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Log Title: Meet Ligeia

Log setting: Jackson Square

Log Cast:
Ligeia
Trace
Catherine

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She's shuffling along, this silver-maned woman, sandals scritching across the flagstones of the Square, gait lazy as though it carried a grudge against the humidity choking the air. A small brown bag is clutched in one hand from it's bottom, and her attention remains mostly focused on what it contains. 'Lulu's Pralines' is emblazoned across the side in the traditional colors of Carnival; ribbons of purple, gold and green, and she's busy stuffing her maw with the brown-sugary confections, mouth all sticky with them.

Trace is crouched on the concrete of the square, as still and oblivious to the crowd as a rock in a river, forcing the flow to part on either side of him. He's cleared a patch of rough, grey canvas free of discarded go-cups, beignet wrappers, tourist maps, and the typical litter, and now works on a piece. Scritchscritchscritch. Tiny, busy hands fly with the piece of chalk. The outline is done already, in black charcoal, and now he's filling in the colors with a little pile of badly worn-down chalk bits. Dirty elbows and shins pressed right to the ground, this kid gets right into the thick of his muse when he draws. Face a mask of concentration. A mask decorated with colorful smudges and black streaks from where he's absently rubbed away trickles of sweat or pushed back unruly braids.

Trace�s desc:
Peeking out from beneath blue braids bound at the ends in rubber bands of various colors, you catch a glimpse of strikingly youthful hazel eyes, large and widely set. Has someone roughed the kid up? Hints of old bruises, faded yellow and traces of purple, remain around the kid's eyes and decorate one cheek. But it looks nearly healed now, and no longer painful. He's a disturbingly slender, slight child, sixteen at most and only 5'3" in height. His arms are bone-slender and knobby at the joints, his angled face gaunt, with a look of longtime malnutrition.

He's got a multitude of piercings up and down both ears, as well as a slender silver hoop through the nose. He's garbed in baggy, tattered jeans that are caked with colorful chalk smears on his upper thighs. His t-shirt looks fairly new, though not expensive at all, just a plain black one. It leaves his arms bare, revealing ugly, bruise-black track marks on his inner forearms. All in all, he looks fragile, dangerously skinny, and ultimately lost.

Though the throngs of most of the people part about you like a mobile Red Sea- tourists with their voluptuously-shaped Pat O'Brien Hurricane glasses, street perfomers out to earn tonight's dime, gutterpunks and yawning waiters with coked-up eyes in a-typical black and white, one individual does pause to watch and its the praline-munching silver-headed chick. The scuttle of her sandals stops near you, the familar feel of eyes pressing down to watch what you're doing comes, and soon she's skirted around to a vacant corner bordering the sidewalk canvas to cross her legs and plant herself down to sit there. Some people just like to loiter about the muse, seems. She's one.

The blue-haired artist has a styrofoam cup out, and around it is his signature, not a name, just the word "DONATIONS" written in purple chalk, the word fancy, swirling, with curls and spirals, but still careful to be legible. Practically art itself, that word. And the picture itself? Trace is perhaps in a gleefully distructive mood, apparantly. It's the Square... But it's plagued with monsters! Beastly lizard things, like psuedo-dinosaurs, with spikes and grasping claws, squashing tourists underfoot and munching on the surrounding buildings. One's climbed up on the cathedral, munching on the spires, and seemingly pleased about it. Another has plucked up the statue of Jackson and is eating it, like a kid with his easter bunny, head devoured first. Some are just content to ignore the landmark scenery and chase the little patrons themselves, walking about in comfortable shoes and designer sunglasses. The donation cup is being more neglected than usual, but Trace doesn't seem concerned. So the tourists aren't happy to see the place devoured and their chalked counterparts terrorized. But today's work is more for the boy's own personal enjoyment than a ploy to draw money from pockets.

Catherine comes into the Square from Decatur, uptown.

