Name: Adrian Sauvage
Gender: Male
Race: Vampire [Ventrue]
Height: 6'0
Weight: 130 lbs
Age: ?
Orientation: Bi/pansexual

~

He sat posed for a portrait, cross-legged in a tall and straight-backed chair. The dim, golden light of dusk streaming in from the window caught his features, making even his pale complexion seem angelic. The artist's brush captured his onyx hair perfectly with long, linear strokes, detailing the rogue strands that dangled over his forehead.

His icy blue eyes were represented with sapphire scratches of paint. The artist found himself unable to meet the man's cool gaze, and glanced up only long enough to verify a detail before returning his focus to the painting. The brush arced gracefully to form the seated male's shoulders, set back in a casual, yet sublimely confident pose. A breeze ruffled the window curtains and disturbed the ebon curl resting on his forehead; the painter shivered despite the autumn day's faint warmth and moved to the portrait's lower body.

The seated man's emerald jacket clung to his lean form, which would have seemed vaguely feminine if not for the rest of his traditionally masculine attire. Loose trousers traced the imprecise outline of his crossed legs, before giving way to his large boots. One black boot dangled heavily in the air, the toe swaying idly back and forth; the other's heel was pressed to the floor, its dark, fine leather contrasting sharply with the garishly bright, sanguine rug. In the portrait, the boots were captured with an unusual quality, so rigidly still that they seemed to move.

"All right. That's plenty for now, sir. If it pleases you to come again tomorrow, I'll contin-"

"Yes. Of course I'll come tomorrow, Brand. You know that." Something about the man's voice deeply unsettled the painter - the smooth alto pitch of his voice, combined with the consistent way he referred to the painter by his last name alone, was unusual indeed. With anyone else, he would have indignantly pointed out it was Monsieur Brand; with this man, however, it felt as though he was entitled to speak his name however he pleased.

"Very well. Tomorrow then, sir. I'll get your coat." Again, in a gesture he rarely extended to his clients, the painter rushed to the closet to grasp the man's heavy coat. He held it out with the same feeling of dedication that a servant would feel to his master, hands quaking like leaves in the wind. The man took his coat and pulled it over his picturesque form, nodding a thanks that sent a thrill of fulfillment down the painter's spine.

"What would you do with the painting if I didn't come back?" The pale man asked suddenly. His sapphire-scratch eyes bore into the painter's, gleaming with an amused, philosophical light.

"I...well, I don't know, sir." The question caught the painter off guard. "I suppose I'd try to finish it from memory. I'd never throw it away...." The painter studied the ground and furrowed his brow, trying to mimic the other man's intensely thoughtful stare, but instead resembled a frightened squirrel more than anything.

"I see," the man replied cooly. "Farewell, Brand." He opened the maple wood door with a swift motion, stepping out and closing it after him. The painter watched him stride away, down the street, watching the autumn breeze caress his ebon hair with a familiarity he envied. When the man had faded from view, the painter wandered in a daze back to his portrait and sat in front of it, scratching his head. The painting was entrancing in every way, from the vivid colors the painter used, to the sheer classical beauty of the man's pallid features. He felt it had become alive in some way despite its unfinished state, and had to cover it with a cloth to hide the icy eyes before he dared retire to catch a few minutes' rest.

~