Open The art of promiscuity

[Rozz]

45th Spring 512AV
Evening, after working hours
The Herald's Arms

Perhaps she was just the tiniest bit intoxicated that evening. Not enough to see double, or fall over her own feet of course - at least no more than usually was the case, for Rozz seemed to have a certain habit of falling over at the worst of instances. just one large mug of ale was enough however for the artist to loosen the shackles of her obsessive mind, to relax a little and indulge in the pungent smell of perfume and the sublime company of strange friendly faces. Beautiful faces, for it seemed that the Herald's Arms bore more beauty than she regularly sought in the whole of Syliras at once. This was perhaps the reason why the portrait artist returned here, shrouded by the sly veil of alcohol, to buffer a sudden rush of courage. With the right conditioning anything could be achieved.

Now she sat at one of the tables, slouched with a merry grin on her face and a rosy blush highlighting the faded freckles at her cheeks of alabaster, accompanied by a growing crowd of those who cooed over her sketchbook. A box of paint set out by her side, paint brush at hand. Before her a lady of considerable grace and a youthful, jubilant attribute to her, a blush to match and the low cut dress which she wore, now tactfully lowered over her naked shoulder as she posed much in the manner of a fair Madonna. Ringlets of precious gold fearlessly protected her modesty. Younger perhaps my 2 or 3 years, Rozz observed all that beauty whilst revealing for once in al this attention and pleasant atmosphere, transferring it bit by bit onto the paper before her. A centred face upon the paper of white.

Over her shoulder men and women alike peered at her work with curiosity. Their eyes would watch as she scribed faint lines, mapped out the anatomy of the face as she saw it, round and delicate like petals of freshly blooming spring blossoms. Most moved on, some stayed and engaged in such frivolous conversation. Many asked about her art, her origin, her occupation. Others demanded to become her next model. And in jolly good spirits Rozz did nothing but promise each one that they would become the next masterpiece, every so often sipping at another mug of beer that lay by her sketchbook. The girl was atop the world, the very highest peak. Her mind nothing but bliss, sociable, bold and charismatic almost. When she spoke, there was openness and wit and jokes which she and the strangers shared. Stop the world she was, refusing to come down.

Her Model's name was Hanna and she had been the first to approach the blonde artist as she stepped though the tavern's door earlier that evening. An employee, to Rozz's knowledge but conversation between them quickly spun into that of wild fantasy and fable, until alas, intoxicated by the woman's beauty far more than the alcohol she had previously ingested, the artist's asked to draw her. Now paying attention to all the tiniest details of Hanna's feature, she drew her into the paper with a light hand and gentle, if not a little coarse movements of the wrist. It was obvious that the girl still lacked control over the pencil, but progress was quick for her in that aspect. The pencil was a weapon, sharp and capable of much good as well as evil. linear was the drawing, lacking in tonal work yet making fill use of anatomical detailing. Eyes round, looking up to the left as she quickly scribbled an array of lashes about them. Long fluid movements about the jaw, the shoulder and similar yet much more contained ones at the lips and ruffles of the dress. A little cross hatching to add a third dimension, placed strategically to simply hint at such. Alas, there was only hair, those thick, voluminous ringlets, which appeared in dark marking, only to be left unfinished and faded into the paper as their presence was clearly established. And all in almost perfection of proportion, drawn as she'd been taught by Mr Smith in those dear days of her childhood.

"Let me see, let me see." cried Hanna with a smitten smile upon her face, only to be refused by a cheeky smile on the behalf of Rozz. She preferred her subject to only witness the finished piece. It was far more fun that way.

"Ah you look so beautiful Hanna." said one of the other ladies, a ripe fruit of mature beauty and thick lashes, adorned by exotic make up, who was perched on a nabbed chair directly beside the artist, peeking at her every move. Then addressing Rozz herself she added. "And you, my dear, are very talented."

Talent in Rozz was unquestionable, for her talent was great. Whether what she produced bad any value what so every was left subjective however, for eyes of commoners knew not real art. Rozz however did, having grown up with such all her life. She was no great artist just yet, she did however have talent in those hands of her's thus one day no doubt, she knew, she would be far greater than all. When it came to art, Rozz was the identity of self validation. Opinion of others mattered not. Opinion that of Mr Smith however was everything.

