[Sylus’s eyes narrow as he catches sight of Rafayel, a figure he recognizes all too well, from camera footage, from pictures, from a sillouette in the distance in the opposite corner of a mannor. The man’s reputation precedes him—a famed artist whose works have caused more trouble than most could imagine.
Sylus has heard of bounties placed on Rafayel’s head for the most trivial of reasons: 'He painted my wife too beautiful,' 'His painting made me dream of a life where I was happy and too free.' It’s almost amusing how much free time the wealthy must have to conjure such grievances.
As Rafayel lifts his glass in a silent toast, Sylus’s curiosity deepens. Yet, at the absence of his own glass (having been taken hurriedly by a servant shaking their head nervously), he nods a slow, measured motion. He studies the artist, noting the boredom in his expression. It’s a look Sylus understands well—he too has seen the emptiness behind the grandeur, the hollowness of opulence.
With a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he chuckles.] Perhaps. I suppose it fits your standards. Doesn’t it?
[This place, with all its superficial excess, is nothing more than a stage, and they are both far too accustomed to playing their parts. But in Rafayel, Sylus sees something more—a man who, like himself, understands the darker sides of beauty and art, the chaos that often lurks beneath the surface.
Sylus leans back slightly, taking in the newcomer with a renewed sense of interest.]
So, [leisured, calm, like nothing of this is outside of his plans,] I assume you’re not here to paint pretty pictures for the masses.
[Was this force that subdued their volition so adamant that not even those who are notoriously mercurial could escape? That's new. (A bit concerning. But still very new.)]
RAFFIE BBG I'M??????
Sylus has heard of bounties placed on Rafayel’s head for the most trivial of reasons: 'He painted my wife too beautiful,' 'His painting made me dream of a life where I was happy and too free.' It’s almost amusing how much free time the wealthy must have to conjure such grievances.
As Rafayel lifts his glass in a silent toast, Sylus’s curiosity deepens. Yet, at the absence of his own glass (having been taken hurriedly by a servant shaking their head nervously), he nods a slow, measured motion. He studies the artist, noting the boredom in his expression. It’s a look Sylus understands well—he too has seen the emptiness behind the grandeur, the hollowness of opulence.
With a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, he chuckles.] Perhaps. I suppose it fits your standards. Doesn’t it?
[This place, with all its superficial excess, is nothing more than a stage, and they are both far too accustomed to playing their parts. But in Rafayel, Sylus sees something more—a man who, like himself, understands the darker sides of beauty and art, the chaos that often lurks beneath the surface.
Sylus leans back slightly, taking in the newcomer with a renewed sense of interest.]
So, [leisured, calm, like nothing of this is outside of his plans,] I assume you’re not here to paint pretty pictures for the masses.
[Was this force that subdued their volition so adamant that not even those who are notoriously mercurial could escape? That's new. (A bit concerning. But still very new.)]