For several minutes, silence reigned in Shubnalu's studio, broken only by the faint sound of burning candles. For those with exceptional senses, the sound of drying paint pulling against the canvas was louder than any noise Shubnalu made.
Answaen didn't move any more than her Master did. Stillness belonged to the dead, and she occupied it patiently as she waited for him to either arrive at a decision or ask questions.
Eventually, after several minutes of stillness, Shubnalu moved again, dipping his brush in a rich, velvety purple paint and returning his attention to the canvas.
"Has the Mother of Thorns made a move toward this new Great Witch?" Shubnalu asked as his brush danced rapidly across the surface of the canvas, blending rich purple with midnight blue in order to perfectly capture the texture of the sky on that night so many years ago. "Or my stolen prize?"
