Upon entrance to the studio one would come to the swift and sudden conclusion that, either the maids had been seriously negligent in their duties and had never set foot, nor laid a finger upon the chaos it contained, or that it was home to one of those strange creatures that answer to the name of 'artist'. In truth, both would have been a correct answer to the general disorganization and shameful disarray of the otherwise respectable townhouse.

The rest of the house, save for one other room, remained in the pristine and untouched condition that is found in that of long absence with diligent house-cleaners with a grudge against dust, or a museum. Bain cared little for this well tended place he called home, although he did admit it was a very fine home and one he could have never possibly bought for himself had not his mother availed herself to purchase it for him.

No there were only two places in his abode that he truly found himself at home, that being his studio and his bed room, both being in various stages of entropy with a firm disregard for spacial organization or the concept of 'putting things where they belong and not leavening them where they lie'. The maids that kept the cleanliness of the house, the poor souls, could never keep up with the man's ability to accumulate clutter and, taking pity on the poor child had discouraged them numerous times from attempting to organize his studio. The laundry would be more than enough to keep the girls busy.

As such, his bedroom was a disaster of cloth and sheets lying rumpled upon the bed, shirts and jackets having been draped over the backs of chairs and forgotten, socks and shoes lay far from their mates and cast away in corners, and an inexplicable pair of pants had hung themselves under a ill used book upon the bookshelf. Only the closed doors separated the master's bedroom from the studio and prevented the accumulation from spilling out into the hallway. Yes, more than enough for the few maids in his keeping to be busy long into the day. And the studio itself was no more spacious than the bedroom, all the rooms in the house being tight and narrow, but, for the sheer amount of stuff it managed to contain between its mere four walls, it seemed both larger and smaller.

Mounds of paper were strewn along the walls, some just blank parchment, others half completed works of art, and hundreds and hundreds of sketches. The only thing being in more accumulation than that of parchment being the mediums with which to draw upon them. Old splashes of paint littered the floor in a glorious echo of past projects, paintbrushes left in glasses of murky water stood upon tables and ends like one would display bouquets of flowers, and everywhere one could possibly reach their arm lay at least a stub of charcoal for easy grasping in the fit of inspiration.

Only two places within stood apart from this general malady, although neither were any better at taming this disorder. The first, upon the very center of the room, underneath a specially affixed phosphor lantern that hung from the ceiling, was a small platform with a pedestal covered over with a well paint-stained drop-cloth of drapery. About the pedestal were various boxes and accoutrements that a practicing artist may find pleasing to the eyes- still life props and studies, but none in use at the moment. Before the pedestal stood several easels and stands in a ring about the display, some with works and some left empty and waiting.

The second area being in the farthest corner of the room from either door or other works. In this isolated area was a very different sort of clutter: jars, powders, oils and grindstones, a collection of tubes and vials with little burners, and stacks of grimoires. This was also the area where the master of the house currently sat, pouring over one such jar, an aged book of spells laid out before him next to a pile of his own scratch work notes.

Art was Bain's passion, specifically he was passionate about colors. He loved the way they blended and shaded, how a mere drop could transform into an entirely different color, an entire work of art in and of itself. Every color, every shade under the sun at his fingertips ready and waiting for his commanding strokes to dictate the world. Well, not every shade... and that was the problem and the challenge.

He could create colors, blending and mixing, creating colors unique only to him- but it was never enough for his passionate goals. For his other passion, that of the Mona and its prowess, beckoned him with its challenge- to blend it with his art as he would to create his colors.

That was what inspired him to this current work, not to long ago. To blend the Mona into his art, by using it to blend his colors. A simple solution but not one so simple in practice... for the Mona was fickle and temperamental in nature, but he strove ever on- undaunted for his eagerness. Somewhat- Actually he had not focused on his work for a few weeks now, having been distracted elsewhere with various other things.