Ligeia�s Desc:
If beheld in the night hours, you may mistake the luminous pallor of this young woman's skin for moonlight chicanery at a peripheral glance. Her lustrous silver tresses cascade in loose ophidian coils that lick at her curves, flowing past the small of her back like a river of pure palladium. She has strange and glittering eyes lined with kohl applied with ritualistic care; crystalline arctic-wolf-blue, like glacial diamonds, laced with elegant sooty lashes. Her complexion is creamy, lips the crimson of autumn roses and the shape of her face suggests Greek heritage, sculpted like the visage of a Classical effigy, yet also just as stony in expression. Her spectral countenance would perhaps invoke the thought of Persephone after she devoured the pomegranate seed that bound her to Hades' dark side forever. The architecture of her body is seemingly delicate, but she emanates an ambiance of inner power and discipline. Her voice is soft but unwavering and insinuates personal fortitude. She speaks in a low and husky contralto spiced by Mediterranean accent.

She wears a moth-eaten t-shirt cropped short at her midsection; black, faded by age and wash, with 'GAMA STAVROS SOU' emblazoned across the breast in will-o'-the-wisp balefire blue, revealing the lyrical splendor of a svelte and long torso. Yards of velvet dyed indigo make up a skirt that rides boyish hips low, allowing for a peek at the wickedly sparkling alexandrite lodged in the navel of her softly muscled abdomen. The garment floods to brush her ankles. Grecian sandals studded with tears of volcanic glass adorn her feet, glimpses of them stolen with her gait, the straps spiraling up to be tied at her calves. Little copper-wired round cobalt specs are currently balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose. Her hands are tattooed with myriad tiny arcane sigils etched in midnight-hued inks, their placement seeming in precise formula. A platinum band on her left ringfinger holds a diminutive bauble carved from lodestone in the shape of the Greek letter Omega.

Catherine comes walking down along St. Peter, hand on the strap that holds her backpack over her shoulder. The other hand is busy tossing a yo-yo up and down, and occasionally, when there's room enough in the crowd, she does a trick. She seems to have gotten quite competent at it. When she reaches Jackson Square, she begins to cross it, but stops playing with the yo-yo to watch the performers on the square.

Rustle-rustle-dig-dig. Ligeia's long snowy fingers dip into the bag of candies zealously, her eyes very serious about her praline-consumption, though between bites her lips smack after as though she were telling herself that that one would be the very last, no more, gotta bridle herself, save some for later, yesyes. No. She can't resist the sirensong of those sweetmeats, systematically putting away a good pound of Lulu's best with the same voraciousness Trace's depicted monsters on the sidewalk are eating the Cathedral. She shoves whatever thoughts she might have had about controlling her gluttony by distracting herself with Trace's artwork, and though her attention is politely discreet, composed of peripheral glimpses from the corners of her pale eyes, something keen glints there. Maybe she's checking for talent.

Catherine notices the way that a little in the distance, people seem to be walking in a circle around a patch of pavement, and as she comes closer to look, she now notices at first the drawing, but then the artist. Even if she just sees the back of his head, those hairs combined with a streetpainting are hard to misinterpret, and she walks quickly closer as she calls out, "Hi Trace!" When she comes closer to the artpiece, she tilts her head slightly, as if she needs that to judge the work better, and she has a somewhat puzzled frown on her face as she sees the carnage depicted. Still, as she looks back at the boy, she smiles, and asks, "Uhmm, getting your vengance on all silly tourists?"

Trace works to add color to the destructive scene he's depicted in such detail. Greens and browns for the monsters, with yellow ground hard into the eyes, to make the color striking. They all get colored first, working on the fun parts. Indulgent child, definitely the type who scrapes all the frosting off his cake first. Then the tourists, with bright colored t-shirts, and a nice chocolate brown for the poor decapitated statue of the dead president. Now for the drab task of coloring buildings. Again, he starts with the fun part, spending time on a stained glass window of the Cathedral. But he's pulled out of his concentration when Cathy calls to him, and looks up, like one startled out of meditation. What? Reality exists around me? Wow. He blinks owlishly at her, then down at his work, before breaking into a grin. "Vengance? Naw... community service, man. Beautify our streets; eat a tourist." Seems like someone's in a mood to bite the hand that feeds him, ungrateful punk.

