Donovan ripped a rag from his pocket, cursing the mud that had appeared on his boot. He cursed this city, its inhabitants, and this day as well as he leaned against a nearby wagon and attempted to clean the dirt from his shoe. All he had wanted to do was paint something that wasn't from inside the estate or his mind, and now he was covered in filth.

He almost considered taking the day to conjure paved roads for the city, but that would take entirely too long and frankly, he just didn't want to. Somewhat satisfied with his cleaner shoe, he huffed and merely tossed the dirtied rag on the ground before storming back to his canvas.

He had only intended to take a small break, often needed to ensure he continued to paint to the best of his abilities and didn't start to take short cuts. Unfortunately the mud had cost him more time, apparently long enough for one of the delinquents of the city to find his supplies.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" he asked, marching up to the girl, already assessing the painting for any damage.

Before she could finish putting the paint in her bag, a sharp voice came from behind her, and Citra turned to see an Eldouir striding up to her. Fingers clenched around the jar of paint and heart leaping into her throat, she skittered back away from him, only daring to breathe when he turned to assess the canvas sitting on the easel. Because she didn’t make a habit of lingering around the Eldouir Estate, she didn’t recognize him beyond the inherent danger his red hair represented, but that feature alone was more than enough to have adrenaline racing through her veins. “I— Nothing, my lord,” Citra stuttered, wishing he didn’t loom quite so much over her. “I didn’t know this was yours.”

Satisfied that there was not a single dot of paint out of order on his canvas, he turned his annoyance fully on the girl in front of him. As soon as his eyes fell on her, the zeroed in on the blue jar of paint she was holding. Annoyance flared to anger as he crossed the remaining space between them and ripped the jar from her hands.

"I stepped away for only a moment and already you cretins are here stealing my things," he growled, turning to place the jar back where it belonged and to assess if she had taken anything else. Not immediately seeing anything, he glowered at her once more. "Have you no shame? You think you can just take things from anywhere? From anyone? No wonder your kingdom was in such disarray before we came along. Savages, the lot of you."

He could have continued berating this one, poor girl, but instead he only scoffed and turned back to his painting, hands planted firmly on his hips as he drew in a long breath through his nose. He would have to calm himself before he could finish this or he risked ruining the entire mood of the painting.

Without warning, the Eldouir stalked toward her, which prompted Citra to stumble back further even as he reached for her hand. Her fingers loosened on the jar of paint, allowing him to snatch it back without resistance. Silently, she backed away a couple more steps when he turned away to return the paint to its proper location, but he pinned her once more with a glare before she could flee further.

Limited by her perspective and the fear that had a way of narrowing one’s focus, she did not see the unfairness inherent in his accusations. Citra was a product of her experiences. If she was a savage, it was in part due to the man standing before her, condemning her for what she had to do to survive in the world they had created. But the redhead’s words didn’t cut her deep. She had never sought the approval of an Eldouir, for such attention rarely came with anything good. Easier to avoid interaction altogether whenever possible.

“Not from anyone. Not from you,” Citra said in the silence that followed his outburst. “I didn’t know— I’m sorry.”

"You didn't know," he repeated back to her in a mocking tone. "Of course you didn't. What would you have even done with it? Do you even know how to paint?"

He scoffed, as if the idea of a Dresmondi knowing how to do something creative was beyond reason. Picking up one of his brushes, he took a breath before turning his attention back to the setting in front of him, dipping it into a shade of gray before making small precise strokes on the canvas.