[Flashback] The Whispering Colors (Solo)

[Nimvahlis]

29th of Winter, 434 AV
Name NoteThis flashback occurs in a previous life when Nimvahlis was an Akvatari. As such, it uses his Akvatari name of Sonblummatis.
PurposeThe purpose of this flashback is to detail the first heavy overgiving of Sonblummatis with his magic, and the first time he encounters the Sweet Whispers on a conscious, forceful level.

As another note, in this past life Nimvahlis was significantly more skilled at what he does than he is at the moment. In fact, most of his current skills are collateral damage from this life. As such, the Akvatari depicted here is significantly more skilled than Nimvahlis.

A soft sunset painted the tower in shades of black, lightening to the natural cerulean as its stone circumference moved east and away from the red sunlight. Two violet arches curled up from the earth to intersect at a right angle at the middle of the tower. Neither doors nor stairs adorned the structure, stretching up into the skyline like some untouchable obelisk. Four stone pillars carved into the likeness of roses stretched from the flat top of the tower. Their petals bloomed widely, forming a roof with only a small hatch in the top for light to enter. This high up supplied a ceaseless wind that was at best a breeze, but at worst a flight defeating gust. Yet the wind must have been manageable, for two lone figures could be seen perched at its apex, silhouetted against the evening light.

Rorwos sat still as the stone tower beneath him, torso straight and arms hanging down his front with palms facing the sky. His wings were folded behind him, hiding their gossamer greens and olives. The fur on his tail shone with the same hues, yet his eyes incongruously designed as icy spheres. However, his companion saw none of these traits, for his eyes were focused on something unseen to many. While another saw Rorwos as a physical entity, the one before him saw deeper into the Akvatari. Before him was a painter of auras, an artist of emotions. There must have been several of them in the bizarre city, but none were quite like this one.

Indeed, Sonblummatis was relatively well known in the city of Abura. Yet nobody in the far off city of Zeltiva pined for his works, none in Ahnatep desired his art, and nobody in Syliras fawned over his pieces. In fact, he was an unknown off of the isle of Akvatar. But he was rising within the circles of Akvatar’s artists. Each work was similar yet subtly different and sometimes his paintings had the strangest habit of changing emotions once or twice. More astounding, is that when subjects saw the work, they would swear it is accurate and often recall the emotional change. Those that enjoyed his work delighted in comparing the auras of various subjects and discovering the sometimes hidden differences. Yet he had some critics that pointed out a lack of variety in his paintings.

Yet I am only a messenger of the visceral, yet invisible. Then, is it not the fault of the subject for lacking distinction?

A blank canvas patiently awaited his attentions, desiring the transcription of Rorwos’ essence. Sonblummatis picked up a fine charcoal pencil from the easel tray, and commenced his work. A small sigh escaped his lips, he was tired. He had done two other paintings this day, which was far too much work in a short span. His Djed was taxed, he needed rest. But he had promised Rorwos this painting, and so light hands began sketching an outline of the subject, beginning with his hollowed cheeks. Truthfully, this step was all too quick and necessary, but Saot was anxious to reach the interesting part of this process. Charcoal dragged along the canvas, mimicking the outline of Rorwos’ shoulder. It moved down to outline his forearm and hand, delicate and statuesque. Working more quickly, he sketched what part of the tail was visible from this perspective, and commenced the right side of the subject. Again, his hands, side, and arms were swiftly recorded on the canvas. It almost breathed as Sonblummatis fell into his rhythm and completed the outline. It would not last, but was simply used as a reference when pinpointing colors and layers.

Silken vocal cords vibrated as Son spoke to his subject, ”What is amiss in your life, Rorwos?” The painter’s charcoal continued running across the canvas as if he continued drawing. In truth, Saot was hip deep in planning. Rorwos contemplated the question for a few moments, furrowing his brow in thought. A small silence stretched between the two, quietly vibrating the space with energy as a the green Akavatari spoke, ”Many things plague this world, Sonblummatis. I am not so selfish as to think events revolve around us, such an inconsequential blemish on Mizahar.” Stillness was not so much an issue for Son as for those who painted the intricate details, and as such he encouraged the subject as he spoke. A small ”Indeed,” or nod of affirmation prodded the subject further when his speech slowed. Dry riverbeds will not do, the subject must be pouring forth like a powerful watercourse. It was with the speech that Son set his mood, for the Akvatari were emotional creatures that would inevitably stray to more depressing topics. Rorwos was no different, ”So my thoughts have been drifting to the outside, Ahnatep mainly. Such hatred, and such darkness is harbored within their hearts. I despair to think of their state.”