Bleh. Only two pralines left, mocking Ligeia from the recesses of that crumpled bag she covets in all their brown-sugar-and-nut glory when her face suddenly begins to go a shade of chartreuse best left for some of the cocktails found in After Hours dives on Bourbon. Mass consumption of pralines might've -seemed- like a good idea at the time, and given her oom-pah-pah at undertaking the task, it did. But the unmistakable clamminess painting her brow in a fresco-sheen, her stomach has revolted. This realization, as it dawns on her, provokes the silver-haired woman to rethink her position there flanking Trace's concrete still life, lest all-out rebellion breaks out in her tummy and she adds a few colors of her own to the ones she chose. So she rises, carefully, a wash of some confusion breaking out on her face as though she couldn't quite figure out why nausea decided to rear it's fugly head, and creeps a few paces down to find a nice shady place nearby to meditate under. You know the process. Believing that all one has to do to stave off throwing up is rethink it; deny it; tell it to 'shoo', go away.

Catherine gets a troubled look as she sees the hazy stare in Trace's eyes when he looks up, but then as the blinking seems to bring him to the present, she smiles relieved, perhaps having had a bit of a dark suspicion here. She giggles as she looks down at one of those tourists in the picture, that Trace is so liberally sacrifying, and she grins, "Yeah, but who gets to clean up the mess afterwards, eh?" She then notices the silverhaired woman, and she looks her over with a little more attention then you'd expect her to give a stranger. More puzzled she gets even when the lady seems to turn a shade of green and walks off. She looks at Trace, a little confused, and shrugs, when she says, "I didn't think the picture was that gory.."

Trace grins. "Dunno who cleans it. Not me anyway." As Cathy is distracted, he turns and, still somewhat hazy, yes, follows her gaze. Wow, his picture unsettled someone enough to lose their lunch? Truly a fine accomplishment. Probably not the cause of her illness at all, really, but Trace allows himself to take pride in it anyway. He peers. Silver hair on a girl so young... it gets his attention. Impresses him somewhat, actually. He's a sucker for weird hair. He watches after her with boy-child fascination, like wow, cool, is she gonna puke? Sick little puppy.

Ligeia goes about the process of talking herself out of being ill with the same discipline a Buddhist might turning beads in a mantra. She keeps herself out of the cruelty of the early evening sun, several yards away from Trace's sidewalk painting now so that if she fails in her task, she won't have to suffer the double humiliation of ruining a Square artist's work on top of being sick in public. Whatever her chemistry craved by eating all those sweets, its a war right now just to keep them in her tummy where she stupidly put them. Water. Must... have... water. The Pontalbos are right there across the way. If she could only make it. Desperate, she sends puffy eyes about, and they find Catherine. "Miss..." she croaks. "If you have five minutes to spare, I'll give you ten dollars to run to yonder daiquiri shoppe and fetch me a cup of cold water." Gee she talks weird. Definately foreign and polite in a non-socialized kinda way. As though she'd gotten all her communication skills from books.

Trace hmfs softly, a slight huff, even though he's still grinning. Oh. Sure. Ask the already rich girl to fetch your water for ten dollars, and I'll just sit here and scrape for spare change on the dirty concrete.

Ligeia definately has Cathy's attention, the woman is definately weird by her definition. She looks a bit worried now, as she sees the way the woman's entire body seems to be fighting against throwing up, and she definately remembers from being sick it's not a good feeling. The words might sound strange as she is asked to get water, but she doesn't have any trouble in understanding them. She nods quickly, and says with a friendly smile, "I'll be right back.. Uhmm.. hold on, miss..", and she takes off, dashing over the square. It's a great way to get the tension of sitting in schoolbenches all day out of you, and she is laughing as she ducks and weaves through the crowd, a couple of near-misses, but she runs and lets herself go free. She disappears within moments in the crowd, heading towards the shops.

