A N T I . C O M M U N I C A T I O N

[Lopez]

[Sits lazily atop a wooden stool, feet propped upon a table. A single candle illuminates the room, burning slowly in the center of the table.]

Allow me to clarify for you...

[The cloak's hood slinks off his head, revealing his pale face.The candelight casts a dark shadow over his eyes.]

I was required to oblige to any questions you may pose to me. It's simply forced communication between two persons; something I loathe with an unmerciful passion.

So go on, ask at your own risk...

...I may just let you live long enough to know me.

[Smiles as liars do.]

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[¡§qüee!]

|.x.| Lively Painter |.x.|

-.Chuckles softly and follows suit, removing his own hood and leaning into the table.-

Sounds good to me. I've been wanting to speak with you for quite some time.

-.Grins widely and crosses his arms, letting his chin rest on his hands.-

Enlighten me, dear Poet. I wish to know everything about you. To start!

-.He sits back, raising one hand and extending a finger towards the ceiling.-

I must know, what forms of art do you enjoy?

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[Lopez]

[The smile soon changes into a thin line of unexpressed and tangled thoughts as the stranger enters without hesitation to the table.]

So be it, then.

[He removes his feet from the table and moves forward a tad, just so he sees Rik well. Coming into the candle's light, his face is almost entirely exposed. The scar on the right side of his face runs down from above his brow to his cheekbone, giving a new, somewhat gruesome look to him. However, his eyes remain darkened from the light, still being kept a mystery.]

I do happen to love poetry, as you might have guessed. I enjoy memorizing it as well; it gives me a sense of how far and well my mind can work to keep these pieces of language alive even when not written down.

Music is an entirely different topic altogether. So is the art that you percieve with your eyes: sculpture, masonry, paintings upon canvas. I think music is a close second beside poetry and the art of languages.

But...

[Takes upon a different, hiss-like tone in his voice.]

The art you see with your eyes tends to lie. Emotions are blended just as colors are blended together upon a palette. Visible art is something I tend to be wary of, smply because I believe literature is more labyrinthine and easier to use against people and for yourself.

Any way you choose to handle my opinion won't be held against you on my part...

[Grins, and returns to his normal, gravelly voice.]

..and so I declare the art that you see incomparable to poetry.

If you wish to question me further, caution yourself to do so...

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[¡§qüee!]

|.x.| Lively Painter |.x.|

-.A bottom lip perks out below it's top, a pouting expression entering the young mans eyes.-

What's so wrong with visual art? It doesn't always lie. A painted tree, is still a tree. Whether it's leaves are dark green or light. Just as a handsome man painted on a blank canvas, is handsome no matter it's age.

-.He slowly winks at his counterpart and drops his arms to his side. After a moment of deep though he once more raises his hand, a small smile spreading across his dark lips.-

Since art seems to be a very... Debatable topic with you, dear Poet. How about a change of scenery, literally.

-.He chuckles softly, taking a moment to lean back in his chair and relax, his smile never faltering.-

For me, I prefer forests. Trees, bushes, rocks, an array of insects, birds and flowers you really can't find in fields or villages. Not to say I don't also enjoy mountains and oceans, but the view doesn't seem as beautiful without all the extra things around. But mostly I enjoy night scenery. The moon seems to add a blend of ethereal beauty to things, you just can't get with the bright light of the sun.

And I especially love when the weather takes a play in things. So my next question, Poet dear, is what are your thoughts on snow? Rain? Or even, the hot sun and cold winds?

-.He wraps his cloak tighter around him. Smiling with a brilliance matched only by the glowing flame of the candle. Sighing he takes in the sight before him, committing every line and shadow of Poet's face to memory, already painting him in his head.-

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