For Regina, painting had always been unusual. She had grown up surrounded by huge murals of faraway places, expansive vistas over untamed lands. She loved the beauty of the perspective, the look as the trees faded away in the distance. But when she managed to visit these faraway places with her father, the paintings never did them justice. It was not the perspective that was the problem, nor the color or any other fault. It was that it was flat. No matter the skill of the artist, the vistas in her bedroom were flat representations. A few (ones Regina had demanded when offered) had experimented with a slight layering of paint, to give it true depth. Those were the paitings that Regina loved the most.

The homeless man approached the odd woman. She had a bucket of paint with her, as she painted on the eisel next to the river. "Spare some change ma'am?" she continued to paint, slathering on thick layers of paint, then slowly edging around certain areas. He shuffled around to tap her on the side.
"Ma'am can you spare any change?" "Absolutely sir. Would 100 suffice?" She reaches into a small leather purse and pulls out the aforementioned bill. His eyes go wide.

Regina's painting tutors were sick of her. She could paint, and she wasn't bad at it. But the economy was not good. There was a war going on. They were barely being paid. And she would throw about expensive paint like it was water. She insisted on layering her canvas, hiding much of the paint that they had so painstakingly prepared for her.

"Bless you!" He takes her hand, his inability to control himself at such generosity. "Thank you!" He vigorously shakes her hand, and the look of graciousness turns to confusion as she lifts his arm to her face before biting into it, the blood and traces of alcohol flowing down her throat, as his eyes roll into the back of his head. Regina drinks more than she should if she wanted him to be healthy for the next week. But she is quite busy. She has to stay up and finish the next layer.

Regina was in Paris, presenting her painting to the guild-master of painting. He had refined her technique, improved upon her skill, and helped her better understand what it was she was after. She wanted depth. True depth in her paintings. It would take months, he said, just to do small paintings, and decades for a proper mural style. But that was what we vampires have, time. She unveiled the paiting. 2 years of her life dedicated to putting layer on layer, hundreds of them, until the paint was thick in inches. And then, through some strange curse of luck, or perhaps it really was overwrought, bu the massive bloc of paint fell off of the canvas, utterly ruining her entire work.


Several days later, a bum gave up telling the story of the weird painter girl who gave him $100. They were quite intent on believing him when they themselves witnessed the weird girl painting, but her uncharitable demeanor along with Joseph's reputation for the bottle ruined any hope of keeping his fanciful rumor alive. It especially didn't help that his $100 bill ended up being nothing more than a $1 bill with two 0s written in after each of the ones.

"I won't fail again this time. I won't fail again."