Ligeia catches the tiny flutter of disgruntlement in Trace's features when she asks Catherine, and sends him a weak apology with her eyes and a mouth quickly turning colorless. Perhaps she just felt better asking another female to help her right now, for whatever reason. Nothing personal. Oh dear. Her eyes go watery. Not a good sign. Breathe... Her eyes close after a grateful glance as Catherine's fleeing back, and deep intakes of air seem to be her focus right now.

Trace isn't one to stay disgruntled for long, really. He's feeling good. Smooth sailing. He watches her with interest, his chalk forgotten in his dusty, color-stained fingertips, and licks dry lips. Finally asks, "You a'right?" Well, okay, dumb question. I mean, her color's terrible, and she's practicing some kind of please-don't-puke lamaze over here. But he doesn't recall the question as he looks up at her, squinting at the girl framed in silver-bright light from the afternoon sun silhouetting her hair.

"Watch out!" An angry tourist jumps aside as Cathy nearly runs into him headfirst, when she comes back about a minute or so later, in a mad dash racing over the square. She hasn't forgotten Ligeia's predicament aparently, for she holds a plastic bottle with water clenched to her front, while on her back her backpack lightly jostles around, aparently not meant to be worn while running. When she comes to a stop, it's almost as if you'd expect a screeching sound, but instead it is just Cathy who stands there, slightly bend over and supporting herself with one hand on her knee. She's completely out of breath, as she holds the other hand up, stretching it out to Ligeia, offering the waterbottle, and between gasps of breath she manages to say, "Here.. here is your... water.. Are... are you.. alright miss?"

The little artist flickers a glance at Cathy. Well, she asked the dumb question too, so now he feels slightly better about himself. And wow, did you see her sprint? And now she's all panting... Guess she really earned her ten dollars.

Ligeia nods, brave little camper that she's trying to be, to Trace as his question finds her ears. Maybe she's diabetic or something, because it can't be denied that all the sugar definately compounded something in her matrix beyond a simple reaction to being piggy. She's sweating a bit more than necessary for the early autumn swelter, and her skin has gone from a nice pale luster to as waxen as an old church taper. Oh look! There's Catherine. Hope springs into Ligeia's eyes as she reaches for the water offered as if it were a bottled oasis and busies herself with unscrewing the cap and thirstily imbibing. *glug-glug-glug*- Nothing graceful there. Just raw need to wet her innards. "Thank you," she chokes out after to Catherine, remembering the money and her promise and patting her skirt down to pull a funky silver moneyclip from her pocket, sliding a ten away from its paper buddies with her thumb. "I'm sorry you had to go to all that trouble. I'm very, very grateful." It -did- seem to help.

Catherine lifts her head to look at Ligeia when she takes the bottle from her, and a smile comes to her lips as she sees how the water is drunk, glad she could help someone when it was very urgent. She seems to have come to rest enough again to stand up straight, though she still breathes deeply, and she rubs with her hand over her forehead. She seems to have forgotten about the money offered herself, as she looks a moment surprised at the moneyclip pulled out, but then she smiles a little, and she says softly, "You're welcome.." Turning around, she drops the banknote into the plastic cup next to the drawing on the ground, with a grin at Trace. She doesn't really need the money, and since that clip seemed so full, she had no scruples about accepting it. But this seems to be the best place for the note to end up.

Trace eyes the money greedily for a moment before dropping his eyes down to the mural. Know your place, boy. Right here among the grey sidewalk and litter and tourist-eating monsters. He tucks away a stray braid behind one ear, adding a green streak near one temple to the accidental chalk warpaint he's wearing. Then he blinks up at Cathy, when he catches her kind donation out of the corner of his eye and tries not to beam sunnily. He looks over at her, then up at Ligeia. "Oughta go eat chicken soup," he points out helpfully. "It heals everythin'." He seems serious.

Ligeia has found water to be her best friend just right now, and soon the bottle's nearly gone from her nursing on it, lowering to be held in her lap. Some of the green ebbs away from her complexion, and though she seems to know better than to revel in a few moments of triumph over her own tummy for fear of further surprise, she does seem more balanced. Trace's comment draws her eyes his way, a gaze made tired from battling nausea settling on him uneasily. "Not everything, I fear," she comments, quietly. "And I'm afraid I'm a lousy cook anyway." A wan chuckle. "'Spose I could find something other than gumbo around here if I looked hard enough though."

