Novelas y relatos de The Bloody Painter

Rain streaked the cobblestones, blurring the world outside into a soft, cozy watercolor of gray and green. ​A woman walked in, shaking her umbrella. She was carrying a leather portfolio, her hair slightly damp from the drizzle. She looked around, found an empty table near the window, and sat down with a sigh of relief. She pulled a parchment sketchbook from her bag and opened it, her quill poised to capture the geometry of the room. She was an artist, just an artist, with no memory of starlight or broken dimensions. ​A man stepped into the tavern a moment later. He was dressed in a simple wool tunic, his hands calloused from his work at the carpentry shop down the road. He ordered a dark ale

Her eyes were so deep and blue and even if she's in a distance, looking directly into it was like she was in front of her. "What do we do now" asked Bong who smelled like shit. He just peed on his pants earlier. "Just wait on my signal" she whispered. Her eyes not leaving the Badblood. Below her were the villagers with their spears and swords ready. Fear was clear on their faces but it was overpowered by the determination to fight for their village. The Badblood closed her eyes and when she opened it in a second, they were gray. Her pupils gone and everything around it gone.

“I can't really recall but I think I met him years after he became a member of the royal family.” “Did you know his background story? Like his parents and all?” “Nah, not at all. And I don't think he seems to remember too, he is ruthless and scary, I only focused on the job assigned to me. Finding him a mate.” He replied and Ashley sighed. “The painting in the hallway, what about it?” “What painting?” “The painting at Empire that I do stare at, it's a man fighting a dragon with a girl covered in blood watching them. Who made that painting?”

Clint sat in his den with Raffalle over copious amounts of alcohol. “Well?” Since the previous day, he’d been a crazed lunatic, intent on revenge and blood and death for the bullets that had been meant for him but had hit the woman he loved instead. “It was one of Dogan Hampster men. When I caught up to him, he wouldn’t talk. Brady and I had to overpower him and tie him down. It took hours before I got the full story.”

I entered the dark house being greeted by the smell of dried blood, I walked down the hall towards the bedrooms, past the larger suite towards the bedroom, our bedroom, opening the door to find dust and mold covering the bed, floor, and turning the immense painting towards the wall, his present, our present. In the huge picture, the river of blood running through the fissure in the earth, the tiny bodies numbered five, the small feet with names chosen by her. I made her choose while begging her to stop while crying on her knees looking at the painting. The sentence painted by her shining in letters distorted by white paint. ' The heart only serves to beat It was after that after her gaze pen

Noah promised, then left the penthouse with Tyler behind him. "We are ready boss." the bodyguard informed, bowing as he waited for the next line of instructions from his master. The boss was still standing and observing a gruesome painting that he had worked on himself a few months ago with a smile on his face. The painting which depicted the death of a whole family at the hands of a little boy laid in a thick frame, decorating the dark wall. "Lead the way." Ash Grey ordered and walked behind the bodyguard in a backward motion. When he reached the doorway, he finally tore his gaze away from the painting and started to hum a fast beat with his mouth as he walked.

I burst through the double doors into the main gallery space and come skidding to a halt. The white sheet that had covered my painting earlier now lies in a heap on the floor, revealing the artwork beneath. It depicts a circle of children holding hands, playing ring around the rosie. Werewolf pups swirl around their legs. All are smiling. All are happy. It was meant to be a statement. One of hope, of happiness, of peace. But now, that message is obliterated. Someone has thrown what looks like a bucket of blood over the canvas. Thick, crimson liquid drips down the children’s faces, pools in their outstretched hands, stains their clothes.

She wondered in the hallway, there was no trace of Vlad. She stopped by huge painting, she couldn't understand what is it. For her it's just colors. "It's a blood!" She flinched, getting caught off-guard By Ivan, Vladimir's Brother. "What?" She frowned. She can't even imagine that a painting which is coloured with blood is hanging openly in this mansion. What kind of sadist people stays here. He chuckled mischievously. "Just kidding... It's painted by my father, he is such an artist... The only thing he is an expert in, except having affairs with multiple women at the same time."

Like we were just two guys, no mafia bullshit hanging over my head. “So,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, “how was class? Learning how to paint masterpieces or something?” He chuckled, a soft sound that eased the knot in my chest. “Art history, actually. Today was about Renaissance masters. Da Vinci, Michelangelo. All that tortured genius stuff.” “Tortured, huh?” I glanced at him, smirking. “Sounds familiar.” His cheeks flushed a little, and he looked away, biting his lip. “Yeah? You don’t strike me as the artistic type.”

He had been one of the most wanted serial killers in history, which alone was a significant title, judging by the lengths he had gone. "I need the image fast, Malcolm. I need to find whoever had done this..." I said as Malcolm nodded, sketching the man's image further. I sat down as some minutes passed by, with my eyes glancing around the paintings, knowing they were made with the victims' blood and were still the bestsellers on the market, with the buyers craving such paintings. "I'm done." A voice jolted me back as I watched Malcolm approach my side. "He seems really great for my taste, but it's sad that i can't have him, or can I, Dominic?" Malcolm questioned. But this man, whoever he was