Caught Rayed Handed (Rayes)

[Wart]

77th Summer 512 AV
(Night time)

Wart's boots fell quietly as she walked down the dark and otherwise empty road. Any other day and she would have let her steps fall solidly, echoing and breaking the silence, but right now she needed to be something she rarely ever was otherwise. Subtle. Silent. Out of sight.

Over her head she had pulled up the hood of her seldom-used dark cloak. One corner was badly ripped from when she had been forced to patch up some old sackcloth but it was generally very intact and clean, if simply from lack of use. It kept her face shaded, unseen. If one was close enough they might see the red-purple glow of her vanthan eyes, but that was it.

All around her were large, lavish homes. This was the upper class part of Zeltiva. Further south from the infamous East Street and closer to the famous West Street. Here lived the "important people," or as Wart saw them, the lazy narcissistic prick's who rode off of everyone else's hard working backs.

One might wish to believe that the woman was here to make a statement, a stand for the working class. Or even to act as a vigilante, defending those without the courage to stand up for themselves. But no, she was here because she had long unfinished business that simply involved pure, selfish revenge.

A few weeks ago, she'd been out looking for inspiration when a stupid turn of events ended with a stupid, bald vagik breaking one of her paintbrushes.This will be a link to a short solo I started that'll explain how all of this ended up happening Sure she had plenty more, why care about losing one? But that wasn't the point. You don't touch an artists tools. Let alone break them. In front of said artist. For no. Petching. REASON.

Wart fumed, teeth clenched hard, hands balled into fists. She shook, anger flaring remembering the event. It had taken far too long, but tonight would be the night. She'd get her revenge. The start of it at least. Finally after a few minutes of walking, she came to the house.

A vicious sneer spread across her lips. She looked around her, scanning for any signs of anyone who might be watching her, then slipped into the shadows surrounding the side of the house.

[Ray]

Rayes was wondering whether or not this was becoming a habit. He wasn’t an honorable man, he had no illusions about that. He wasn’t even sure if he’d call himself a good man, if it came down to it. He was footloose, vulgar, and did as he pleased, when he pleased, nevermind what anyone else wanted. Still, he’d never really imagined himself standing in Zeltiva’s upper end, looking at all the lovely houses and wondering if it would be possible to steal from them. Oh, he didn’t have a moral problem with stealing. He knew what it was like living rough, getting by on the skin of your teeth so you could eat another day. He’d met plenty of thieves in his lifetime and found himself liking most of them, even the ones that tried to steal from him only to find out that he had nothing to steal. He’d just never thought that he would turn thief himself. It wasn’t about the money, he knew that for certain. He had enough money gathered at home to live off comfortably for ten years. He just didn’t want to spend it, any of it. He wanted to keep it, add to it, make it bigger. So that would mean… well, it was kind of about the money. The rooftops were easier to get about on, he mused as he gazed down from his perch on a decidedly expansive chimney. The tiles were less likely to come free under your feet and the buildings were clustered together, as if they were afraid of being alone. And even if he didn’t make a habit of stealing, he still liked the view. The houses were big and tall and had nice gardens to look at. He might— Wait. What was that? Rayes slid from his seat to crouch at the edge of the roof. A figure slipped silently through the streets. It hunched under its cloak and kept to the shadows, occasionally glancing from side to side. This was no noble. Someone was being sneaky. A grin broke out across Ray’s face as he slid into a silent lope. It could be a thief. Or an assassin. Or a merchant returning to his wife after falling asleep where he shouldn’t have. Maybe it was dangerous. That would be fun. He crossed from roof to roof, occasionally losing sight of the figure but always managing to catch up. If it turned out to be something domestic then he would be very disappointed. If it turned out to be something dangerous he would have to find some way to join in.

[Wart]

The wall was clean, white. Of course it was, these vagiks would die to have a speck of dirt on their precious homes. Oh, but it wouldn't be clean for long. This was just another big blank sheet of paper that was in desperate need of filling in.

She'd had the image in her head for days. She knew exactly what she was going to paint here. Nights of sketching in her room every last detail again and again and again until it was a permanent image in her head that she could have replicated with her eyes closed. After one more quick look around and a glance to be sure that every window was darkened, she started popping the lids off of each of the paints on her belt. A larger brush in her left hand and she began.

Her movements were hurried, driven by an intense supply adrenaline fueled by anticipation of this day, anger, and sheer excitement. This wasn't going to be a masterpiece, it wasn't supposed to be. This was a message. A message to the idiot vagik who dared petch with her. She started with the main focus of the picture. If she was going to be interrupted midway into the painting she'd need at least that. In all honesty however there was very little that could stop her once she'd started, save for the wavguard coming themselves and forcefully taking her away.

The first images on the wall were Mizas. Gold rimmed, precious mizas. One after another after another, the start of a pile of them all laying there. And all of them melting. Strokes swept down to create drips and waves, some of them bubbling up some slumped into resigned near-liquid and running into other coins. She used three different brushes, one for the gold rimming, one for the plain grey she had decided on using for the insides (she knew very well that they were often various colors but there wasn't time for that), and one for the M. It saved time as apposed to having to rinse and get new colors, and time was of the essence.

Every so often she added in a Nilo, the coin specific to Zeltiva, using some extra grey to set it apart. As she progressed the top coins became more visible and discernible, with colors running and mixing in those at the "bottom of the pile." But that was simply part of the plan, part of the concept of the precious melting money. Everything was chaotic, clashing, messy. This wasn't some painting expressing the beauty of scenery or some profound idea. This was to be a rich merchant's nightmare.

The further she went into the painting the more the cloak was becoming a pain to have to work with. Looking around once more, this time more carefully, she made sure that the street was still empty and that no one was snooping around. The wall she had chosen hid her from the light of the moon and any street lanterns, so she'd planned for keeping largely unseen, even without the cloth. So once sure, she ripped it off and tossed it to the side and continued her rapid painting, eyes glaring red with the vengeance held in each and every stroke of the brush.