Catherine giggles at Trace's words, and she nods. Chickensoup is the age-old wonder recipe, your mom gives it when you're ill, and boom, you're back on your feet in no-time. She still watches Ligeia, though at least it seems as if the woman is getting over it again. She says with a grin, "Well, almost everything, and you just have to believe in the magic of it.. Hmm, and they do have those instant kind of soups, those shouldn't be too hard to prepare.. Of course, the only really powerful magic is in the homemade soup.." Yup, sounds like she's a real expert, or has a rather lively imagination.

The grubby little artist grins toothily and points out, "Well, I ain't had it homemade really... My ma weren't much of a cook. So I'll settle fer soup magic in a can. Magic 'kin be instant." He looks back to the mural, hand darting between the chalk pile and the little stained glass window, adding dashes of color here and there. That done... hmm. He decides that the buildings can stay mostly uncolored. The sidewalk's grey, after all, and buildings can be grey. So maybe he's being a slacker, but he's content about it, at least. He pulls up into an indian style position, tugging legs cramped from sitting in one place too long into a fold.

Ligeia bobs her chin singularly in agreement with Catherine, lifting the bottle of water to roll it across her forehead, working to negate her sudden sweat of earlier, breathing a sigh of some solace gleened. Words ride its back. "Yes. Naturally food prepared with love would contain a seed of more magic in it than something quickly heated. Maybe that's another cause for all the cold in the hearts of people," she muses. "Magic can be instant, yes," she offers to Trace, picking up a hunk of t-shirt to brush her face with, clearing clamminess away. "But there's something to said for the ritual of cooking."

Catherine nods quickly and says with a big grin, "Yeah, the bigger the ritual, the better the magic.. I mean, it's like if you always make sure you jump over cracks int he pavement, it will get better and better.." She giggles, as she adds, "And besides, it tastes a lot better than instant soup as well.. But magic in a can should work as well.. I mean, that's what the doctors usually sell you anyway."

Trace nods in reluctant agreement to Ligeia's words. "Yeah... yeah, I guess that's true. But my sis an' me usually had t'find dinner fer ourselves..." A shrug, somewhat self-conscious, strangely enough. "Macaroni r' Ramen noodles, r' cereal fer dinner most nights. But we still could find magic." Then he smiles faintly and offers up, "My friend Batiste cooks real good! His food's way magic. This one time, right? He made this really great meal fulla mushrooms an' good stuff, an it was all real tasty, an' I didn't even notice til' afterwards when he told me that it was a total vegetarian meal! He tricked me." Hmf. Imagine, tricking the little wildman into eating his veggies. Now THAT'S magic.

Ligeia's face turns to receive a balmy breath of air from the Mississippi not far away, the breeze more than welcome by her expression. She smiles, more genuinely than before now that sickness is abating, as she hears Trace. "You're fortunate then to have a friend that cooks for you. Best I can offer mine is good coffee, I'm afraid." She stretches her legs out once, curls her toes in her sandals, folds back up again snug. Another glance is sent to Catherine, still grateful. Something in this silver-headed chick's eyes might suggest she never forgets a show of kindness. Then back to Trace. Or rather, his work. "You have talent," she comments, quietly.

Catherine blinks as she looks at Trace, then she giggles, and asks, "You ate -mushrooms-? Ohh.. wow.. Well, I heard that you can sort of use them instead of meat.. But I think I would have.. well, found it weird.. But if you don't notice it, that's great.." Then looking at Ligeia, she ohhs, then grins and says, "Well, I don't think I could offer a lot myself either.. But then there's always Jenny who cooks dinner and stuff, she's great at it.." She smiles and nods in agreement with Ligeia's assesment of Trace's work, and she says with a grin, "Yeah, even if he draws weird stuff, he draws it really well."

