Delaney Weston------with William on Winter 15, Y8--------It's late evening, and cold.--------- @Beatrix
What a season it had been. Her artistic rampage had finished – well, for the most part – and now Delaney had a lot
of downtime and more pressing, a lot of money on hand. She was in a new area as well, the north east commonwealth... and what a place it was. Delaney had to admit – it fit her. The people in the city were unfriendly, unmoving and ignored her. The small town people in the places she crashed seemed mostly afraid of her. It just all felt right
. A girl could really set up shop in a place like this – and so, Delaney wanted to. She'd chosen this little town for her future studio – Maple's Landing – judging solely on the rumors coming out of it. A dead(??) goddess. Old unsolved axe murders from decades ago, followed by a random resurgence more recently. Weird masquerade themed parties... it was a dream, really. So interesting, so weird.
But Delaney was in a lull, creatively. She was bored most days, rarely venturing to get out of bed or do much of anything. Most of the time, if she was brave enough to get out of bed, she wandered the Landing until late at night – after all, it was the best time for her to clear her head. Clad in all black, she was doing just the same, trudging through the dirty old snow that'd been sitting all season, eyes scanning around this “Sequoia Roads” district. What a bleak landscape in the dead of winter, she truly loved it. What emptiness, what a blank canvas, just splashes of bleak, peeling color and paint from barns. And then, there, off the way of someone's farm, a basket of misplaced red apples, peeking teasingly from an open barn door. Delaney stopped. She held her breath.
It was as if she'd been struck with lightning, the instant inspiration. She could see the painting in her mind – a bleak white canvas, an outstretched arm, red spilling from it and slowly shaping into perfect, ripe apples. She wanted to get home right away – but first, she needed the apples. She had to have them, these little beacons of inspiration. Maybe to paint, maybe to consume and steal their beauty and power, she really hadn't decided yet, but... she had to have them.
Quickly, Delaney leapt over the fenced partition, carelessly approaching the basket Her hands were clasped around it just when the owner reappeared, ready to reclaim his
This was not the same situation as the classroom in Greenfield, and without any prior planning, Delaney was stuck. She stared at the farmer, hands gripping the basket challengingly. He'd pry these apples from her cold, dead, axe-murdered hands.