Having been so very politely asked, one of the gentlemen who also took such great interest in the making of the art work, fetched her a glass of water into which she wasted no time but dipped her paint brush and began mixing colours upon the tin lid of the paint box. Shades of pinks and creams and light ethereal colouring, all watered down to give the most gentle of colours. And with washes she worked, one upon another, starting with the lightest and ending with the darkest to breathe life into feature. Of course water colour was truly a difficult medium to master, especially to one who preferred medium such as oil paint, thus a couple of mistakes were made. A smudge here, a bleeding of one hue into another there. But careful she was, and her wrist so delicate and precise as she painted that one may think she was entranced by the very motion. And after placing each colour down, she would rip from her work for a moment to blissfully place yet another remark, her own two copper mizas into the flow of the conversation. So pleasant is all was. Another sip of beer.

[Leda]

Once again, Leda had wound her way back to the Herald's Arms, despite all her good intentions after what had happened last time. What was she supposed to do about it? She enjoyed a drink and it was not her fault that she was a lightweight. If she drank more then maybe she'd soon be able to take her alcohol better and she would have less issues with it. Maybe... And then there was also that other issue, that she really could not afford to keep buying ale. She only had enough coin to drive her way to the tavern once a week - no more than that - and she was really going to live beyond her means if she kept going in this manner. Something which she would regret sooner rather than later, especially as she intended to buy some new clothes. The ones she had on were all well and good, flattering her figure, a pretty red silk blouse and a pair of leather trousers with knee-high leather boots, but she wanted more diversity in her wardrobe and, though she had not herself realised it, others could see that the blouse was slightly too see-through. Of course, she might have regretted her devotion to liquor less if she had drunk it in the Rearing Stallion, which was less lecherous, but she preferred the atmosphere of the arms. Leda had settled herself in her favourite seat, not too close to the fire to feel the effects too strongly on her soft ivory skin, which reacted badly to heat, but close enough to be warmer than most. Although it was Spring, as soon as the sun set, so went the heat, and Leda did so detested feeling cold. She ordered a drink, ale, and drew herself into her preferred seating position, her left knee pulled up to her chest with her chin resting pensively on it. It was a great way of observing the people in the room comfortably, was a habit since childhood and, two days ago, somebody had told her that, far from being indecorous, it was very cute. A comment which she had received with good grace. It was a few minutes later that she noticed a crowd developing around one person in particular. Not one to let her curiosity go unsatisfied, she rose from her seating position, leaving the half-empty cup of ale on the table and made her way to the focal point of the group. It was a girl - skinny and towheaded, pretty in her type - and she was drawing one of the barmaids, Hanna. Leda did not say anything at once, observing unabashedly, almost unblinkingly, as the picture developed. Although she could hear oohs and ahs around her, Leda was not so sure. The girl was undoubtedly talented, accustomed to being told so, and much more so than Leda could ever be, but the picture did not deserve so much worship. Praise, of course, but there were flaws. Without commenting on any of the techniques used, for she knew none, Leda thought the subject had been painted almost saccharinely, very superficially. She looked too sweet and there was little depth. There was no human suffering nor anguish. The subject looked like a doll, with her golden curls and bright eyes; eyes which had not been captured very well, though the shape was perfectly copied. Maybe it was the subject... it wasn't a very worthy one to Leda's eyes, at least. Hanna was typically pretty and she showed it. It was an uninteresting face without intrigue and what intrigue there might have been had been ignored by the artist. There was no age, very little suffering and next to no character or intelligence. She was a dim, well-fed creature and, Leda supposed, that was what the picture caught. About to turn back, but deciding to stay a little longer to see if more dynamics would be added, Leda remembered something which one of the elders, whom she had much admired, in her pod used to say: "Once you have reached a certain level of prettiness, a pretty woman is as pretty as any other woman, usually when that woman is blonde."

[Rozz]

Having mixed a hue of greyed ochre, she flooded the pigment about the portrait, dabbing over the same areas a couple times for the outcome not to be too perfect, rendering the background of the portrait almost tea stained in appearance. A sudden wish that she was painting on old, yellowed paper. Perhaps the pages of ancient poetry, caressed by time and by time deteriorated. But when such paper was not available, Rozz never failed to create her own. Quickly the pigment dried and as it did, she would drop further splodges of watered paint and watched as very slowly the stains appeared, outlined by a textured filigree about their perimeter. A texture that seemed much like the frayed edges of exotic cabbage leaves. As if that was magic, the crowd awed over the delightful technique which the girl so easily created. Perhaps in reality those details were the downfall of her as she painted in water medium, in cases like this they were the bringer of interest and atmosphere.

