Sketchbook clutched in his delicate hands, Evagio traipsed though the corridors of the manor house humming to himself. The situation with the stray and the doctor was very dramatic and likely to turn tragic. Inspiring. There’d been little so inspiring in the Wolfkin world in at least fifty years. Bega was even working on an epic poem about the affair, and though the outcome was yet to transpire, had written a moving ending with the Vulke tearing the doctor apart as she wept and clung to the slaughtered stray. Evagio was of the opinion that it would be even more stirring if the doctor lived to avenge her fallen stray lover and set fire to the Vulke Alpha. In any case, for the sake of the Art, it was best that things appeared so grim for the stray.
Pushing open a gilded, white set of double doors, Evagio took in his surroundings. The chamber was vast with a wall of windows brilliant with southern light. It was a chambre de la lumiére or room of light. Many of the old country manors had them to allow occupants to enjoy the benefits of natural light in the wintertime without having to brave the elements. In fact, to combat the draft from the windows, two huge fireplaces mirrored each other on the east and west walls of the room. Grey velvet cushioned sofas over muted Persian rugs were positioned in front of the fireplaces while lounge chairs that looked like they belonged on the deck of a turn of the century cruise ship spanned the breadth of the windows. Though the fireplaces were dark, the room air of the room was still warm against Evagio’s skin due to the streaming sunlight.
Closing the doors behind him, Evagio strode towards the windows and flung himself down in a central lounge chair. He flipped open his sketchbook to a fresh page and pulled a nub of charcoal from the pocket of his sleek, black pants. Letting his eyes adjust to the light, he focused on the view of the forest beyond. The dark, foreboding woods made a perfect contrast with the bright sun, and Evagio felt the creativity flow through him as he passed the charcoal back and forth across the paper. Sweat soon speckled his brow as his arm worked tirelessly, though his eyes never left the view outside the window. Time, marked by the position of the sun’s rays on the glossy hardwood floor, passed, the only sound the whisper made by the charcoal blackening the pages as Evagio turned and drew on one after the other.
The last of the charcoal crumbling to dust in his trembling fingers, Evagio finally looked down at the image on his sketch pad. His eyes moistened at the sight of the beauty his muses had sent him. Their message was clear: the doctor had to die tragically for the story to be perfect.