01-20-2020, 07:20 PM
For Abathur, the arts were something he didn't really get. He was much more partial to reading, and even then, he preferred non-fiction, something he could learn information from, absorb it, expand his library of knowledge. He hadn't ever really sat down and listened to any music, and any visual art like painting or sculpture escaped him in terms of interest, besides weaving. He was a spider, after all - weaving was in his blood.
Not like he could really enjoy things like literature or paintings much anymore.
Today, what brought him over was the presence of multiple people in an area, which was always a recipe for... something. He didn't know what, really. One was someone whom he hadn't met, the other, someone who seemed to be everywhere at all times (which he found to be annoying but also strangely comforting, in a way). So he approached, crawl patiently slow as it tended to be these days, spending more time focused on making sure there was nothing in his way than on actually getting to his destination quickly. His eyes still worked, yes, but it was very slight - blurry to the point where he could barely make anything out other than color. Better to focus on his sense of touch, to improve that, before he had no other choice. These thoughts could never seem to leave his head. A constant companion, inducing misery at all times.
Abathur stopped, standing on the other side of Delilah from Aurum, doing his best to focus the painting into view, even if it hurt his head. "What is painting of?" He asked, quietly, under his breath, as if there was a delicate peace in the air he didn't want to disturb, or as if he was intruding on something and doing his best to remain respectful, even despite his obtrusive curiosity. He didn't, after all, know how private this was supposed to be - there was always the off chance that he walked in on something he shouldn't, some fragile moment in time that wasn't meant for his presence. Nothing like that had happened before, but he was viscerally aware of the idea that he wasn't always necessarily welcome everywhere.
Not like he could really enjoy things like literature or paintings much anymore.
Today, what brought him over was the presence of multiple people in an area, which was always a recipe for... something. He didn't know what, really. One was someone whom he hadn't met, the other, someone who seemed to be everywhere at all times (which he found to be annoying but also strangely comforting, in a way). So he approached, crawl patiently slow as it tended to be these days, spending more time focused on making sure there was nothing in his way than on actually getting to his destination quickly. His eyes still worked, yes, but it was very slight - blurry to the point where he could barely make anything out other than color. Better to focus on his sense of touch, to improve that, before he had no other choice. These thoughts could never seem to leave his head. A constant companion, inducing misery at all times.
Abathur stopped, standing on the other side of Delilah from Aurum, doing his best to focus the painting into view, even if it hurt his head. "What is painting of?" He asked, quietly, under his breath, as if there was a delicate peace in the air he didn't want to disturb, or as if he was intruding on something and doing his best to remain respectful, even despite his obtrusive curiosity. He didn't, after all, know how private this was supposed to be - there was always the off chance that he walked in on something he shouldn't, some fragile moment in time that wasn't meant for his presence. Nothing like that had happened before, but he was viscerally aware of the idea that he wasn't always necessarily welcome everywhere.
tags - "speech"