Supply and Demand [Open]

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The best art supply store was not one ran by the major companies. Instead, it was hidden in a pocket corner of the large city where hardly anyone knew. It was only by word-of-mouth did customers find it, and they never turned back to the overpriced and large manufactured art supplies decorating the world. The title Ink Blot was comical as anyone who had picked up an ink pen (no, not those you write with, but a specific type that calligraphers used) knew that the first few times were nothing more, but messy spots on parchment.

The weather that night was cold despite the heat earlier, and snatching a light jacket was suffice. In this corner of the busy town, people hardly ventured which made it habitable for some members of the Were-community to live in who detested the crowded streets. The streets were mostly dark as the city itself could not bother to have the lights repaired for the safety of the mortals only for the humans to become snacks for those with darker intents.

Ink Blot was a very small store. The fluorescent lights blinked off the ugly shade of green walls distorting the colors. Ink Blot wasn't for amateur artists who were unsure or going cheap for their supplies. You were guaranteed the best stuff, and no customer ever complained. Artists who walked in knew exactly the color, brush, ink, canvas, paper and even sketchbook they needed to make their art come alive. 

But he was no artist. He was an intruder.

Casimir Acciai wandered into the store around eight in the evening. He nodded his head towards the cashier, and briskly strolled over to the pen set he wished to purchase. It had taken some time for him to become comfortable venturing into the store as he feared there would be a couple of those snobbish hipsters claiming they knew what art was when all they did was slash at the canvas or attempted to mimic Jackson Pollock. There were very few people in the store as it was an hour before Ink Blot closed, but Casimir wished to take the time to get the exact pack he wanted.

Strolling over to the pens, his bright green eyes glanced around at the packets deciding which set he wanted. He could tell you the exact stroke, weight, the beautiful language that it participated in to create another form of art, but not the visual arts in which he was an intruder in.

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The day had come.

Daniel palmed his brown leather wallet, picking through the contents to pull out a small wad of bills. He flicked through them quickly. Two hundred and thirty-five dollars. Those two-hundred and thirty-five would somehow have to help him stock up on art supplies for the next month or so. He inwardly groaned at his tight budget, before stuffing the handful of bills into his pocket. His acrylics and oils, while running dry, could make about five or six more large paintings, which is all he would make in about a month. His brushes, however, were used and abused to the point where they were unusable. He had no canvases to speak of either. He could still probably meet his budget, if he were a cheapskate who didn't care about quality so much as the price. And by all means, Daniel was a cheapskate.

Except when it came to painting, that is.

That's why he shopped at Ink Blot. When it came to painting, he wanted quality. Deep down he knew it was kind of pointless, since great art should be able to shine through any medium, but his desire for the best materials was shared by all artists. That's why he was in an art store in the middle of the night with only a couple hundred bucks to his name. Simply astounding.

It never ceased to excite him, seeing all these fresh art supplies. The possibilities were absolutely endless, as were the choices. He felt himself choke up a little as he traveled to the canvas section in the back, passing through the pens. Endless colors, grips, and strokes for every creation you could think of. His fingers glided over a stylistic brush pen, then over packets that contained a variety of sizes, and finally--

"A-ah."

Daniel let out a light gasp as he bumped into a man. Shit shit shit. This is what happens when you get distracted, he thought. Get your head in the game.

He retreated, clearly embarrassed, but also wary. He was getting some majorly strange vibes from this guy, and he wasn't particularly liking it.

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Casimir froze at the touch of another, and whispered a chant in his head to remain calm. It was an accident, the guy probably didn't mean it, and that was the reason why he was strolling away. Was it because the guy didn't like him? Was it because he thought Casimir was ugly? Or did the guy know him and thought he didn't belong in Ink Blot, and decided to tell him by running into him? No, no, no! It was an accident! Breathing in and slowly exhaling, Casimir tried to calm himself before he overloaded, and ran out before purchasing the pen set. He felt his shoulders shift, and glanced down as Voldemort, his beloved Death Adder, peeked his head out from underneath the jacket. Oh Gods, what if someone saw him now? There was no way to explain why he had one of the deadliest snakes wrapped around his shoulders like a scarf like it was an accessory.