It was as the conversations around her carried on, Rozz herself having settled into more focus a decorum, her lips still crescent from smiles, yet now hardly mumbling a word, paying far less attention to the conversation than the brush and paint at hand - it was then that another unfamiliar voice broke though the crowd. A voice mostly ignored, yet a voice that failed to escape the ears of the young artist. "Once you have reached a certain level of prettiness, a pretty woman is as pretty as any other woman, usually when that woman is blonde."

Snapping from her current occupation, the blondie looked up to the crow haired woman who spoke. One who perhaps lacked some modesty in her clothing, as she observed, yet a waist as tiny as her own. Though unlike the other, Rozza's own had shrouded by a wine coloured shirt which hung from her frame as if it had once belonged to a man. 'What a miserable creature.' she thought immediately as a simple smile of curtsy broke out across her feature. A smile that, despite seeming real enough, was a mask over a certain sidetracking over the snide comment. Never had she kept close friendships with other girls - or at least girls that were not the embodiment of pure madness, like Veronique was. Girls who cared not to rip and stab at one another though vain jealousy and other such valour. And this one was younger than her and somehow in the mind of Rozz Potato, younger translated to lesser. Beloved by the crowd, atop the world as she was, Rozz decided to grace such needless spite with little less than a smile, before engaging in conversation with the gentleman who previously brought her water. None would knock her from her ladder now. Intoxicated with happiness, as she was.

Selecting a far smaller brush than the previous, she began detailing over the dried regions of her painting. The suspended pigments seeming much like lines of ink now. Threads of copper and golden in the hair, created by acute motions of the wrist, taking so very long, minding not to stray from that allure of elusive presence. Flecks of blue in those jubilant eyes. Stains of crimson and scarlet upon the lip, focusing darker pigment around the centre to add more luscious volume to it. Too came the lashes and the brows and the little pale freckles with which her cheeks were lavished. So very careful she was not to mess up before her audience. But her days of careless mishaps were now behind her.

A pair of eyes however burnt into her memory. Eyes that she looked to the very moment she looked upon the bitter girl who spoke to her beforehand. Or was she really speaking to her. Perhaps the comment was aimed at none but simply said in the obvious overestimation of one's own presence. Eyes as blue as fabled lagoons which Rozz herself never saw in life, but in dreams she dreamt. For if the woman was not Svefra, or at least bore some part of Svefra blood, than let her be damned, a life wagered to the reckoning. And was she immediately disliked? Perhaps a little, than again Rozz had a habit of immediately disliking people and that prejudice she was so very honest about. Did this mean she showed any signs of such disliking? Of course not, apart from maybe the abandonment of conversation in it's wake, between the two.

In the eyes of Rozz, Hanna was a darling white bloom, so little and doll like, in a garden that flourished with exotic magnificence. She was that one tiny, insignificant flower that spoke of coming spring, of warmth and light. Who in their right mind would fail to see beauty in her? That daisy which lingered in a tiny, hand crafted pot on the windowsill of her old home, a fantasy of vintage, always looking to the dawn on golden luminescence. She was delicate and soft. A china doll that hid within it the retrospect of familiar times. A round feature, rosy apples for cheeks, eyes alight and naive and almost doh like, sparkling with light. That sparkle of childish innocence, the times when livelihood was certain and easy; that was precisely what the young artist wished to create. And though her ability might not have been that of utter perfection, her eyes saw far beyond what normal people saw.

To Rozz art was far beyond the depiction of angst or emotion - it was the bringer of such. It was a visual language used to penetrate the soul of another. It breached inner walls without people as much as realising, striking straight at the heart of the viewer, whether or not they chose to accept that. Of course some art bore far more powerful a message. Some was simply ease and fun. And whether what she created would bring glee, or detest to those who looked upon it; it did indeed bring some kind of emotion.

For what the skill lacked, the mind would re-compensate. If her work was not of perfection, than the many tricks up her sleeve would be of interest.

Alas having finished the painting, Rozz ripped it from the sketchbook and brought it to a candle that loitered atop the table, slightly off centre. And hovering the paper above the little flame, Rozz yellowed the edges a little. The crowd about her silenced. Their eyes looking upon the hands of the girl with suspense and upon each and every face only one question was painted 'What on earth is she doing?' Some women held the breath in their breast, some men parted their lip as that flame rendered two yellowed holes about the cheek of the woman, gently overlapping the linear roundness. One smaller and directly beneath it, one larder where darkness intensified and the paper already began to single. Watching all this with intents, alas all seemed safe, alas the crowd eased, smiles even broke out at the faces of her companions. Even Hanna let out a sigh of relief, before hiccuping with a muffled shout as boldly the artist plunged the edged of her painting into the file. Flames devoured the perfect crisp geometry of the paper. Gold and red blazed forth, only to be quickly extinguished again, leaving a charred mark along the paper that somehow framed the face perfectly. Individual ringlets of gold curled into it, leaving the face unmarked. A stroke of luck, a stoke of fiery tongue.

