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Post by Noa Cartanelli on Sept 17, 2008 22:03:57 GMT -5
Noa was sitting in the window farthest away from the door into the huge art class room. Wearing something as trivial as a pair of grey jeans and a white T-shirt, he really did sort of blend in with the shadows by the windows. It was getting darker outside this time of year and it was not exactly entirely bright anymore. Shadows crept in from all around you these days and it seemed he was not any different on that matter. Not that it was completely dark outside, he could, after all, still sit in the window sill, filling out his small book with drawings and other more private stuff without the lacking light being an issue just yet.
On the floor beneath him a few rejected papers lay. He’d tossed them earlier on, seeing as they withheld on the paper flaws that he knew he could undo if only he tried hard enough. So, here he was, try-out #7, each time perfecting the drawing just a little bit more. It was a drawing of himself. He’d done quite a few of them at this point in his life and if you asked him, the explanation was quite obvious. Some people write about how they are, in words or turn it into lyrics to sing it out to the world. Others, such as some of the students here, would most likely throw just a bit of it into their movies, thus making it function as some sort of therapy for themselves. Noa, neither writing songs nor really writing that much at all, drew. Not just himself, but a lot of things that explained how he was doing, what he was thinking, fearing and loving. Still, today, the drawing was in fact of himself. It had a dark touch to it, the drawing, because he was having a sh*tty day, truth be told. To most, it’d look like he by now was just trying to draw himself sitting there in the shadow, but to him, the shadows weren’t as much literal as they were figurative. It showed, perhaps, in his eyes. They seemed a bit unreachable as he sat there in his corner. Unreachable and somewhat troubled. Worried.
He closed his eyes and tipped his head slightly backwards. It met the frame of the window and he was able to relax the back of his head against it, whilst breathing slowly in and out. He felt the calmness take over, which made a small smile find its way forth in the corner of his mouth. He dropped the pen in his hand, simply let go off it, and it fell down to rest on the T-shirt-covered stomach. He wasn’t really finished with the drawing, but felt a need to take a break from it. His hand was aching anyway and when he came to think of it, so was his mind.
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Post by Hélène Beauvilliers on Sept 18, 2008 19:53:48 GMT -5
Shadows slowly creped out from beneath buildings and any well lit regions of the hallway just seemed to emphasis the growing darkness outside. Hélène was headed for the art room. No reason in particular other then to see the art that the people here were capable of making. Having been to the Louvre more times then she cared to think about, Hélène figured she knew a thing or two about art. She would never pretend to be an art expert but she could tell when someone put their whole soul into a painting or drawing or sculpture and when someone just made something to make money. Sadly, nowadays, you saw more of the latter then the former.
She stepped into the art room, her black leather knot ballet shoes barely made a sound on the slick floor of the room. The rooms lights were extinguished and the only light was the gray ambient light from the outside illumination as the sun slipped below the horizon, the gray clouds were like a ceiling over the school, pressing down as the night pushed in. Wearing a dark purple dress, the skirt of the dress was ruffled with a few layers added to it. A dark brown belt was wrapped around her waist, the clasp was a dark bronze color. She wore a light gray tank top underneath the dress, for modesty sake. Her wavy brunette hair was down, trailing down to her shoulder, terminating above her bust.
She glanced at each of the large windowsills and sighted someone sitting against one of the windows. The person was just a black shape against the light from outside. Their head was leaned back, as though they were resting, which perhaps they were, at this time of the day the art department was the quietest part of the school. She took a few steps toward the person and as she neared she figured out the gender of the person. A boy, in a t-shirt and jeans, a art pad in his lap. She couldn't tell what was drawn on the paper but she could see his tattoo. It was on his right arm, it said 'In Vino Veritas' or 'In wine truth' to be translated crudely. At least he was not like the flock of other teenagers who tattooed Japanese onto their arms.
"In vino vertias, in aqua sanitas," She said out loud in barely a whisper, completing the Latin phrase. In wine truth, in water health. She knew Latin, and many other European languages, they all were rooted in a common ancestor so learning one was easy once you knew a few others. Latin was a bit too archaic to her tongue, but it was still a pretty language.
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Post by Noa Cartanelli on Sept 18, 2008 21:28:49 GMT -5
Noa had not heard her come. The door had been opened, he’d left it like that because it was getting late even when he arrived and he knew few, if any, would make their way up here at this hour. Therefore the door did not have to be opened, which left no indication of anyone entering the room. Her shoes were probably the reason he had not heard her as she got closer to the class room either. Thus he was a bit startled when she finally spoke. It showed in the way his dark silhouette did this one, sudden, short start, leaving him in an upright position, face towards the intruder. The light coming from behind him, favoured his view of the girl who had found her way more than halfway into the room towards him. At least that would be his judgment from his position in the window.
“Eh, yeah, I wouldn’t know about the health in water, but truth in wine can definitely be found,” he said rather silently as well, clearly with a British accent, picking up the pen from his stomach and shoving it gently into his jeans’ pocket. If it wasn’t for the fact that he did not move an inch in the window sill, you’d almost expect him to be considering to move on by the haste he got the pen out of the way.