Rorwos’ eyes closed as he furthered the topic within his mind, likely recalling a discussion he’d had previously. Son had spoken with Rorwos often before, and knew that once he was on a topic his mind would be hard pressed to stray. He was a ship that never strayed from its course, destined always for that foggy port just out of reach. Never was Rorwos satisfied, he would speak again soon.


So too, did Sonblummatis close his eyes. He felt his Djed rouse itself and inundate his veins. A deep blue depression began blooming against the back of his eyelids, the aura of Rorwos penetrating physical barriers. He breathed deeply, as the Djed swirled and his eyes opened again to see the subject staring at him. A small smile crept onto Sonblummatis’ face as he focused on the aura and spoke, ”do continue, Rorwos.”

[Nimvahlis]

Symmetry. At first the aura had appeared as a swirling mass of depressed blues, and then the colors began aligning. Rorwos was one of the architects of Abura, and his aura reflected a brilliant symmetrical design. Lines and streaks, triangles and circles, all interweaving themselves together into a depiction of Rorwos' geometry. Sonblummatis focused on the aura before him, a small blackness growing in his peripheral vision. Violet began limning the bottom figures, wrapping itself around the abstract circumferences and angles like a vine coiling itself around a tree. The two became irrevocably intertwined, a secret part of Rorwos that would now be drug out and recorded by this painter. Though Sonblummatis would not describe what the aura meant, that would not stop him from internally piercing it together. The blues were all too obvious to him as the signature melancholia many Akvatari harbored. It was in the details though, that this aura distinguished itself. Buried deep beneath his skin lies a parasitic optimism, he believes that events will always turn out for the better no matter how bleak the world looks at the time. His symmetrical aura describes the need for order, though it may not always be apparent. Rorwos searches for the structure beneath everything, even when there is none. Commendable, if naive, traits.

The glow near the subject's head deepened suddenly. That is where I shall begin. The Sonblummatis bent to pick up his palette, grasping it in his left as his brush dabbed itself in a puddle of blue paint. He then deposited and mixed it with a small amount of black paint to form a navy; although the paint would show up lighter on the easel, depending on how he layered it.

Rorwos began to speak, "I sometimes wonder what it is that drives the Eypharians to be as they are. Their desire to bring pain and suffering is utterly beyond me, and it leaves me in anguish. Yet..." The purple lining began snaking up the aura's perimeter while threading itself into the deep blues like cracks in a glass window. Now comes a moment of hope, the illusory rays of light bathing his face as he walks about in his so called sun. Sonblummatis was not certain this was the course Rorwos was taking, for this aura was not yet telling him of intentions. Nor would it ever do so, for he would have difficulty focusing on the aura when the time for suggestion arrived. Yet the painter could still read emotions and watch their development. Rorwos continued, "Yet I feel as if there might be some sort of hope buried beneath their mountainous greed. Have they always as such?"

"I cannot say that I know, Rorwos. But do not distress, for all things lead to a brighter future." Sonblummatis did not truly believe this, but it was his task to subtly goad the subject into a certain emotional state. His brush made first contact with the canvas, quickly leaving two cerulean streaks near the face's outline. The brush delicately ran over the lines again, tidying the edges and deepening the hue. Two acute triangles branched branched out from the lines like polygonal wings. Curling lines branched from the tip of the triangle that was not touching the lines, and Son's brush lazily moved down the easel as if tracing a feather's fall. Sonblummatis continued the dramatic blue background, recording the varied shapes and twists with his brush.

An outline of the upper aura had materialized, but the painter left the lower portion of the aura blank. Soon enough the roiling blues and silvers down there would change, if Sonblummatis's ideas about Rorwos were correct. The hope started there, so it should wax there as well. He coated his brush with a lighter shade of azure, outlining the designs with a soft glow. Setting aside the larger brush, Son pulled a smaller one used for details from his sash and coated the tip in a violet paint. With this he delicately traced thin lines near the top of the aura, a nimbus of metamorphosis surrounding the polygons and coalescing shapes. The lines became thicker as they snaked down the aura, cutting off with the blue paint.

"Sonblummatis, could you explain your name? I confess I am curious." To the painter, it was a shoddy attempt at change in a direction he did not wish to go in. The Rorwos' heart was not in the question, so the answer to it was brief, "I was once a sleepwalker, though now I have awoken." Vines of Djed climbed from his mouth as he spoke, reaching out and clinging to the subject. They twisted and wrapped around him until Rorwos was entangled, the cords waiting to constrict and trap the subject. His aura faded slightly, details becoming lost and blurred as Sonblummatis' focus shifted. Despite this, he kept a keen eye on its base.

