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Simon Oita opens the door to Harry's and walks in. The tall Wizened, strikingly thin as is usual for his Seeming, is dressed simply, but tastefully, in dark colors. His long white hair hangs down around his alabaster colored face, and yellow eyes scanned the bar for the individual he was looking for.
The Artist is a rare find in places like these, but he had come here knowing that the Summer King frequented this place.
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Rust snaps the cue, knocking everything about and pocketing the eight. "Damn it!" He curses with a whip of his tail. He pulls out a five and setts it down on a pile of other Lincolns. A smug looking gentlemen picks up the bills as Rust leave and begins counting.
Rust was about to grab a stool at the bar, but thinks better seeing Simon enter.
Can't a guy get a drink?
Rust can see Simon is looking for him by the way.. he looks around.. for him.
The Summer King knocks his head toward a table far from the drunkards and leads the way there.
Sitting down and taking in Simon fully Rust gives a half smile hoping it would seem polite. Bursts of lighting trickle down his arms as he leans forward. Sparks dance across the table top in brilliant combat. Summer is here.
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Seeing the King, Simon wastes no time joining him at his table. A few brittle red and gold leaves seem to breeze themselves off the Autumn Courtiet's mantle and onto the tabletop where Simon casually brushes them off onto the floor where they fade away.
"I don't believe we've met formally, though I've seen you at gatherings, and obviously you're the ascendant King of Summer, and that spread your name around. I'm sorry, I'm being rude. I'm Simon." He offers Rust a long fingered, ivory colored hand to shake.
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Rust takes it. "So you sought me out. That isn't normally a good thing. What can I do for you?" Rust leans a bit closer, resting his chin to his hands on the table.
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Simon smiles as Rust takes his hand. His grip is strong and his hands are rougher than one would think of an Artist's hands.
"Oh, I'm not here to ask something of you. Instead I wanted to offer you my services. The Summer Festival fast approaches, and it's a big day for his highness. I don't know if you knew but, and if you'll allow me a bit of vanity to say it, I am far and away the best painter in Sacramento. I want to offer my services. To paint your portrait, in all your warlike glory, so that it might be displayed at the festival. I will offer my considerable talents free of charge. My personal favor to Summer."
He gestures to the door "I have all my supplies with me. If you'd like we can begin right away."
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Rust is a bit taken aback.. It shows
"Oh. Well um. Sure. I'm free today." A thought strikes Rust and he suddenly smiles. "I really can't see why not. I wouldn't have thought I'm the kind of guy who gets a portait made. But you came here to ask. So let's do it."
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Simon seems pleased at Rust's response, both the physical and verbal. "Very well, then. I'll go and retrieve my tools. If you don't mind could you eke us out a corner to work in? Maybe a back room, if you prefer."
He stands, walking outside to his vehicle. He returns a few moments later carrying a canvas, easel, palette, and a duffel bag filled with other supplies.
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Rust meets Simon in the parking lot. "Hey. I have space under my apartment. It's cluttered, but it's quiet and... doesn't smell like beer." Rust lets the sentance trail off. The situation was awkward. And Simon is eager. Rust did not want to discourage him.
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Rust's pickup pulls up behind an old shop front on the west side of town. The Shop row looks a century old, a piece of Sacramento's earliest beginnings.
But the area is not doing well. Local gangs have tagged the back of the building with warring graffiti. Trash paves the street as surely as concrete.
Several of the nearby shops are still empty.
The Building is two stories tall, a outside stair leads up to the second floor. A back door leads into the back of Rust' shop.
The first room is clearly meant to become an office. A strange looking metal cabinet is on one wall. Dusty boxes are revealed as discount furniture.
Rust leads out in the main area and flips on the light. Paper baricades the front windows and huge wooden crates fill the space. Several are labeled 'Average Joe's Sporting Company'
Rust pushes a couple boxes around and tears down some paper to allow for some sun light. "Will this do?"
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