It was during the last couple of such distractions that recalled his attention to his individual work. A fellow artist, a woman by the name of Tallulah Anatine had proven to be a remarkable artist and a stimulating conversationalist. She had professed an interest in his work when he had mentioned it and wished to discuss it more. She would be coming over later, in an hour or so, to do so, … or he would be going to her, he wasn't quite certain, but he had gone to look over his selection and had gotten a bit... carried away.

In his hand he held his current experiment. Inspired by the facts of life. Blood was blue when inside the body, without oxygen to lend that rich red color; but never could you see that mysterious blue, for upon the touch of air all you would ever see was red. In this jar, he held a quantity of his own blood, red of course, but also blended together with various thickeners and powders that would give the resultant mix a paint like consistency and hopefully reduce the possibility of fading. The jar was sealed, as air tight as he could get it... for he desired to recreate that blood blue color. By using the Mona he could burn away the air within the jar quicker than by simply heating the glass- theoretically.

No time being as like the present for action. In his eagerness Bain rolled up his sleeves and held the the jar of blood red paint aloft in his bare hand, and focusing on his intent strongly as he gazed at the swirling fluid, murmured the quick incantation … Ignite.

Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable.

Dahlia stood in the doorway of her master’s bedroom, staring at the state of it in horror. It had been somewhat respectable yesterday morning and in the course of a day and a night had been turned into something which looked more suited for a pig to live in. But pigs were clean creatures, or so she was told. She sighed and crossed the room to his bed where she stripped the sheets from it. The rumpled sheets were neatly folded (despite having to be washed) and placed by the door for Millie to collect. Fresh sheets were taken from the linen cupboard and placed on the bed, neatly tucked and folded into place. With that, she fluffed out the pillows and brushed the hair from them. She made a mental note to tell Millie to collect the new pillow covers when she had the sheets and clothes the washed.

Oh Alioe. The clothes.

Mr. Aquin seemed to have a complete disrespect for his clothes. The shirts which were so carefully starched and pressed were tossed on the backs of chairs rather than being folded or hung in his wardrobe. Now that they crumpled they couldn’t be worn again so Dahlia unhappily took the shirts from the back of the chair and added them to the laundry pile. His jacket, however, could be put away and she brushed it down in a way that was so careful and gentle that it could be considered loving. She laid it across his bed as to make sure that she hadn’t missed anything (free from paint by some miracle) before buttoning it up and hanging it in his wardrobe. She smiled at it hanging there with satisfaction. Such a lovely jacket deserved to be presented in a way that was worthy of it. Throwing it across the back of a chair was simply disrespectful. As was the way he had left his pants. He could afford books, he could read them, and all he did with his books was use them to hang his pants from. She sighed and removed them from the bookshelf, stroking the spines of the books. She could read some of the titles but in all her years she had worked for Mr. Aquin and entered this room, she had never once opened one of his books. She didn’t have a permit.

Dahlia shook her head, riding herself of any temptation. She put her mind to locating the socks and shoes that were scattered across the room. It appeared he simply kicked them off, causing them to land in the strangest of places. One shoe was easily located by his bedside cabinet but the other was nowhere in sight. She searched around the bookcase, by his wardrobe and dresser and even between his bedside cabinet and his bed. It was here that Dahlia spotted the missing shoe under his bed.

Unbelievable.

Dahlia was forced onto her hands and knees, her skirts tucked under her legs. She pushed back the valise and felt around blindly. The shoe was further away than she imagined and she ended up with the side of her head pressed against the floor, arm stretching out further. How he managed to get his shoe so far under his bed was a mystery to her.

There was a sudden drop in temperature around the artist and the heat was drawn from it, and the mona whispered all around him - curious at the use of their powers. Was this a noble act? Was it with a purpose? Even they had curiosity. With a sharp whooff!, the jar of paint ignited. It burned a greenish orange out of the top and the glass of the jar was quickly becoming hot.