"Rorwos, I feel your heavy melancholia. Again, I would have you reassured that there is hope for the Eypharians." A reinforcing smile came across Son's face as the optimistic words played upon the other Akvatari's desires. "The darkest antagonists make for the brightest heroes once light floods their vision." More violet cords began sprouting near the bottom of the aura, the brightly painted words slipping into Rorwos' ears and cloying his brain.

"I suppose..." Hesitation was rife in the other Akvatari's voice, the vines had not yet burrowed themselves in him. A sudden thought bloomed in his ears, a flower with the sweetest of scents. They might change one day. Ahnatep will see enlightenment. Rorwos breathed in the thought's perfume, he wanted it dearly. But dare he have such hope?

The lines grew, the vines tightened.

[Nimvahlis]

"Yes, I do suppose you are correct. One cannot live a destructive lifestyle forever, after all." Sonblummatis smiled again, Rorwos was coming along nicely. If no mishaps were to occur, the painting would be done within fifteen or so minutes. "Indeed, they cannot." Silver affirmation uncoiled itself to intertwine with Son's words, attempting to reinforce the notions Rorwos was entertaining.

Sonblummatis dabbed more indigo on his large brush and began painting a light background in the blank spot. Despite the violet, which told the painter of the growth taking place within Rorwos, the pronounced gloom still held sway everywhere. Though the purple veins were growing, and now that Sonblummatis saw the transformation occurring he transferred more focus to the aura before him. Complex polygons, curls, and threads rematerialized for Son as the aura vibrantly ignited. He set aside the larger tool for his detail brush, and began transferring the thick mass of violet tendrils from his vision to the easel. They twisted about, playing off of each other's momentum. All he required was a confidante, and encouragement. This was within him the entire time. The artist's brush dabbed more paint onto his brush and snaked it up to connect the amethyst lines below with those that lined the shapes above. Each cord reached out from the back of his mind to caress the notions he had always wished to entertain.

"I thank you for this, Sonblummatis. It is a boon to be able to speak with you so freely. Your mere presence is..." The painter looked up at Rorwos, and twitched a bit. The purple veins were shrinking! As if somebody were rewinding the scene, the tendrils retreated to the back of Rorwos' mind. Hurriedly, Son finished the few details remaining before they were lost. Setting down the brush he turned, examining the red skyline for a catalyst. In the name of Leth, when I discover what ruined this...

With brilliant orange wings and neon blue tail she alighted on the tower, sweeping eyes of the aforementioned colors to examine the two males. Sonblummatis twisted around to view the intruder, and the color fled his face as if whipped from existence. The Akvatari known as Sireym spoke to the pair, "Greetings Sonblummatis, I have come to observe you work if that is not troublesome." Her voice was a lovely hue to the painter, but he cringed at her presence. Several years ago he had painted the aura of the acclaimed painter before him, and she had quite thoroughly disagreed with his depiction. Since then Sireym had been a quiet skeptic of Sonblummatis' talents, and had often taken the time to observe the Akvatari work. This would be fine had he practiced any other discipline, but Son needed to cultivate a particular environment for his subject. She is ruining everything!

"Salutations, Sireym. I appreciate your attendance..." Sonblummatis pursed thin lips to consider his next words, "But I must beg a departure of you. I confess my work suffers from the presence of others."
"Oh? I will not be a bother then." Son breathed freely for a moment as he felt her weight lift, but saw that Sireym was simply repositioning herself by a rose stem. He looked to the setting sun, realizing he had squandered too much time already. If he did not put Rorwos back in the right frame of mind immediately, the light would be too far gone to paint. Woe upon me, I was foolish to begin so late

