Public The Technicolor Nightmare

[Nerium]

Somewhere, out there, where the towels are oh-so fluffy. ​

Unpredictability was a weapon in the right hands. And while Nerium danced about unpredictability like a moth would a lamp, she had more recently decided she was left handed (after all, that was how handed-ness was decided, was it not?). So, rather than a weapon, she wielded more of a paintbrush in her eclectic grasp, painting both daydreams and nightmares for those susceptible to her suggestion.

Saiklama had been good to her for that reason, among others. A realm equally of creation and destruction, what went wonky was quickly returned to balance, one way or another. But one could only have so much of a good thing. And once that statute of limitations was up, out went contentment and in came a maddening wave of restlessness. Some would use the opportunity to take up a new hobby, others would shrug with a quick 'it be like that', but more often then not, there was a general acknowledgment that the restlessness would eventually pass.

The acknowledgment phase was two weeks ago. A new record for Nerium's patience, no doubt. But still, two weeks without stimulation was two weeks too long.

And thus, here we are...wherever here was. Nerium long since stopped paying attention to the where. Or the when. Never the how. She lived in the moment, even if the moment didn't exactly match up with the present. In the present moment, however, Nerium had one thing on her mind. Duracrete was all fine and dandy. Walkways? Even better. Duracrete walkways? They were extraordinary...Extraordinarily boring. And with that very notion in mind, Nerium took to the streets, paints in hand, ready and willing to add a spot of color to the dreary walkway. Nothing would get in her way, it seemed. Except for --

"Uh, excuse me, could you - I dunno - kindly move? I'm tryna paint here."​

 

[Val Drutin]

Slippered feet.

Over-muscled legs clad in white tights.

A gaudy theatrical costume made from black velvet and pale linen...

...and an ordinary face with eyes open wide and mouth hanging agape.

The head affixed to the swanlike neck tilted slowly to the side, flabbergasted by the woman painting the walkways in front of him. But then his head righted itself, his mouth shut, and his slanting dark eyes regained their dark slanty-ness.

"Oh, sorry," Val said, and gracefully stepped out of her way.

Nerium

 

[Nerium]

Wide eyes, one a brilliant blue, the other an off-putting green, stared up at the individual. They blinked once, twice, head cocking to the side, as if to mimic the sight only moments before her. The apology was met with a blank stare before --

"It's a-okay." The smile that came with the words was perhaps just a bit too wide, or a bit too quick to form.

Without looking, she dipped the paintbrush into more paint, or rather tried to. The brush grazed the side of the bucket, toeing the line between painting the bucket itself and pouring it's contents all out at once.

"Do ya wanna paint too? I don't have another brush, but fingers work just fine! Or you can use the brush and I can fingerprint." She nodded with a hurried enthusiasm, quickly handing the brush off to her other hand and plunging the now-free appendage into paint for emphasis.

"It's fun. Pinky promise."

Val Drutin ​

 

[Val Drutin]

Val couldn't resist a friendly invitation. (Or a mean one, for that matter.) Heck, if she hadn't invited him, he probably would have joined her anyway.

"Yes," Val agreed, watching with benign curiosity as she thrust her whole hand into the colored goop. It was exactly the sort of impulsive thing he would have done if he weren't so concerned about messing up his costume - it was on loan from the theater, after all. "It is fun."

Raising his hands, he made a motion like he was stirring the paint with his finger. Though he hadn't actually dipped in, the thick liquid swirled in the bucket. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent some of it slopping over the edge, trickling down the side, and running full speed across the pavement like a horse-drawn sleigh through snow. The horses split and shrank down to drops the size of hunting dogs, which ran off in crazy directions, chasing a pattern. But in the end, it wasn't clear what the picture was supposed to be. A tree, maybe? A mushroom cloud? Broccoli?

"What are you painting?" he asked. Sitting down cross-legged on a dry spot, he remembered his manners. "My name's Val. What's yours?"

Nerium