3rd of Fall, 519 AV
He knew what had to be done. Or, at least, that's what Mihill told himself as he scooped his supplies into an open-top crate. There was no rule book for something like this, because something like this was never supposed to happen. He was raised in this city, and he thought he had paid his dues like all the rest. You send your prayers to Rhysol, give him everything you have, behave, behave, behave. Things like this weren't supposed to happen. This wasn't supposed to happen.
The forty-nine year old swiped a jar of paint off his workstation, sending it crashing to the ground. The sound was amplified as the glass shattered. Deep red paint oozed out of what remained of the jar, lapping at the painter's feet. Maybe it was the panic, maybe it was the sleep deprivation, but Mihill swore he saw a face swirling in the paint. It was laughing at him.
He ran.
It was a pleasant morning like all the rest in Ravok. As Mihill hit the walkway, though, the sunlight seemed oppressive. He hadn't left his apartment in the Merchant's Ring in days, instead preferring to take shelter in his dark studio to paint. His brown eyes felt like grapes being squeezed to make Ravok's most pitiful wine. As he reached the ravosala landing, the painter shielded his eyes.
Once inside a ravosala, Mihill gave his destination in a low, raspy voice: "Registration Office." They lurched into motion, giving Mihill time to take stock of what was in his crate. He hadn't checked before, and, instead, had simply thrown whatever paints and tools he owned into the box. There were several jars of paint, most all dark shades of red, purple, green, and black. There were also a three large jars of white paint sitting next to every brush Mihill owned.In total, he had about twenty brushes ranging from large, 6 inches wide ones to small detail-work ones. Jammed at the bottom of the crate was a large tan drop cloth, but that was only a remainder from a different expedition. Today, there was no time for such luxuries as cleanliness.
A few days ago, a tightness had began to plague the man's chest. It persisted no matter what he did, and often worsened whenever he left his painting studio. Mihill grabbed frantically for one of his brushes, seizing one of the smaller ones in his wrinkled, paint-covered hands. Without looking, Mihill opened a jar of paint and plunged the brush into it. The brush came back up green. Mihill began to swirl the brush on his pant leg, creating no pattern in particular. It helped ease the tightness. Mihill sighed as they neared the Citizen Registration Office.
While still painting, the man pointed with his free hand towards a building adjacent to the Registration Office complex. This building wasn't anything special in particular, which was good. All that Mihill needed was a building close to the city center, one that everyone could see--that they could see. Thankfully, the building owner was glad to dedicate his blank wall to the honoring of the great Defiler and gave the man permission to paint there.
The ravosala pulled close to the narrow pathway and allowed Mihill to step out. He heaved the crate onto the dock, which caused the pain in his chest to surge. The painter placed the crate down on the ground somewhat hastily, then looked around. His hand continued to absentmindedly paint green dots on his clothes as he scanned the area.
In front of him stood a large wood wall. It was mostly light, though streaks of green weathering reached up from the platform. The wall had no windows. The thin walkway creaked as passersby hustled across, some bumping into the ladder that leaned against the wall. Mihill followed the ladder up with his eyes, examining the structure it led to: wood scaffolding. It was cheaply made, but seemed sturdy enough. Though, Mihill didn't much care; as long as he could finish this mural, he didn't care if the petchin thing crumbled.
Finishing this mural--it was all he cared about. He supposed that was why he was willing to sell his soul to the Calicos. They had been reluctant to help Mihill, given his newfound social standing. He wasn't the most popular in the city now, and all the other families had refused to even see him. But, slowly but surely, Mattias had agreed to build Mihill this scaffolding.
One of Mattias' conditions was that one of the family members help oversee he project. Mihill didn't care. He needed to paint this wall, and he needed to have scaffolding to do so. If he then, in turn, needed to babysit to get scaffolding, then so be it. The older man ran his hand through his dark brown, wavy hair, leaving paint stains behind as he did so.
"Whoever this Calico is," Mihill murmured. "They better get here fast." His already weathered face wrinkled in frustration as he squinted down the pathway. He was originally looking for his Calico escort, but the longer he stared the more he could swear that he saw a familiar face glaring from around the corner of a walkway.
A shove came from behind him as someone cursed his immobility on the walkway. Mihill waved at the person roughly before he finally stopped painting and pocketed his brush. He placed the crate at the foot of the ladder, stepped over it, and slowly began to climb. It was maybe ten feet tall, but it took the man a few chimes. He couldn't keep air in his lungs as he ascended, making it extremely difficult to do anything. Mihill cursed himself, knowing his lean body was more capable than this. He was old, yes, but not weak.
Once at the top, the man flopped onto the scaffolding. It shook violently, but held. Mihill retrieved his paintbrush and began to swirl on his pantleg once again. From here, he could easily see up and down the walkways bordering the canal. As he regained his breath, the painter leaned against the wall and impatiently waited for his company to arrive.