He moved his right hand to his left shoulder and scratched it slightly in order to get some warmth into his bare arms again. He had not paid it much attention before, but something about the girl entering the room and breaking his otherwise pretty far-away thoughts made him aware of the fact that he was getting a bit cold by the window. Sure, it was closed, but that did not stop it from being chilly to sit against. That’s probably why he swung his legs out over the sill and, as they reached the floor, left the comforts of the window sill behind in favour of what suddenly, to him, seemed a more focussed confrontation with the girl, whom he know discovered he was facing quite straightforwardly.
“I’m Noa,” he said, calmer than most would when they discover that they’re just standing there, having said nothing. There was no indication of him being even the slightest bit beside himself due to the sudden appearance of the girl. He did not show any shyness, just straight to the point, really. He seemed, though, somewhat reserved in his way of just standing there. Not as forward as some, perhaps not as withdrawn as others. “Noa Cartanelli.”
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Post by Hélène Beauvilliers on Sept 18, 2008 23:04:37 GMT -5
When the guy heard her speak, he jerked slightly. Most people would have jumped when someone else suddenly jerked, but Hélène wasn't most people. She stood there like a statue as the guy got a feel for his surroundings and finally saw her standing there. Her arms at her side, her legs slightly spread so she could stand straight up without swaying slightly, all showed she wasn't disturbed in the slightest from the guy sudden arrival into the world of consciousness.
The guy's accent was clearly British, while Hélène's was bland, no accent blended into the English she spoke. She could have graced her words with the natural French accent she had, it was a bit easier then the bland, non-national accent she used. Carefully pronouncing each words so no one could pinpoint where she came from. If she wanted to she could have used a number of accents, from upper class British, lower class British, any American accent, German, etc, etc. She learned accents nearly as quickly as languages. It kept her well informed when people spoke.
She was observant, her eyes watching while she stood there as quiet as a grave. His hair was brunette, lighter then her own which in this light was nearly black. She couldn't see what color his eyes were, that didn't matter, she would sooner or later if she ever saw or payed attention to this guy again. He was skinny, making her look healthy by comparison, though she was far from it. He finally stood up, proving that was taller then her, by about sixteen centimeters, give or take a couple. She stepped back slightly so it would give them both personal space. The first time she had moved since he had 'awakened'.
The guy, Noa was his name apperantly, seemed to easily grow comfortable with a situation, even if it involved a random girl appearing out of nowhere. She respected him for that, and that was it for now. She finally spoke up, allowing her French accent to enter her words, "I'm Hélène Beauvilliers," She introduced herself. No add on like 'enchanted to meet you' or even 'nice to meet you' because neither one was true. She rarely lied, unless she needed to, to mess with people. Right now she wasn't going to.
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Post by Noa Cartanelli on Sept 25, 2008 15:49:06 GMT -5
Noa was eyeing her out just like she was him, only he was less concerned with details. He mainly just let it sink in that she was a girl, humbly pretty, and somewhat quiet. And standing there in front of her, her just looking, he could not really do much other than that either. Sure, he said his name and when she said hers, one of his brows lifted slightly, but he couldn’t place the name. It sounded somewhat familiar in a way he could never begin to explain, and a slight puzzlement showed for just a second in his eyes, as he eyed her closer, as if the answer would come to him merely by looking at her. Still, the intenseness seemed to last no longer than five seconds after which it lifted and left his eyes in a neutral state.
“Sounds familiar,” he said, rather low, still looking at her as if looking directly at a person for too long was not something he’d ever heard of. Keeping conversation going with a lot of words did not seem to be that either. He merely uttered the words, feeling like he should maybe say something and really, that was all he had come up with, also because it was of course true. But it didn’t seem like he had much more than that to say. He just looked at her from his place in the darkness for a little while, weighing up the girl in his mind, perhaps making some sort of mental picture for a reason he didn’t quite know. Maybe it was her just looking at him like he looked at her that vaguely intrigued him?
He wondered if he was to say anything. He knew the silence made the seconds seem extra present, extra long perhaps, but he really didn’t know if that alone would be reason enough for him to leap into a conversation. At another given day perhaps, with another given person. She didn’t really seem like she had anything to say so why start talking? She didn’t seem the kind who would burst out into conversation if he asked her a random question - not that he had ever been much for those anyway. Family and stuff… why was it so important for others to ask about it? He hated that your family and your past was the starting point for most conversations with strangers.
For another moment, his eyes became puzzled. Once again like they were trying to figure something out merely by looking. He wondered, slash, slightly feared, something as usual as that would be brought up if he opened his mouth and by God, was today not the day! A faint sigh slipped across his lips and he turned his gaze down towards the notebook in his hands, closing it almost silently, before looking up at the girl again.
“You can have the art room, if you need it,” he said, still rather low, and without him having no reason to sound like that, a bit quitting, “I’m just about done anyway.”
He did not turn his face upwards, just his eyes. They were still neutral, but showed, however ambiguously, both sadness and slight kindness in them at the same time. He let them rest upon her eyes, before he turned around, laid down the notebook in the window sill, and started picking up the first six failed try-outs of the mournful self-portrait.
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