[center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjExNi5mODAwMDAuVW05b2FYUWdRVzFoY2cuMA/blackchancery.regular.webp[/img]
[img]https://i.imgur.com/RckTIZf.jpeg[/img][/center]
[color=lavender]
[color=red]Time:[/color] 11am
[color=red]Location:[/color] Sorian Art Gallery
[color=red]Interactions:[/color] Milo St. Claire [@PapaOso] & Mina [@Tae]
[center][url=https://i.imgur.com/3bWRxbY_d.jpeg?maxwidth=520&shape=thumb&fidelity=high]Attire[/url][/center]
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[color=Bisque]Lord Amar…[/color]

[color=red][i]Bey Amar.[/i][/color] Rohit corrected in his mind, but he didn’t bother to mention such a petty complaint. Close enough, lord was Caesonia’s equivalent, it was just less pleasing to the ear. Lord Amar had such a harsh sound to it while Bey Amar flowed from the tongue, and felt inviting. [color=red][i]But shouldn’t an artist, a bonafide genius at that, understand the importance of the [b]right[/b] words? How they flowed, the texture of the sound…I certainly didn’t call myself a lord. I didn’t even say Bey, just plain ol’ Rohit Amar. Which also sounds rather nice, Rohit Amar…”[/i][/color] Rohit’s mind followed a loose strand of thought and wandered away with it. 

[color=Bisque]"What did you see in there, truly? Beyond the paint. Beyond the bite of that so-called entity."[/color]

[color=red][i]Oh…shit…[/i][/color] Here he was, talking to Milo St. Claire and he was barely listening. Daydreaming about how his name sounded. [color=red][i]Rohit, you are an absolute buffoon. A narcissistic buffoon.[/i][/color] He smiled and nodded his head to Milo’s words. 

[color=Bisque]"Did it show you anything of yourself?"[/color]

Bless his luck, Milo’s question was on a subject a narcissistic buffoon was well-equipped to answer. 

[color=red]“Of myself, in your paintings…”[/color] He said, slowly, buying himself a second to try and regather his thoughts from the wind. [color=red]“The Whisper, for instance, that feeling of a darkness that just… saturates…to a point that it feels alive and inescapable. I’ve never felt that, anything like that. And I wonder how deeply can I truly appreciate the light if I’ve never felt its absence? Or the Weight of Wanting, what is it like to have a desire that’s all-consuming? That rips away at you? To have pieces torn off only for something new to grow in their place? I don’t know. I saw myself in the sculptures, trapped in one moment, a good moment, nearly perfectly content, but without movement. Etched in something that doesn’t allow movement, or change, or the chance to stumble while dancing…”[/color] His stream-conscious ramble was cut short. 

Ironically by another’s stumble. 

A flash of red, a wave of fluttering obsidian, and the scent of roses crashed against him. Rohit followed the movement, one arm wrapped around a waist and the other grabbed a hand, as he swiftly pulled the stumbling dancer back to her feet. He flashed a thankful smile at the woman who had inadvertently saved him from embarrassing himself further. 

[color=red]“How marvelous, we were just discussing dancing, and then you appeared.”[/color] He released the woman and bowed as they did in Alidasht, with grace and respect. [color=red]“Bey Rohit Amar,”[/color] He introduced himself, delighting in how his name flowed and mixed with the sound of softly strumming harps. [/color]