Trace looks up first at the silver-haired woman, then at Cathy, before looking down and letting blue braids sweep down to hide some of his blush. "Um. Thanks..." he mumbles bashfully, before peeking up again. "An' mushrooms're good! They're not really a veggie, they're a fungus. Wildmen can eat funguses," he informs her with incorrect pluralization. A grin and a little shrug. "Y'know. When the game is scarce 'n all."

"I like weird stuff," Ligeia proclaims (which prolly isn't a big surprise somehow), something like a distant twinkle sparking in her eyes. She still looks a bit peaked and perspiry, but a semblance of vigor is returning to her gaze. "I collect unusual art. I've even commissioned a few pieces." Another discerning study is sent to Trace's phantasmagorical mural. The 'wildman' comment sends a silver sliver of a brow up on her, and her eyes skip from Trace's work to the artist himself, pleasantly puzzled. Maybe she's trying to imagine him stalking through the swamp after critters in a loincloth. She -is- markedly foreign. All sorts of silly stereotypes must be springing to mind. "Are you... Cajun?" She tries.

Catherine seems to think about it for a moment, then suddenly she grins and nods, "Yeah, well, mushrooms would be really magical.. I mean, it's where gnomes live in and it's in all kinds of fairytales that they do all kinds of stuff.." She giggles softly, "Though I guess a lot of em are poisoness, so that wouldn't be like a lot of magic and you'd have to be careful and all.." It's only then that she notices the topic has shifted back to Trace's art, and she looks again at the drawing on the street. Although she aparently doesn't have the same imagination as Ligeia (she would have been blushing a nice shade of red at those kinds of thoughs), she does smile, and she asks, "You mean like.. You sell art for artists?"

Trace laughs and shakes his head, tossing frazzly blue ropes of hair about in a merry jig before they settle about his shoulders. "Naw. I was born 'n bred out in Jarreau, which is like this lil' hick town out by Baton Rouge. But my ma, she was from Mississippi.. So s'like we weren't so much Cajun as rednecks planted in Lou'sianna." So there you have it, the first two to figure out where Trace gets his unusal, not-quite-Cajun, not quite southern drawl. At Cathy's words, he looks up at Ligeia curiously for the answer as well.

Ligeia nods to Trace as he states his origins, then shakes her head softly to Catherine, gaze returning once again to her waterbearing savior. "No, no. I commission them to paint something for my collection. I've done it twice. Once in Lisbon. Another artist I met on the street in front of an absinthe house. He painted a djinn for me." Her brow twitches a bit as the thought of that painting comes with speaking of it. That mental loop is banished away though, fingers of both hands reaching up to rub at her eyes after she sets the nastyevilwicked bag of pralines down. "I'll admit though," she clarifies, lowering her hands again to her lap. "That I'm a stingy collector. I horde my art away and it rarely gets seen save by me. I don't know what I'd do without it, though."

Catherine looks at Trace, and seems genuisly surprised to hear him talk about his background, for she got a feeling from talking at other times it is a subject he rather evades. She nods to him and smiles, as she listens, to let him know that she appreciates him telling this, as she thinks of what it must mean for him. She then turns to Ligeia, and she ohhs, as she hears that she's a collector, then suddenly she grins, and says, "Well, I think that Trace here doesn't mind doing commissioned work, though he's still busy with some other work. He's great at doing murals, as you can see." Huh, since when did Cathy become Trace's agent?

Trace blinks as Cathy becomes a live commercial for his murals, then then grins broadly with another little flush. "Ain't nothin'," he murmurs, looking back down to the scene of Square devouring monsters. He studies it for a few shy moments before looking up at Ligeia and wondering, "What kinda stuff you usually like people t'draw fer you?"

Ligeia slides her eyes to Trace again as she reads the surprise registering on Catherine's face after he told where he is from, a canted head indicative of further contemplation of the young man as she puts two and two together. The only thing better than a skilled artist is one with secrets. "Well..." she considers, glancing then between you both as Trace asks his question. "The two I had commissioned in the past, were done at pivotal points of my life. The Djinn was painted after I developed a slight drug problem," Her eyes skim low, but its fairly easy to guess she's not embarrassed to lightly mention that in front of two youngsters. The young aren't as judgemental as her peers. "The second one came when my father died. Both were painted with the artist's own visual interpretation of a recording of me playing a violin sonata."

