(Con.)
He flew into his next piece, something continental, slow, the tune illiciting the idea of a smoke filled club in France, its patrons locked in intellectual conversations. He drew the bow with force, each stroke causing the image to warp slightly, the conversations grow deeper, passionate. The Spy hovered over the Sniper, his eyes transfixed on his eyes as he stared, the concentration needed to hold the image, the smell of tobacco, the taste of brandy, the hum of redundant fans as they pushed the stale air lazily… Kane stood and gingerly touched the furrows with his hand, nary a feather touch to not dissolve the moment. The Sniper grasped the cigarette butt from clenched teeth, the fine caress of his jaw. Renard sweated, the night warm, the image warmer. He sat across from Kane, the brandy balloons swirling, his accent exotic within the sea of French.
aaaaaa
dies
![[kazdraws]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/avatar_cb906d289bad_16.png){kind=avatar}
