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Summary
Wriothesley sits in front of his canvas, his palette in hand and his trusty brush in the other. His strokes are delicate and soft, as anything more would ruin the beautiful subject of his painting coming to life.
Wriothesley has to admit that whenever he glances at his subject, he always lets his eyes wander a bit longer than he would need.
Who could blame him, in front of such beauty?
His beloved muse, Neuvillette.
There he sits on a high wooden stool in all his glory, dressed in nothing but a baggy red shirt falling off one milky shoulder, one leg bent up to reveal a decadent expense of his gorgeous thigh. His long silver hair cascades freely down his back and chest, and the sun caresses the side of his face as he looks towards the window, patiently immobile as Wriothesley paints him.
His fair, regal and delicate features are relaxed, the ghost of a smile painting his rosy lips.
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Painter Wriothesley comes to Petrichor in search of inspiration. He stumbles across Neuvillette by chance, and he is instantly besotted with his ethereal beauty...