but say what you mean [Sebastian]

[ivoryvein]

when i feel the change,
i remember that anything is possible.
you're the same: you take me away.
i won't hesitate, or i'll crash and burn and fade.

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It really was a most unfortunate name: as if ‘Vein’ weren’t gruesome enough in its own right, the fact that ‘Ivory’ accompanied, just setting its bearer up for failure, only added to the impact. When you head a name like ‘Ivory Vein’, you would probably think of some sickly, pale girl who had paths of blue marked all along her body. (This was also only emphasized by the fact that said girl truly was sickeningly pale.) And in the midst of all of that deathbed turmoil, there was ‘Rosalyn’, the first love of Romeo that existed for a massive sum of about two lines in the entirety of Shakespeare’s works. She was the girl that was quickly forgotten, the other woman that could hold attention, but not like that Juliet. Really, her mother had put together quite a stunning menagerie when naming her.

And the one thing that truly bothered her was that her brother had gotten away so…plainly. Brian. Really, she knew of ten ‘Brians’ in her year alone, and she certainly hadn’t had any encounters with any other girls named Ivory. Of course she couldn’t have been given a simple name, like Brittany (though she would have tossed herself out the nearest window as soon as given the chance) or Tiffany (worse, if possible). He was the Pureblood, anyway: weren’t they supposed to have ridiculously fancy names? ‘Callum’ was all right, but it didn’t compare to the ‘Casseopias’ and ‘Abraxas’s of the world. Really, it didn’t matter what she had been called, as long as it wasn’t a name that made you think of elephants or a pairing with ebony. But, at sixteen, it was getting rather late to request a change. Maybe if she had been a few days old and realized it, she could have saved herself all the trouble.

She scrawled a few quick renditions of her name on her scrap parchment, scratching them out ruthlessly and trying them again. No: nothing else worked, as strange as it seemed. She sighed, flopping her head onto the arm that was resting on the table. She was stuck with it, no matter how much she loathed the mispronunciations and ridiculous nicknames. Perhaps if she became an artist, it would come in handy: they had strange enough names, and ‘Ivory’ would seem normal compared to the rest. Well, it was settled then: she had to become a lavishly famous artist. There was no getting around it.

As the thoughts played lazily on the track of her mind, she began to sketch a simple black and white portrait (again with the contrasting colors). At first, it just appeared to be a face, a small feat for any artist worth his salt. But then, the nose grew larger, and the jaw chiseled in, creating a shocking contrast with the angle of the hair. Clearly, it was a male, but which, none could be sure. Besides Ivory, of course: she had the picture in her mind, and slowly, it was becoming increasingly more recognizable, and was shaping up rather nicely. In fact, if she hadn’t been so embarrassed, she might have considered showing it off: it really was turning into one of her better pieces, but that was probably due to the obsession –

She stopped, the record in her mind slipping off its track. No, not obsession: she preferred…dedication. It sounded much more productive.

[sebastian apollo abbott]

my sign is vital, my hands are cold

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and I’m on my knees looking for the answer[/center]

(I apologize deeply for the delay!)

Sebastian was not far from Ivory’s seat, though strangely enough he was sitting on the floor, rather than a chair. He was crumpled into a disfigured ball like a piece of parchment that ricocheted off the rim of a wastebasket. His knees were close in to his chest, his toes tapping in energetic vigor that one could only assume to be inspired by what he had cradled in his lap. With a charcoal round in his left hand, it vibrantly swept across the page in seemingly sporadic intervals. Smearing dust was caught up by gusts into the air and sprinkled down back on top of his head. His deep blue eyes did not move from their fixated position, watching what his hand was creating before him with solemn glee, as no flinch of a smile could be seen from any angle of Sebastian’s face.

The scratching of his charcoal piece ceased, however, and silence ensued from Sebastian’s spot against one of the book shelves. His medium of choice was a rather outdated one, true, but one of his preferred utensils, seeing as it also involved a lot of use of his fingers. Knowing that, it was clear to see that he was not finished. Pocketing the charcoal, chalky substance, he did not hesitate for one millisecond before he put his fingers literally on the blackened piece of parchment, swiping with his own digits details in contour and shade that couldn’t be done with a pencil or pen. In Seb’s opinion, sometimes one’s hand were the best tool. Black smudge immediately turned his finger a deep gray, the dust from earlier settling on the sleeves of his over sized, thick red sweater. And then, as if he couldn't help himself from looking like a chimney sweep, he pushed back his dark brown locks from his forehead, leaving a couple streaks of gray on his face - not that he would ever notice, of course.

As he continued to tentatively smooth his fingers over his drawing, it became clearer and clearer than the scene he was putting to scope by the call of his fingers was one of rolling grass and a light sky. But, for anyone familiar with Sebastian Abbott's work, it didn't always have the most literal interpretations. For instance, the picture he was so vigorously working on wasn’t exactly the most realistic still life photo. In fact, if one looked closely, one would see the silhouettes of horses coming forth from the apparent lawn, the shape of a bat with intricate designs like a butterfly in the wings, and a crescent moon that was horizontal rather than vertical. No, he wasn’t one to keep to strictly conservative work.

Blowing on the paper, he sat back a little bit straighter against the shelf, placing the leaf of paper inside the leather bound pocket folder, he then tucked the folder under his arm, pinning the leather binding and all the papers within between his bicep and ribcage as he shimmied up. Pulling back his sleeve long enough to peer at his watch as he then briskly darted from the aisle. What was his hurry? Nothing in particular, Sebastian was just born in a hurry. To say that he was spastic would not be far from the truth, he always needed to get somewhere, do something, downtime was a rarity and usually consisted of more aggressive pass times anyway. He made reading look like an Olympic sport. The only flaw in his quick pace was that he was not looking precisely where he was going, rather shuffling through the other papers within his care. Esssays, homework, jottings, drawings, whatever he felt like saving was in this precious folder.

It was only luck that kept him from running into the oak tables that dotted the open space of the library. But, he really should work on expanding his very narrow focal track, it would cause a lot less problems. If he would, the next catastrophe could have been avoided. As Sebastian lumbered through the library, if he had looked up merely a half and inch more, he’d notice the table and chairs that were situated just before him. With a full locomotive pace, his pelvic bone ran right into the edge of the table. He would have recoiled just fine if his feet weren't so ardent to keep moving despite that his upper body was caught up. Therefore he fell back, onto his rear with enough force to pop loose his folder, causing the papers to skid onto the floor as he was knocked to the flat of his back. He probably wouldn't have cared in the slightest if he had not knocked into the table that Ivory was seated at. He wasn't hurt, but he was certainly groaning and growling, along with some sort of incoherent, mumbled apology. How. Embarrassing.

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