eight seconds. [alphiana]
Aug 22, 2015 1:46:27 GMT -5
Post by ∂αмєη on Aug 22, 2015 1:46:27 GMT -5
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[presto]
ALPHONSE BRUNT
[/presto]All at once, the sunglow colour of the descending sun and the celeste velato of the sky canvas blend together into a mixture of beauty that can't quite be recreated. That was, without a doubt, Alphonse's favourite thing about art; he was likely one of the most successful and prominent art forgers in the District, if not all of Panem, and yet he couldn't quite recreate the exact beauty of a setting sun. It was impossible to have the colours blend exactly as he wished as they spread across the aquamarine of the swaying ocean waves. Every artist has a hurdle they must jump, surely.
A brush sat between his fingers; they always felt naked without the familiar feeling of the wooden handle pressing into them. A tip was covered in a fairly interesting shade of turquoise, and was used to add the much needed shading to the heights of the waves. He was nearing the completion, though it would surely be torn up before then. He never kept his own paintings, knowing full well that doing so could mean bad business. With something to compare his natural strokes to, all of the forgeries could lose their intended value. Though all of his home's walls were covered in splatters of paint and canvases with half completed projects upon them, not a single inch held a true Alphonse Brunt work of art. Each and every one belonged to a long-dead artist of incredible acclaim, fetching quite the price for the gifted painter.
His eyes glanced once more at the light shining through the large window, noticing it was growing darker and darker as the day came to a close. With a sigh, he put the brush upon a table adorned with scattered tools before taking the still-fresh painting and tearing it in two. Hands cleaned themselves off on his pants, but he quickly changed out of them anyways due to the numerous stains of paint that stretched along it. After preparing for the night, he reached for the messenger bag that sat near the door and headed into the dull blue and the cool air of the late-evening. According to a contact, one he called Aro as it was the only three letters of his name that he knew, there was to be a man that would meet with him to purchase a dozen of his forgeries for a gala that was to happen in the Capitol. It was easy money with very few consequences, besides the obvious one that existed with the Keepers. Most were either aware and not particularly interested, or aware and purchasing directly from him. He'd say it was a victimless business, but that was never the case.
Time had barely passed before he found the man; he was an older fellow with only a bit of hair remaining on his head and face, primarily focused around his upper lip. The mustache was growing elderly grey, though it still possessed some of the original chocolate hairs it was formed with. Two tiny eyes hid behind a pair of glasses, moving constantly to survey the surroundings. Alphonse made his way over, not even offering a greeting to welcome the man. "Ah good evening. You must be the seller." He welcomed the paintings that were being handed to him, opening one slightly to examine it for quality. There would be no doubt that they'd all be the same; District Four was small enough that he could be found should there ever be a con he got caught on. Which there were plenty. Alphonse just had a certain way of dealing with problems that arose. "Everything looks in order. This will be yours, then. We'll be in touch for future purchases, sir." The man's official tone matched the stern attitude he had, but neither matched the image of the tiny man that stood before Alphonse. He simply nodded, pocketing the money that was handed to him.
That would be another stack underneath the floorboards of his home. He was getting closer and closer to the right amount to move himself, and his mother, to somewhere worth living. The care of District Four wasn't enough to deal with his mother's mental difficulties, and although he certainly didn't owe her anything he felt compelled to at least give her a fighting chance. You can't choose your parents in life, something Alphonse knew all too well, but you also couldn't just abandon the ones who never did anything wrong to you. Only the guilty deserved punishment - something his mother was most certainly not. He turned from the buyer, once more choosing to not say any form of anything, really, and crossed the open space to a small building with an open door: the bar. He would down some of the amber liquids before returning to the confines of his home. Drinks. Bed. Get up and repeat.
A brush sat between his fingers; they always felt naked without the familiar feeling of the wooden handle pressing into them. A tip was covered in a fairly interesting shade of turquoise, and was used to add the much needed shading to the heights of the waves. He was nearing the completion, though it would surely be torn up before then. He never kept his own paintings, knowing full well that doing so could mean bad business. With something to compare his natural strokes to, all of the forgeries could lose their intended value. Though all of his home's walls were covered in splatters of paint and canvases with half completed projects upon them, not a single inch held a true Alphonse Brunt work of art. Each and every one belonged to a long-dead artist of incredible acclaim, fetching quite the price for the gifted painter.
His eyes glanced once more at the light shining through the large window, noticing it was growing darker and darker as the day came to a close. With a sigh, he put the brush upon a table adorned with scattered tools before taking the still-fresh painting and tearing it in two. Hands cleaned themselves off on his pants, but he quickly changed out of them anyways due to the numerous stains of paint that stretched along it. After preparing for the night, he reached for the messenger bag that sat near the door and headed into the dull blue and the cool air of the late-evening. According to a contact, one he called Aro as it was the only three letters of his name that he knew, there was to be a man that would meet with him to purchase a dozen of his forgeries for a gala that was to happen in the Capitol. It was easy money with very few consequences, besides the obvious one that existed with the Keepers. Most were either aware and not particularly interested, or aware and purchasing directly from him. He'd say it was a victimless business, but that was never the case.
Time had barely passed before he found the man; he was an older fellow with only a bit of hair remaining on his head and face, primarily focused around his upper lip. The mustache was growing elderly grey, though it still possessed some of the original chocolate hairs it was formed with. Two tiny eyes hid behind a pair of glasses, moving constantly to survey the surroundings. Alphonse made his way over, not even offering a greeting to welcome the man. "Ah good evening. You must be the seller." He welcomed the paintings that were being handed to him, opening one slightly to examine it for quality. There would be no doubt that they'd all be the same; District Four was small enough that he could be found should there ever be a con he got caught on. Which there were plenty. Alphonse just had a certain way of dealing with problems that arose. "Everything looks in order. This will be yours, then. We'll be in touch for future purchases, sir." The man's official tone matched the stern attitude he had, but neither matched the image of the tiny man that stood before Alphonse. He simply nodded, pocketing the money that was handed to him.
That would be another stack underneath the floorboards of his home. He was getting closer and closer to the right amount to move himself, and his mother, to somewhere worth living. The care of District Four wasn't enough to deal with his mother's mental difficulties, and although he certainly didn't owe her anything he felt compelled to at least give her a fighting chance. You can't choose your parents in life, something Alphonse knew all too well, but you also couldn't just abandon the ones who never did anything wrong to you. Only the guilty deserved punishment - something his mother was most certainly not. He turned from the buyer, once more choosing to not say any form of anything, really, and crossed the open space to a small building with an open door: the bar. He would down some of the amber liquids before returning to the confines of his home. Drinks. Bed. Get up and repeat.
• • • •
grim.