Catherine looks at Trace to give him a quick smile, obviously hoping that this might be something that Trace would want to do. Then regarding Ligeia, she ohhs softly at the explanation, and she gets a weird look in her eyes, when the drug problem is mentioned, almost as if she'd have some faint ideas what that might be all about. She then looks even more surprised, and she says softly, "Uhmm.. I'm sure it.. ended up quite nice... You had the artist paint the emotions you put in playing the violin?" She's trying to puzzle out the mechanics behind those drawings.

Trace's gaze sharpens slightly with interest as Ligeia mentions the pivotal point for that first mural. As predicted, a gaze without judgement. Then Ligeia's last statement makes him grin, and he looks to Cathy and explains, "Wow, that's how we do it! Well, um, not violins, but that mural we're doin' now? Me'n Batiste paint it, but art ain't Jason's thing, so he plays his recorder an' the music weaves itself into the picture. It really does. He's like... a conductor sometimes, y'know? It's amazin', t'let go and ride on the muse of someone's music.."

Ligeia offers a simple nod to Catherine, quiet a moment before she explains, "My violin expresses many things for me, that I sometimes, can not." She nods again, somewhat sagely, as Trace speaks, as if to second him. "My music is the voice of my secret soul," she murmurs. "And I definately feel as if I'm at another pivotal point." Whoo-boy. Youuuu betcha. Or so her eyes suggest as her lashes flower out after her words and an exhalation of breath. Then, back to Trace's mural. More mute appraisal of it and she she says, "You can have the job if you wish to accept it."

Catherine nods at Trace and says softly, "Yeah, it sounds really a lot like it.. I mean.. you were doing one of those street drawings here the other day as well, with him playing, right? And it's best to have music as a muse.." She doesn't say better than what, but she looks with a warm smile at Trace, as if he might catch some hidden meaning in it. When she listens to Ligeia and watches her, she gets a hopeful look at the mention of another pivotal point, and she grins brightly, when a job is mentioned, though she doesn't say a word, just looks expectantly at Trace again.

Trace blinkblinks at Ligeia and then breaks into a sunny grin before smoothing it and bowing his head humbly. "I'd be honored," he says. Then an assessing look is cast to the mural spilled over the surrounding concrete, and he looks up and assures the silver-haired woman shyly promises, "I kin' draw more serious stuff than this. This is jest' playin."

Grace enters the square from St. Peter.

Out, damned spot. Grace furiously rubs at a smudge of dirt on her arm while she wanders down the street. Random steps punctuated by a slight sway that occasionally sends her knocking into those passing. Not so much as a mumbled 'sorry' is offered, however. No, she's too intent on rubbing her flesh raw. A medium-sized duffel is strapped over her shoulder, nearly toppling the obviously tired, if perhaps simply medicinally enhanced, girl. Of course, it's probably a good thing that Grace can't see the smudges of dirt on her face. She'd scar herself.

Ligeia nods to Trace, eyes wrinkling at the corners in a smile as he accepts. "I know you can," she states, with subtle authority on the matter, light and pleasant. She can tell the work of an artist who infuses his or her psyche into what they create. Even idle scribbles reveal much to her, seems. Not one to litter, she stretches for her praline bag and woozily pushes herself to her feet, approaching Trace. Her hand finds her pocket again, and this time a cracker-thin case of silver is procured and clicked open to reveal carefully stacked business cards. Black with a silver font. "My card." Its extended to him. "Home for me, now. I'm feeling road worthy again, finally. Thanks to the both of you." A smile, soft, is sent to Catherine.

