You sang to me || Stephen

The building had not been lived in in a long while, but it was well-known as being the perfect place for the artists who wanted to hide up, away from the world outside, in order to write their feelings, sing their music, paint their souls on the immaculate sheets of paper. Despite its old age, the building stood straight and it was in no damage, thanks to the many writers and draughtsmen that made their way inside almost every day. It had a perfect view of the city, smoothly combined with the blurry figures of the mountain peeks that stood in the distance, gently circled by downy clouds of white and grey. And the most beautiful detail was the enchanting contrast between the spectacular landscape outside and the dazzling whiteness of the walls. If you did not know who used the building, you could think that it was a space destined to some bizarre type of torture. No one who was not an artist could understand that that was, in fact, the only place a dreamer could get a torturous burden off his soul.

No one would have picked Lucille to be a dreamer; and she was not, most of the time. She was a demon, and even though she never killed or tortured, she did rather bad things as a routine. But there were times like this when she felt like taking a small break. Not that she did not like what she usually did; she loved what she did! But a break was something everyone needed from time to time. She was sitting on the window sill, her light yellow dress gently embracing her feminine curves, her dark hair caressing her shoulders, her long bare legs crossing lightly. Her eyes slowly drifted from the city, down to the notebook she was holding, as her pen started writing thoughts and ideas, as they came. She had never been there before, but it seemed that what they said about the old building was true; it did make everything easier. And it was night; a deep, beautiful night with a calm breeze gently stroking her smooth cheeks. Her favourite time of the day.

outfit.

It had been months since Stephen had last visited Scotland. He'd used to have the policy of driving up there at least once a month (more if there were important events like birthdays, Tartan Day or St Andrew's Day), but life had had some other plans for him as of late. His gallery, 'The Lion and The Unicorn' was quickly gathering popularity and though the artist was extremely happy about this, it also brought about the stress of making more paintings for people to buy.

Which would have been fine, had it not been for the fact that as well as having to paint, Stephen had to run his entire gallery by himself. Every single thing that most people (normal people) hired personal assistant and gallery assitants for, Stephen had to do himself. It was boring and exhausting. Not to mention utterly draining on the muse.

There really was only so much an artist could handle.

So closing up shop for the weekend and posting a polite note on the front door to explain his disappearance to any potential clients, he'd filled the car with as many canvases as he could fit (better be safe than sorry if an overabundance of muse suddenly hit), packed all his art gear, and left for Scotland. London was pretty and had great scenery to paint (his London nightscapes were a huge favourite with art collectors that weren't England natives), but London didn't have the same sort of beauty that his dear Scotland had. London was completely industrial - no fields of thistle and clover or misty moors. Stephen loved London, but it didn't have enough heart.

The artist had driven all day, stopping and sketching at the side of the road whenever the muse took him. It should've taken him only seven hours to get there; it ended up taking about ten. But despite his tiredness, for the first time in weeks he actually felt relaxed. He was glad to be back. Parking down an alley, he walked over to an ancient house, whose walls were starkly white, contrasting with the style of the house in such a way that the house looked unnatural, terrible even. Most people refused to step inside it, but that suited the occupants of it just fine; solitude was exactly what they wanted. Respite from the rest of the world.

Smiling, Stephen patted the worn marble as he pushed the old oak door open and went inside. The building had definitely seen better days, but that was what made it so wonderful. So much history. Walking up the stairs with a sketchpad in his hands, the artist looked around. The place was illuminated by the soft glow of various lamps, placed here and there, giving it an ethereal feel. Stephen knew that the place had a caretaker, a widowed elderly artist who looked after the building and cleaned up. But tonight he wasn't anywhere in sight. Maybe he was already up in his attic studio, working on some new piece.

The only occupant tonight was a lone brunette sitting  at the windowsill. She looked deep in thought and so Stephen did not want to disturb her. The unspoken rule of the building was never to disturb a visitor who appeared to be busy. Common courtesy, really. Slipping into an armchair and twiddling the light to make it just a teensy bit brighter, Stephen looked over at the woman again. She was beautiful, though he could only see her from side on. The way she sat and held herself was almost regal, but more like a princess taking a break from her royal duties than a stuffy queen. There was something serene about her and for a good few minutes, the artist couldn't take his eyes off her.

Finally, opening to a fresh page, he began to sketch.

~*~
OOC: The house on the left made me think of this thread. Don't ask why.

Timid footsteps echoed through the old building, as they always did. Artists from all around the city gathered in that old house eager to sing their music, write down their thoughts, draw their love. It was only an ancient establishment, so most people did not understand what made it special. Maybe it was the impressive architecture, maybe it was the sight from the last floor. Maybe it was the pleasant shiver that ran through everyone's body, at the thought that so many pieces had been given birth to in the exact same spot throughout history. That was something not everyone could understand, but the troubled souls that came there for salvation. Salvation through art.

Despite its age and condition, the building seemed to be rustling with excitement, waiting for another lifeform to creak across the worn wooden floorboards, sit in the royal armchairs and admire the view. Scary and filled with urban myths for the others, it was a delight for the artists, and that was why Lucille had dared to come here. Here, she was not afraid to take a break from her usual activities and focus, at least for a few hours, on something else. Here, she felt like she was a mere human being who lived through her creation and, surprisingly, she liked that.

The brunette heard the old oak door open, but she did not raise her emerald green eyes from her notebook. That was the most beautiful thing about the people who visited that place: they did not disturb the heart that was next to them. They could enjoy the silence, enjoy themselves and each other nevertheless, without speaking a word. And, unlike outside of the house, that was not awkward at all. Stepping inside the old establishment was like stepping into a surreal world, where everyone could be whoever they wanted. Themselves, or someone completely different from who they were - no one judged them, no one made them obey a set of bizarre rules that were not written anywhere, but you were supposed to follow in order to walk among humans and not feel different.

She heard the person sitting down in an armchair. Her eyes slowly drifted to the city once again, before returning to the elegant letters on the white pages of her notebook. She loved what she did in everyday life, but damn, how she needed a break from time to time! And this was the break she deserved.

Gently moving a strand of hair off her bare shoulder, she raised her eyes from her notebook once again, this time facing the other direction - the young man in the room, her artist companion for the night, if she could call him that. He seemed to be deep in thought as well, his pencil moving elegantly on the sketchbook, even though she could not see what he was drawing. Her eyes however remained stuck on his face. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, and he had the most beautiful pair of eyes. And she had met many men in her lifetime. At some point though, their eyes locked, surprisingly. Lucille slightly parted her lips, a bit embarassed by the fact that he had caught her staring at him. She did not move away, however. "Hey," she greeted him gently, her voice coming out as a soft whisper.