Raylyn had been sleeping, but when the sounds of the guitar drifted into the hotelâ€™s room she blinked awake. She was sprawled across the bed, her black silky shorts showing off bore than necissariy, tan thighs, but then again most nighty shorts did, and her black and lime green tank clung to her as she grumbled. Putting her hair in a messy bun as a few strands fell free she stretched. Looking out the window she saw the sun setting and the new guy in the middle of the street playing a guitar.<br/><br/>â€œWhat theâ€¦â€ was all she murmured before she opened the door and leaned against the doorframe to listed. The guy wasnâ€™t that bad, but then again who was she to judge. She couldnâ€™t play music if it sat in her hands and did it all for her. No her passion was art, pursing her lips she retreated in the rom and looked beneath the bed and found her sketch pad. Finding herself a pencil she came back to lean against the door and opened the book to a blank page, she thought of where to start, but seemingly she already knew in the back of her mind.<br/><br/>Pencil to paper Raylyn watched the man, her fingers guiding the pencil along his jaw line, then down into the swoop of the nape of his neck. Her tongue lightly poked from her lips as she drew. Slowly she had his upper torso, his hair like whisps as she drew them blowing in the wind even though there was naught. His eyes so lifelike that they bore into her even as she drew. Giving a slight tremble she continued her work, and before she knew it there he was in black and grey. The man standing not on the street, but in an open wheat field, his shirt was open, but it wasnâ€™t like a now shirt. More like a shirt from pagan days. She frowned as she continued to look at what she had drawn. Horse was behind him, and within his grasp was a lyre. Blinking green eyes she was utterly confused since she had been looking to the guy, but the way she had drawn him was like, 700 years agoâ€¦.