Painter who brought to life what they wanted and left the viewer to come up with words to describe it.
Click
Click
Click
The typewriter's arms dipped the imprinted letter on it's type face against a bed of ink before swinging to apply it to a fresh sheet of paper. Letter after letter raced across the imaginary line set by the guide. Weaving a beautiful description of a land not seen...
"Jacques... Jacques, snap out of it"
The typewriters soothing clicks and mechanical whirling stopped when a hand clasped the shoulder of the man sat in front of it. Jacques was pulled out of his trance, his black hair framed the sides of his face with some strands holding to his damp porcelain skin.
The words on the paper swirled and seemed nonsensical after having lost the reader's attention. It was not completed, it's end not written, so before that was accomplished it would live and breathe as all lives do. Each choice could change the path, just like each word could change the next.
A gentle sigh escaped his thin pink lips and a delicate hand, filled with dexterity, clasped his forehead. "I have told you to not bother me when I am writing." His words came out calm and composed but his annoyance could not be hidden under that facade.
The woman's voice, elegant and soothing, did not seem perturbed by his gentle attempt to berate her. "You have been writing for God knows how long, Jacques."
Jacques was perplexed, 'I've just started..', the unspoken words floated across his consciousness. His eyes caught the surrounding room before his mouth moved to speak them.
The room was lit up by the soft rays of sunlight pouring in through the windows, illuminating the hundreds of books strewn across the floor and the lucky ones who sat upon a shelf. Shelves covered every wall, no space inbetween the fronts and backs of each work. The room held a treasure of stories like no other, some that could whisk you away to forgotten worlds and others that could make a apathetic man weep and love a character that was truly only known in his mind.
He chuckled, "Well... my dear, Celina, it seems you have caught me without a retort." In front of him was his desk, that had been clean when he started, and on top were stacks of paper filled to the brim with dark black letters. Towering stacks that leaned under their own weight, edges peeking out in every direction as if slammed on top in haste.
Celina smiled with a gentle roll of her emerald green eyes. Pulling his loose hair out of his face and behind his ears she leaned over the top of his seated figure to gaze at the last few sentences he had typed.
The words coalesced to fit her mind, painting a vivid scene only known to her. No matter how good the description, how detailed, how complex or simple... it would always differ just slightly from the writer's intent. A hum emanated from her slender neck and she kissed the top of his head.
"Dinner will get cold if you do not hurry, dear. I imagine you would prefer a hot meal after days of nothing." Her hands pulled away from his shoulders, the flowing woosh and scratching of fabric pricked his ears as she turned and the clicking of shoes grew further away.
He let out a breath and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips once she was gone,"She calls... You will have to wait." Jacques mumbled to his typewriter. The flowing letters distraught at having to wait for, what felt like, an eternity to be finished.
The door to his study closed shut and his footsteps disappeared into the distance.