Mordecai straightened his waistcoat, sucking in a breath of stale attic air through his nostrils. The gash on his forehead - where he had been smashed summarily into the mirror - was throbbing, and threatened to drip into his eye.
It looked worse than it was.
His fingers felt prickly with magic and still steamed, and adrenaline coursed through his system at having had to fight for his life against the unexpected interloper. Honestly, couldn’t the man see that Mordecai had been there first - and thus had chronological claim to peruse the contents of one E. A. Bigglesworth’s attic? It had rapidly become apparent that the man did not share Mordecai’s predilection for fabled arcane artifacts, but bore some grudge against Mordecai, specifically.
Fisticuffs ensued. (‘Fisticuffs’ was a polite term for it.) Mordecai dispatched his would-be assassin with rather less elegance than he would admit if you presumed to ask, but a spit of blood on his waistcoat was simply the price of the business in which he partook.
Mordecai examined his own reflection for a moment (tossed his hair back into place) and wondered who on earth the man was. A bit of blood trickled down his cheek, tickling, and inspiration struck. Why not simply find out? He could ask the Things that were trapped behind the mirror. They were desperate for attention, deprived of all sensory input. Mordecai dipped his finger into the fresh blood of his foe’s temple and began to draw.
Commissioned piece! I really enjoyed it. I rarely get to paint men with conventionally attractive features, and even more rarely do I get to paint BLOOD! I learned a lot from this piece. Namely, don’t get attached to any elaborate windows you paint, because you might need to blur them out later anyway.