Catherine's grin brightens even more as it seems Trace wants to accept it, and she exclaims, "Wow, that's great! You'd have something to do when you finish your current work, and I think it's going to be wonderful." Then, more for Ligeia's benefit, she says, "Yeah, he can draw really gorgeous things.. Especially with music.." She watches as Ligeia gives Trace her card, seeming almost as bouncy as a little kid the morning of Christmas, when she goes to find the tree, and she says quickly to the silverhaired woman, "You're more than welcome.. I was glad I could help.."

Trace takes the card eagerly and before looking at it, says, "Well, the other mural I'm doin' is takin' it's good ole' time, coz all the others gotta be up fer it too, or the magic's not there. We been kinda slackin' off on it lately. So I could prolly' start before finishing the other one..." He looks down, then back up at Ligeia and smiles warmly, murmuring, "I'll give you my very best, a'right?" Something very honest rests in those serene hazel eyes.

Further advancement is halted as Grace notes two of the three clumped together as being familiar faces. A twist of dread curdles in her stomach as she ducks back towards the safety of a building, squirming between a business man, and some homeless lady. A frantic hand runs through her hair, brushing whatever stray bits that had gotten in it, from the mane of waves. She sucks in a breath and cups her hand around her lips. Okay. Breath isn't bad. Liquid green, either from lack of sleep attested to by the blood-shoot appearance or whatever her drug of choice is at the moment, makes a frantic perusal of the crowded square. Obscurity so easily obtained in the shadow of strangers, and Grace makes her way back downtown.

Ligeia lifts her water bottle in a salute to Catherine, fixing her pale eyes to the young woman again in one of those quick snapshot stares that subtly suggests that she never forgets, then nods slowly to Trace, glittery gaze consuming the intent in the young man's features. "Thank you," she says, no louder than a whisper, adding, "Call me at your convenience. I'll prepare the sonata." Then, Ligeia evenly pads away.

Catherine watches the lady walk away, and she waves after her, then turns with a big grin back to Trace and says, "Wow! You've got yourself another job to do, this is great!" She smiles, as she looks at the drawing on the ground, then back at Trace, and says, "And she works the same way as you do as well.. Playing music while you draw... I wish I could see it sometime.. I mean, when you do a mural like that.. Though I already saw another of those drawings like that before..", and she nods to the streetpainting.

Trace bobs his head with enthusiasm, picking himself up off the concrete and arching his back slightly, trying to get the soreness out of his legs. Definitely too long sitting crouched on the sidewalk, but such is the price one pays for getting out a good mural. "It should be cool," he agrees. "I wonder what she plays like? Never drawn to violin music bef--" His words are cut off abruptly. He's looking down at the business card. Ligeia... Ligeia. "Oh, fuck," he murmurs, rather bluntly. "Oh man."

Catherine smiles brightly and nods quickly, but then her enthousiasm dims a little, as she sees the sudden troubled look on Trace's face. She looks at him, and steps a little closer, to see what could be on that card that is so shocking, and she asks, "Uhmm.. is.. is something wrong? You know her, or something?"

It can't be. It simply *cannot* be the evil witch Star was ranting about last night, the same temptress who brought Benjamin to tears. Trace shakes his head faintly in denial. But there's not many girls running about New Orleans named 'Ligeia', you know. But he promised her a painting. And a part of him still looks forward to it. It seemed like such a great challenge, and an honor, and Ligeia was so nice to him and appreciative of his work and, and, and... He pulls in a breath and looks over at you before shaking his head. "No. No, I don't, but some friends of mine say they do... I just didn't know it was her. "He looks off over the Square, lakewards, and finally sighs. "I need to get home. Gotta talk to some people." Hazel eyes find your green ones. "It was nice hangin' with ya, Cathy. I'll see ya round, okay?"

Catherine looks a little worried over this news, but she doesn't decide to push it, as it seems that Trace himself hasn't really made up his mind. She remains for a while looking back at him, staring him into the eyes while her thoughs are still tumbling around to try to make some order out of this, then she blinks, and the spell is broken. She nods quickly, and smiles a little, more to comfort Trace than of conviction, and she says softly, "Yeah.. uhmm.. Take care of yourself.. and I hope this works out..", nodding to the card in Trace's hand.

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