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[Sinylene Arabana]

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Art, a sophisticated expression of feeling, dynamic of light, ability for structure. Her quill paused. Her head lifted as she eyed the canvas in front of her, almost begging her for freedom. No not almost, it was, it was begging for freedom and Ary rose her hand carrying a dagger she walked towards the canvas and slashed thru it. All the portraits were old they were boring her..

It spilt liquid, not ink, but red blood, it poured on the floor as if she had just slit someones throat, but she had, she had...She walked down the hallway slashing the pictures like the reaper of death and blood poured from them, rich and red, souls released back to their dead captives..

The ink of souls was valuable it was costly and she had paid the price over and over for it. Yet it was her art...How could you create without capturing a bit of their true essence. Aryanna was careful she knew who to siphon from and who not and she paused at the end of the hall, drenched in blood, her dagger raised as she stared at her own portrait. As the blood poured forth behind her,Aryannas beauty in the portrait grew, a vision of joy that would make them lay down their lives for one night with this wicked female. In essence all her power was wrapped tightly in her face, her body, her grace and gentle ways.

She knew the weakness that this was, and she guarded her secret heavily. Behind her the souls were screaming as they left their portraits, random portraits of gentle townsfolk. She felt the ghost of one of her more beautiful art subjects standing behind her and she turned. Anger on the banshees face.

I was sick she moaned, for days I lost my memories my abilities... They could not cure me, my beauty faded and I aged quickly. Doctors they shook their heads in consternation and then I was here locked in your portrait... Your an evil woman Aryanna, evil guised in an angels kiss... Ary smiled and said softly, forgive me Saren you were always my favorite handmaiden and I could not resist, so beautiful you were. Her hand extended towards her face and the ghost rebuked her touch. Saren shimmered before her the last vestige of what was once a noble family servant dissapating at last set free from years of imprisonment.

Yet in this do not be mistaken, Aryanna was no fool she had painted many a portrait of great leaders, such as Barl or one of her favorites, Shadow Skull. She new better than to do as she had done here, for her secret would surely be found and her art would suffer. Nothing could hinder her art. Nothing could stand in its way. So for those she was loyal to she remained, her pictures more of a help than a hindrance. Yet for those she called enemy their blood would ooze from certain imprisonment, painting the walls of her Gallery.