"I'll bite the bastard's head off for disturbing my rest," Voldemort hissed lowly. Casimir casually (and by casually it was really a frighten look) to make sure nobody was within hearing distance. There was the pusher down from him, but he was probably far away not to hear the conversation. "The Dark Lord needs his sleep." And then there was Voldemort's ego which reflected the character he was named after.

"It's fine, really Voldemort," Casimir hissed back lowly. He cast another glance at the pusher before shifting his gaze back at his friend. "Go back to sleep, and we'll be back at the new apartment soon. I just need to get some pens, and we're gone." Voldemort looked up at him for a moment as his tongue tasted the air.

"Fine, but if he does it once more I'm biting him." Voldemort returned back underneath the coat so he wasn't seen. Casimir released a huge sigh of relief. He did a look-around once more before returning his concentration back on the pens. Crap, he lost his train of thought when that guy bumped into him. Now, where was he?

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    Daniel watched the man before him absolutely freeze in shock, and for a second felt guilt. Only for a second, though. He quickly evaluated the strange man, who seemed to be having his own private little freak-out.
    He was tall, that much he could tell, much taller than Daniel. This guy had a good seven or eight inches on him, and was even more built. That wasn't unusual, though, because most everyone was taller than him. Five foot-three inches didn't really do much justice for anyone. His eyes were really pretty. Actually, a whole lot of him was pretty. Daniel felt himself blush, but he dropped those thoughts to the curb. The man seemed to hunch in on himself, and lower his head to his shoulder... Was he whispering?

    His heightened sense picked up on a strange smell, one he hadn't noticed before, emerge from the general direction of the man. It smelled like... An animal, he was sure of it. Daniel felt his interest pique, and he naturally stepped closer, nostrils flared, pupils dilated. It was a reptile, that much he could tell. His aversion tot he species and curiosity warred with each other, and his curiosity won out.

    "Um, I'm sorry about that." He called out softly, stepping forward. He raised his hands in an effort to show peace. "Didn't mean to disturb your, erm, pet." His eyes narrowed in on the man's coat.

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"Um, I'm sorry about that." Casimir felt himself freeze once more as the man started talking. A confrontation? Oh Gods, he didn't do well in those. But, the pusher apologized so it was alright now, right? Casimir turned himself to face the man, and gave a half-hearted smile; the other half was lodged in his throat for the moment.

"Didn't mean to disturb your, erm, pet." Oh sweet-Draco-Malfoy's-pert-bum... Voldemort was discovered! Casimir gently put his right hand where Voldemort's head; this was to calm the poisonous snake, and if Casimir really needed the pusher to go away the Death Adder would know. The writer felt the fight-or-flight (mainly flight) tickling through his body, but managed to calm himself down enough to answer the other man.

"Oh, well, it's fine. Thank you though," Casimir spoke softly. The lights kept flickering causing an odd foreshadowing that reminded the brunette of films; the fixture of lights will tell the audience who the 'bad guy' was without faulting the script until the appropriate moment. "My friend is fine. He's a little irritated, but nothing that sleep can't cure."

"A little irritated my mother's scales!" Voldemort hissed out. Casimir tried his hardest not to simply step back, and make a run for it now. Hopefully the man couldn't hear the whispers of his friend. "If I was the Dark Lord nobody would dare disturb me not even my Inner Circle." Casimir chuckled nervously, glancing at the pens. He spotted the one he recalled liking, and used his left hand to awkwardly grab it off the hook. "It-It was nice meeting you, but I must go."

Casimir turned on his heel to go to the register to pay for the item.

"I'll cast Avada Kedavra next time. Fucking mudblood disturbing the Dark Lord's sleep." Dear Dumbledore's-beard, the Gods were surely laughing at his misery right now.