<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">A R I N</span></span></div><br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">Stay still</span></span>, the<a class="postlink" href="http://scontent-b-lga.cdninstagram.com/hphotos-xpa1/t51.2885-15/10533284_756213291098606_937125600_n.jpg">woman</a>signed before her eyes dropped to her pad once more, charcoal scratching at the pad rested atop her lap. Warm, whiskey hues continued to bounce back and forth between model and paper, the only sound to be heard the sketching itself. There was no need for a table, preferring to be close to her art, to let the lines speak to the person. Tables made lines eerily perfect, in her eyes, creating a sharpness that no human form should possess, nor any for that matter. Not once had she attempted to draw on an easel, and tables went ignored. This was something she wanted to do as naturally as possible, just like she were still outside of Jackson Square, taking on requests…only this time, the request was her own, and the man she was sketching wasn’t a random customer that she’d picked up on the street, and she wasn’t outside attempting to draw in the tourists with her psychic talents.<br/><br/>What’d started out as a terrible first impression and a nonchalant kidnapping to the middle of the bayou had turned into more. Arin had been adamantly opposed to talking to him, to even allowing herself to spare a thought on his egotistical ass after he’d blown up a statue and a tree based off of a vision she’d had and held no control over. She’d refused to acknowledge him after he’d tried to change his tune, playing the same trick he did with every other woman (or so she’d assumed; he seemed the type), and leaving him in the bayou to not be heard from again. …But another vision had brought the pair together, a vision that had turned into a piece of art that she put up at her first high-class showing, that had called him to her. His name in her mind, however fleeting and deep down the thought was buried had kept him around in the Big Easy, long enough to track her down and show up at her gallery. He’d even gone to the lengths of setting it up and serving her champagne as she’d warred with herself on the piece in question, assuring herself over and over that it wasn’t an abstract depiction of him in any way, shape or form. It was merely a storm, crashing down over a desert with a vague representation of lightning.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Completely coincidental</span>, Arin had told herself.<br/><br/>But, there he was, speaking to her, apologizing and she still wouldn’t entertain the idea of even talking to him for a prolonged period of time. It took a healthy several glasses of champagne, an impromptu jaunt to a dive bar for something stronger, and a dinner to try and sober her up to get them talking and into a regular routine. That regular routine had ended up with him becoming her muse, a muse she was currently sketching after previously wishing he’d explode in one of his own backfired lightning bolts. Yet, here she was, using him as her inspiration and trying to draw him…<br/><br/>…Except that she had to keep pausing to tell him to stay still. Even<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>wasn’t working anymore, though, as he was turning around so that she couldn’t just sign at him as he couldn’t see it anymore. The pad of paper beside her, reserved for hastily-written notes, was thrown at him, along with the pencil ensnared in the spiral. That wasn’t enough, as all she earned with that was a look over his shoulder as he shifted into yet another pose. Standing up with an audible sigh, her pad was slammed down on her chair and she fairly stomped over. Her charcoal was tucked behind an ear, hands gripping his arms and turning him around a bit harsher than necessarily intended, but she was too focused at the moment, and his interruption was wasting valuable time in capturing the image she had in her head. She moved one of his arms slightly forward, the other a touch back, before focusing on his core. She turned his torso more toward the left, and forced him to pull one leg out just a fraction more. Then, her hands found themselves at his chin, standing on tiptoe as she tilted him ever-so-slightly to the side and fixed a piece of hair.<br/><br/>Stepping back, she squinted at him and nodded.<span style="color: #FFFF80"> <span style="font-weight: bold">You move, and I will kill you. Somehow. So don’t,</span></span>the mute signed, her face serious as she’d recaptured what she was attempting to draw before he started his routine of “the beach is that way!” and “I’m an Olympian! Look at my obvious pose!”.<br/><br/>She settled in to her chair again, the charcoal pencil pulled from the back of her ear, and started in drawing once more. Watching him in her peripheral, her hand had shifted across the page, ready to further define his chest when everything went dark.<br/><br/>That was the last thing she remembered before she was pulled.<br/><br/>A vision. She was having a vision. The charcoal in her hand stilled as her eyes glazed over, unblinking as her gaze held on something unseen. In fact, her eyes were staring straight ahead, some smudging occurring as her hand retraced some of the lines she’d already made, but Arin was oblivious. She was oblivious to him, to her drawing, to the world around her.<br/><br/>When she came to moments later, the world slowly filtered back in. It wasn’t anything familiar, from the sights to the sounds, the woman was out of sorts, more disoriented than she normally was when coming back into reality and out of the realm of divination. In her hands was clasped a vision, a vision of Mack, the room they’d only just been in mid shift. A distinct line separated the loft they’d been in from this new room, one filled with no face she recognized and a plethora of weapons drawn and at the ready. Voices filtered in, words flying faster than she could initially process, still in her very same chair, the sketch pad in a white-knuckle grip as her chest heaved. Eyes blinking, she glanced around, trying to take it all in and coming up empty.<br/><br/>Worry set in, worry and confusion, as her attention shifted to Mack, the pad forcibly ripped from her hand before starting in on a long and rapid fire line of sign language in which only one section was repeated:<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #FFFF80"> <span style="font-weight: bold">WHERE THE HELL DID WE END UP?!</span></span></div><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: #8080FF;background:#8080FF;"/></div><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #BFBFFF"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;">M A K E D N O S</span></span></div><br/><br/>It was all fun and games until someone got hurt, or in his case, until he got her to get up and come over to him. The grin was on his face so clearly that he obviously had no plan to hide it, nor did he care to either. What mattered to him was the way she looked when she was frustrated, the small bit of charcoal that had been smudged on her cheek before she tucked it behind her ear. Had she not been so focused, he would have tried to get a kiss or two from her, but that could wait until she was done with him. So, as she brushed his hair back into place, her form on tiptoe before him, the grin left his lips and he became all “business.” There was a time for more fun later; there was always time for more fun later when one spent it with someone that you cared about.<br/><br/>Instead of him in the mindset to continue being a bother to her, he allowed his mind to focus on what he could with her tomorrow. Maybe she would want to go for a walk in the bayou? Maybe take a trip to some new café? Anything really would be fine, but it was a matter of…<br/><br/>His thoughts were stalled out by a change in the sound of the room. The sound of her sketching had changed and the way it changed made his stomach knot up in worry. Gaze now wholly focused on her, he noted that blank look, which had him, stride over to her to take a look at what she sketched.<br/><br/>“That does not look like my chest at all…” he said as he pulled on his pants and stood beside her to wait for whatever was to come. Engulfed in a blackness that emptied them out into another…room? His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, to try and comfort her as she came out of her trance like state. The room was filled with people, of various origins he could tell easily though that hardly fazed him since he doubted any of them could defeat the son of Zeus let alone fight their way out of a paper bag; an incredibly wet one at that.<br/><br/><span style="color: #FFFF80"><span style="font-weight: bold">I’m not sure. But we are together so there is that.</span></span>he tried to comfort her, with a smile and though he would have preferred to just pull her into his arms and hold her close he instead remained where he stood encase one of the trigger happy folks wanted to start shooting.