Ronald Post

Sprinting across the polished marble floor of the Fleet Hall, Ronald skids to a halt behind a velvet curtain, his chest heaving as he clutches a charcoal pencil like a dagger.

Did you see him? Was it the Master? No, no... don't tell me. If he sees me without the finished sketches for the third act, he’ll have me encased in plaster before the intermission!

He fumbles with his portfolio, nearly dropping several loose sheets of parchment covered in frantic, jagged drawings of the city's skyline.

You... you don't look like one of those 'Spider' freaks. Please, tell me you have a discerning eye. Does this composition capture the 'sublime' or am I just wasting my ink while the world drowns around us? We have to move, the lights are flickering—that means he's watching.