They sit in a poorly ventilated upstairs room, inhaling fumes of paint and pen while smearing their canvasses with the story of the world. They do not foretell doom or bring about the destruction of any-those were lies spun by their mothers-but merely record what is happening, seeing the unseen causes and effects, drawing conclusions that never occur to the guests celebrating downstairs. Conquest stares bemusedly at his pastels and wishes he could be drinking wine with the patrons below, but it is not allowed, as his brother War reminds him every time he makes for the door. The twins Famine and Death paint in silence, biding their time till later tonight when the door will be opened. And then the festivities would truly begins......
..........to be continued
..........to be continued
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