Epitaph had won the Duel, but escaped not long after. Take whatever sins she committed against the Mysterium with her.

The imagery sung to her as the Necromancer and the Acanthus battled. Symbolism, and artistry. A gross display of Death, against the ever subtle strings of Fate.

Threads and sheers to cut them, against the risen dead. The inescapable truth of rot, Death. Entropy. The Dead, unfeeling with come again and again and again.

Banshee would never forget, how Epitaph invoked primal imagery. Dread gods, old gods before the Atlantis myth had wrapped it's insidious claws upon nearly all of the Awakened.

Upon the stage, within her Sanctum, she sets up her easel, the canvas. Calmly she sorts the colours of paints, brings her brushes out and sorting them around her by size and purpose.

Standing back, she views the blank thing. Head tilted she pulls upon the memories of the Duel, and all that it invoked, inspired within her. Hand reaches out, picking up the first of many brushes, she begins.

For hours she works, for hours she builds. Playing with colour and shadow, building a little more with every single stroke. She works with the dedication of the dead to their rest.

She steadies her hand with her other hand, for the most delicate of details.

Hours and hours, nights and nights. Paint peppers her pallor, clinging like a jealous lover to her skin, hair. Clothes.

For nights and days and nights again, she eats and breathes and lives this moment. Thinking of it, wanting it. Wishing and dreaming, until she is before her canvas once more. Delicate brush betwixt pale fingers, deftly adding colour and texture.

Changing the pattern and field as light become shadow.

Until, sooner then she thought it should be, her artist's soul is satisfied, her vision made form. Perfection of paint and patience.

"Knot's Epitaph"

She'll call it, and hang it in the theatre.


Rolls