With a grin now, Rozz handed the painting to Hanna with instruction " Allow it a couple hours of drying time. I hope you like it." hints of modesty in the softness of her pleasant voice.

"Ah Rozz, that's incredible!" the bar maid cried in turn, bewildered by this fire painting respectable she just witnessed.

Easy tricks fool common eyes, for it was so very obvious that Hanna's eyes were not thought in the ways of true art. And better for her. Let her find simple pleasure in life and relish in it. But to Rozz's surprise, the honey curled doll wasted no time before reaching for her coin, handing her quite a sum to re-compensate for this gift. of course it was far from that wealth one might be granted for commissioned work from the noblesse. Still, to a poor artist, this sum that was pressed upon her despite a certain degree of polite "No, it's a present. Honestly. You mustn't pay me, Hanna."

[Leda]

Leda, far from oblivious to the sentiments of others, realised that the woman was not happy hearing her comment about beauty although it had not been directed at anyone in particular. She tried to hide it with a smile, but it was a smile that did not reach her eyes and actually seemed quite dismissive. Leda did not mind though and continued watching arms crossed. Starting to recover slightly from the effects of her first half mug of ale, proving more than ever that she really was a lightweight, she decided that, on balance, the girl was not as skilled as she had previously thought. The drawing, the painting, showed knowledge and sensitivity of the subject and of the medium but it was unpolished and awkward. The golden curls, swathed luxuriously around a freckled face, a perfect oval, seemed more doll-like than ever, as they were inked into the fabric of the paper with sharp motions of the wrist. Leda looked up to look at the model again thoughtfully. Hanna was of no great interest, kindly enough, but other than the fiery breath of life which made her blue eyes appear so young and eternal, there was no presence about her... and the eyes had not even been captured properly. It was an excellent mimic but the eyes on the paper were dull and limp, lifeless, void of the zest which inhabited every one of Hanna's movements. No doubt she would coo and adore the painting, and mean it genuinely, and perhaps it was a good portrait and, when she lost her good looks, it would be a great memento of herself in her prime. How many people longed for such a picture! On the other hand, Leda could not help feeling that, in her position, she might have asked for more depth. The attention to the shade of the doll-like lips, lips like pink button roses, was gratifying but unneeded. Art did not have to be pretty, pretty crowd-pleasing pictures. She had always thought that a picture should be a poem without words. What poetry was there in this? It was the poem of a lovesick boy who sees his beloved superficially. A lovesick boy who praises her eyes but does not understand her determination and does not see the soft creases where crowfeet will gradually impress themselves. Who wishes to touch the golden mane of her hair but cannot see all the effort that went into making it that perfect, how the wind blew it in a mass and she had to arrange it again. Who long to kiss the blushing cheeks, but knows not why they blush. Who wishes to pull her arms to him and, though he might see the light scar on her forearm, he will not ask why. If a painting was indeed a poem without words, this poem spoke of infatuation and clumsy rhymes. Maybe that was what the artist intended. Maybe. It was nice watching someone working so hard over something they cared about so much, but Leda could not help but raise her eyebrows as the piece of paper was taken to the flame. What for? What was the use of yellowing the edge? To make it look older? But it was not older. That was falsehood, as decorative as the simpering smile of the subject of the paper. Why could it not be simply passed over as it was, still allowing the artist to receive the raptures of her model, but simply and neatly? To do otherwise seemed dreadfully pretentious. "Ah Rozz, that's incredible!" Good and no doubt a treasure to the owner, but 'incredible' debatable. However, Leda could not help but grin at the sheer happiness of the barmaid. Genuinely happy people had that way of making those around them happy, and Leda would not say no to a little free positivity. She was also humbled to see the way that the artist refused all payment for the labour of a good couple of hours or more. It was certainly helping construct a wonderful image of her character and temperament. One should never be too proud not to acknowledge kindness or goodness when one sees it. Leda moved closer to the artist and, for the first time, properly looked at her. How old was she? On first glance, Leda might have thought herself older than this androgynous female figure but a second, more objective look convinced her otherwise. "You are talented, Miss."