Thread: Why Not Be A Necromancer {missedstations & Kawamura}

Dominic just couldn't help but snigger at Will's face. The offer was worth it for that alone! Maybe he should paint that scene. Never that great at portraits though... Dominic's paintings were mostly cityscapes in brilliant colours when he painted them for sale, but different when he painted death. Death the realm, not the personification. Those were the paintings he always leant facing the wall, strange cities of bone and dead wood, with red skies and red trees. It was how he saw it in his trances. It had never been unpleasant to him. A permanently autumnal world, into which he would pass forever one day. Only sometimes when he entered he saw winter, but he did not fear that either - he always saw death as peaceful rather than terrifying. After Will left, he tossed the cigarette butt onto the opposite roof. There was already a little pile there, obviously he was not going to be the only one with that particular habit. Maybe he should have asked the shaman to pick up some milk too. There was far too much missing in his fridge, but there was enough stuff from his old apartment to get by on for at least a few days. Turning back to the kitchen, he picked up the violets. Dark purple flowers, soft furry leaves, and the mass of roots still holding onto the earth. He found his smallest cooking pot and put the plant in there, then gathered up as much of the earth from the floor as possible. It would do for now. They had probably needed repotting anyway. New compost would be nice. He threw away the broken pot, and then there was the knock on the door. It's open, he shouted. It wasn't as if he had anything worth stealing. Artists only ever became famous after they died, so maybe he should do himself in? No, he never was suicidal. Dominic stayed where he was, sweeping up the last of the dirt and dropping it into the bin. No doubt Will would fail to be impressed when he opened the door and stared straight into the bookshelf. Books with titles like On Death , Necromantic Ritual , Summoning of the Dead , Ceremonial Magic ... There were more standard texts there too, like a treatise on runic magic and on basic divination. Will had probably never even seen a necromancer work, but oh well. Dominic doubted that the shaman could possibly want an education. No one ever did. In the actual flat, there was already the faint smell of oil paint, from the not-quite-dry paintings. Rather than leave the canvases to slowly stick together, he had spread them against the wall and against the lower edge of the bookshelf. A city square in the rain, umbrellaed pedestrians hurrying to leave. City park in winter, buried in snow. A caf scene. A bare tree and bone houses, with an orange sunset and the faintest white clouds, the same colour as the bleached bone. His style was light, making every scene dreamy and still. When he painted, he would do it in the same trance that he practised necromancy, and it was hard to keep his feelings from the canvas. My name's Dominic, by the way, he told the shaman, as if they did not have that ever so uncivilised exchange earlier. He was an artist. All artists were insane. It was quite possible solvent fumes had fucked up his brain, but it was too late to care about that.