A brown easel, neatly set up alongside its canvas amidst the chaos and destruction. A few sets of jars in red, blue, yellow, black, and white were on the easel's containers attached to the legs. Water was perched in the form of a small tank near his chair, just enough distance so that it wouldn't be splashed on his body. A brush was pulled out from his sleeve as he'd open the jars and dip it in black, preparing to paint his sketch. He'd be careful in his strokes and taps, trying to make a body first with the right proportions, all whilst the screams and brutal strikes dealt to the Imp was heard in the distance. He'd hum to himself a small tune, enjoying the pain and misery Mollen was dealt, as he'd start to create the head
Dip. Dip. Dip.
The first cleanse of paint as he finished the template, quickly shifting towards some blue, painting over the body first to replicate the eccentric pattern Mollen has in his combat vest and shirt, a collage of dark blue and indigo to try and mix himself in the shadows. He'd even ensure that the bouba mingled within his vest and shirt would be given its proper shading, using the black to ensure that such colors make a lower contrast so it focuses onto his face primarily. His hum is just as prevalent as his painting, one he recalled listening so fondly in his spare time: Silent Night.
Dip. Dip. Dip.
A tinge of black once more, trying to capture the raw expression of fear and regret in one's eyes. He'd look over his canvas to see the state of Mollen, watching his shoulders and face ripped to shreds, looking as if he mingled with a sawblade. His stomach was smoking with third degree burns, his legs broken, and his chest swollen and bruised beyond recognition. His screams were still loud, however, as his voice cracked whilst being picked up and tossed around like a ball to the other monsters; kicking, punching, elbowing, kneeing, headbutting, etc. He was able to catch his face in the brisk moment given to him, as he'd paint once more. His eyes would be first, being careful when creating the iris, giving enough space so that he can color it in with its red gaze. His mouth would be next, choosing to emphasize the tongue in such an exaggerated fashion to reflect his fear. Small drops of sweat coming down from his forehead and neck, to emphasize the stress. Finally, the horns, the ones that symbolize what he is, and what all creatures such as him would be met when faced with consequences.
Dip. Dip. Dip. Dip.
He'd clean his brush and began to use the red and blue, painting the skin and eyes, using small blotches and spreading it in order to emphasize the bruises. As he painted, he would hear a scream getting louder and louder, a momentum that was picking up, winds that slightly pushed the paint to the left. Mollen was being thrown at his direction, at a speed that would most likely besmirch his work and get such blood all over his body. He merely moved his brush to his other hand as he'd get up and await the living bullet.
BAM!!!
A punch back to sender, Mollen's body was like a ragdoll the way it bounced off Rubix's floor and the geometric platforms, a ball dribbled and passed around by the beasts. Even though he knocked him far away from his canvas, small smidges of blood caressed and stained it. At first, he grew annoyed, angry even. His mask cracked as his head twitched, nearly furling down into that of tragedy, as he'd stare at his ruined work. However, as he stopped himself, he stared at the piece and began to take some more inspiration, seeing as how the blood only stained one side of the body. He'd take some red and mingled the blood with such paint, broader and brash strokes made across half of the canvas, mixing with some black to get a darker shade, faces being made as it becomes more reflective of his torturous mind. Each face was carefully detailed with dismay, contempt, and misery, each expression looking upon either the painter, the body, or other faces, as if they were the most vile creature on the planet.
Dip. Dip. Dip. Dip.
A new stroke of black and yellow, doing the other side with the same rough treatment, painting the background in the dark first, before etching the lines around to reflect the structure of the monster itself. His vision was being real, the smile on the mask widening as he finally caught the proper emotion he was looking for. A name would be written in the piece in white on one of its corners, before setting down the brush and backing himself up, looking at his masterpiece from a distance. He'd take off his comedy mask and take out a different one entirely, one depicting that of a monster, claws out of its eyes and a maw made up of chalk. "Mask. On." He'd declare, as the Mask would serve as a new face, a brisk swipe with a cold air made on his hands, droplets of what looked to be ice cream coming out of his sleeves, as he'd cool the painting and let it remain still, waiting for the boys to finish. As he'd look down, he'd notice they were finally spent, their energy now at ease, a massive red stain left behind by what was once the demon. He'd merely showcased his picture to the four, as his mask was swapped to his usual comedy. "I dub it...'Consequences.' Consider this as my gift to you, little magician, for finding me. Happy Birthday." The Circus Leader answered with pride, letting the painting hang on a nearby wall, moving the platform to be far above the bloodied mess that was the imp.
"What...ARE you?" Was all that Harvard asked, prompting the Jester to widen his grin.