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Thorne hadn't expected much from putting his portfolio out there as soon as he'd touched down in Ashdown. It was less of an attempt at anything real and more like a hook in the water to say that he'd tried. So of course he hadn't expected to be contacted by anyone for it. He'd be even less prepared for a physical meeting, or the cat getting into a mood with him the morning it was scheduled and the three bright marks now covered by a hasty bandage against the side of his neck. Now, cat scratches, thick rim glasses and all, Thorne was finally at the right place.

Surprisingly at the right time.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Thorne moved through the small crowd around the entrance of the diner, his eyes roving the tables for the man he was supposed to meet. And of course there he sat, looking like something out of a film noir, far more collected than Thorne. You could still run away, a little voice in Thorne's head whispered.

It was too bad he ignored it and his feet, traitorous and rude, drove him in the direction of the table while the sirens of terror sounded in his head where no one else could hear.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice gravelly and low as he approached, "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."

He wondered briefly just what kind of impression he gave, in his thick rim glasses and half-hearted attempt at professionalism, the wicked curve of his tattoos offsetting any possibility he had at making that sort of illusion true.

Thorne watched Renard, feeling something not unlike wariness and curiosity burn through his skin. His fingers itched, restless, and he tilted his head to drink in the sight. The man looked like something out of a novel. Fictitious and cruel and elegant. As though the world would bend to accommodate him if he willed it.

The question was strange and the mention of his military background unwelcome but nowhere near unexpected. After all, it was hardly a secret. Most people just didn't know to look or ask. But this was a conversation on a subject he existed for, and even the reminder of his past couldn't destroy his hunger to speak on the one thing that still centered him.

"There's nothing so predatory as nature," he said, pushing one hand to the side of his neck, to the tattoos trapped in his skin. The swallows and thorns and flowers, the bones beneath. "Everyone assumes that all the violence in the world is in humans and what we do to this world. But we all die eventually. All of this is - " he gestured with his other hand to the diner, to them, to the town beyond and every pattern of humanity that Ashdown built itself on, "all of this is temporary. Nature - flowers, animals, every facet of it - reclaims us eventually. And that sort of violence - it lasts. I wanted to capture some small part of that."

Thorne regarded the other man for a long moment before responding. His normal anxiety felt riled into something else by Renard's presence. Less like he was trying to pretend that he was some functioning adult of society and more like he was trying not to be misinterpreted as prey. "Isn't that what this world is though? We are built on centuries of violence." Thorne breathed out, and said, "when you look at art, it's not meant to be gentle." A cycle, Renard called it, and Thorne agreed. After all, there was nothing quite as violent as death. But since when had the chaos of birth ever been painless?

Thorne eased himself into the seat across from Renard, ordering when the man gestured out of some sense of duty even though the words felt hollow and immediately forgotten in the aftermath of formality. The anxiety inside of his gut riled when Renard's attention came back to him.

Thorne leveled his gaze and said, "Of course. What are you looking for?"

Some part of him buzzed awake at this exchange. Give me a challenge, some part of him was humming, Give me something new.

Thorne tilted his head, expression shifting. The anxiety flat-lined, taken over by something like hunger. Every detail played into the challenge this man was presenting him, and it showed in his attentiveness, the way he waited like a dog at attention for the next piece of meat.

His mouth curled into the slow start of a smile. Shrikes? "They're birds. They impale their prey on thorns." The waitress came back with coffee, but Thorne only managed a small thank you before his attention came back to Renard. "That's an interesting request. I can start as soon as you want me to." His eyes flicked to Renard, searching. "May I ask why though? Why these birds?" Why me, but the question felt egotistical, and Thorne wasn't pawing for compliments. He was impatient, and restless, and wanted to begin.

Because this was the first real challenge Thorne had been given since coming to Ashdown.

And it didn't connect or care about his past in the slightest.

Thorne felt electrified by the words, his expression shifting, guarded and sharp, when Renard spoke. He didn't smile, but he looked at Renard like he might look at a work of art. Like a starving creature drawn by the scent of blood.

"Is that a challenge?" He asked. His eyes half lidded, and he bit his lower lip, the pinprick of pain drawing him back into himself. "Well, I suppose time will tell."

His expression shifted at the question. For a moment, he wondered at the mans flippancy towards this entire exchange, basing his interest in Thorne and his sudden commission on a single meeting, a single portfolio. "None," Thorne responded, holding Renard's gaze, "I've been on the move for too long to find a preference."

Thorne huffed gently, cocking his had in a half-nod. "It sounds like it'll be perfect," he commented mildly, drumming his fingers restlessly against his arm. He hadn't realized he'd crossed them. He hadn't realized he was craving a paintbrush and a work-space to destroy until Renard spoke of art shops and the actual beginnings of the project. "I'll make a visit as soon as I can."

Which probably meant later today. Thorne would drive himself to insanity if he didn't do something with all of the nerves fraying beneath his skin.

He took the business card and Renard's cutthroat words together with a mixture of adrenaline and restlessness. "Understood. I'll make sure to stay in touch. And I'll start right away." He smiled, nearly dangerous, electrified.

Shrikes, huh? he thought, eyes flickering over Renard once more, gauging the man that seemed like something else entirely, able to wrench Thorne from his anxiety and his own thoughts and straight into an all consuming challenge, how interesting.

Thorne watched Renard, wondering what it was about the man that set him off so much. Sent his mind reeling, hands restless and itching. "Of course," he murmured, his throat feeling raw, "I'll have it back to you soon."

Oh. Well.

It didn't really matter. Understanding wasn't something he cared about all that much.

"A pleasure indeed," he echoed distractedly, his mind already distracted by images and concepts and color, "I'll be in touch."