Dave,Strider

Dave sits on his stool with his back to the door in his studio, hunched over his blank canvas, a charcoal stick in hand. A furrow forms between his brow as he reaches out, touching the canvas with the tip of the stick before drawing it back again. "What the fuck," he mutters as he tries again, rubbing the side of the charcoal as he stares at his canvas for another long, long second. There's a smear of black dust on the bridge of his nose.

As you walk in through the door, he doesn't even acknowledge you. You clear your throat loudly. He whips around, relaxing when he sees it's you. You two attend the same school, him for Fine Art and you for Lettering(which is basically a course that helps you become a journalist), and you two have been somewhat friends since Move-In Day, if not only because Dave hasn't bothered to socialize with anyone else.

"Jeez, you scared me, Alice." He jumps down from his stool, setting his pencil down on the easel and brushing off his smock. Of course, it has no effect, the black charcoal still staining the fabric. It's not too noticeable, if only because his smock is already covered in paint from previous projects. "I was just trying to get started on this fucking portrait, but it's hard when you literally have no inspiration, yo." He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, only managing to smear the charcoal across his face more and setting his shades crooked. "I need to do a charcoal portrait of someone else for my class tomorrow, but I literally don't know anyone else at this damn school."