Rorwos spoke up, breaking his position ever so slightly, "Sireym, apologies, but perhaps you should return another day." Sonblummatis' eyes widened, he had forgotten about the ally in Rorwos; he had been confiding in the painter, and this intruder had disrupted everything. The subject's aura faded completely as Sonblummatis transferred his Djed and forced the vines to creep forth once more. They dug into the small indents made by the earlier persuasion, clinging to his mind. A thought crossed Rorwos' mind, Time grows short. She must leave for Sonblummatis to finish tonight. Rorwos glanced over to the painter, who looked rather sullen at this interruption, and spoke to Sireym again, "Perhaps you can observe some other time, but now is not an opportune time for a third party."
"I have been dismissed time and time again, Sonblummatis," Sireym seemed to have dismissed Rorwos' protests and instead addressed her fellow painter, "I fail to see how this moment is less opportune than any other" She was clearly growing frustrated with Son, but it was not in the nature of the Akvatari to become angry and confrontational; she must be nervous as well. Sonblummatis shifted his influence, the vines clambering over to the female. "I will admit to deflecting you, friend Sireym. So tomorrow I shall allow you to examine my process, under the condition that you allow me to finish this piece tonight." The thought crossed Sireym's mind, perhaps it would be better tomorrow
"I suppose we have an accord then. I trust you will keep your word this time, Sonblummatis?"
"Yes, of course." A small notion writhed in under her consciousness, He speaks the truth. Sireym hesitated for a few moments, but turned and flitted off.

[Nimvahlis]

Rorwos and his painter were at last alone on the tower once more, though the incident still hung heavily in the air. Sonblummatis rubbed at his eyes, small beads of blood coming off. By Leth, she has vexed me even in absence. Had he not been so anxious to be rid of Sireym, he would have realized the need to conserve every iota of influence for Rorwos. "Right, where did we leave off?" Despite the forewarnings of overgiving, Son decided to press on and finish the painting regardless.

He did not need auristics to know that Rorwos was not back to where he needed to be. With Sireym removed from the scene, Son redirected his will to the primary subject. [b]"Right, we were discussing the enlightenment of Ahnatep, I believe." He clearly emphasized the notion of the city's renaissance, playing once more upon the desires in Rorwos. Sonblummatis felt his Djed begin weaving itself into the subject, digging until the messages were as much a part of him as the skin on his bones. The pair had but a small distance to recover, they would get there soon enough.

"I was thinking, and I would suppose that a great deal of the Eypharian's cruelty could be attributed to their Pressorah? But then again, what would an architect know of such matters?" Rorwos' eyes dropped, as if ashamed of the conjecture he had finally put forth. Despite the subject's shame, Sonblummatis reassured him that he was in the right with small thoughts. Logical thinking, the thought slipped into his subconscious to set off a small bloom of confidence which may or may not be dispelled; the point was that it hit him in the first place. He spoke now, a verbal reinforcement, "No no, you are correct, Rorwos. One must change the mind of a city before changing the body." The effect of Son's assurances was visible as the subject sat a little bit straight and lifted his eyes.

The components of a headache began assembling in Sonblummatis' head as the Djed shifted from the web of influence he was building around Rorwos to his eyes. The aura appeared, its symmetrical structure rebuilding itself before the Akvatari. Sireym's visitation had wreaked havoc on the change from secretly optimistic to hopeful, and the violet had pooled in the back of his mind. He was hiding from scrutiny, afraid of expression. Somehow this seed of concern had planted itself within Rorwos, and Son was encouraging it for a more interesting portrait. That seemed to be one thing few anticipated about having their aura painted, the imparting of personal information.

Rorwos' hopes, bathed in amaranthine colors, had began to reemerge now that he was in friendly company. They seeped up like tendrils of smoke to curl around the shapes and lines of the aura. Sonblummatis smiled once more, something he was doing far too much this painting session. It was always pleasant, even if a bit hollow, when a subject was so willing to cooperate. Given, he was not exactly going against Rorwos' will. Everybody wants a friend, everybody desires a confidante

One fortunate result of the interruption was that the paint had sufficiently dried enough for Sonblummatis to commence the second layer. However, that was little consolation for the progress that had been lost. Releasing some of his focus on the aura, he gave one large mental push before releasing his hypnotic powers for now. He would need to focus entirely to discover new information for the second go over. He is waiting to hear your ideas. The thought suddenly occurred to Rorwos', just a small suggestion. However the surge of confidence that followed was not as subtle. The vines quickly constricted, supporting Rorwos' as his self-esteem leaped forward. Slowly, they disentangled themselves and dissipated, their influential marks apparent within the Akvatari. Blood welled in Sonblummatis' mouth.

The subject straightened and assumed his original position with renewed vigor before speaking, "You know, I need to travel to Ahnatep to take notes on their infrastructure. I may extend my stay and peruse some texts in history or art; surely they have not always been so cruel, and beauty always shines through in art. What do you think of this Sonblummatis?"
"It is an excellent plan, Rorwos. Just remember to take Mizas enough to purchase the texts and return with them, or take extensive notes." Son struggled to focus on the aura as a diminutive stream of crimson trickled down his nose. He quickly wiped the fluid away on his arm, dragging it across his sash. You need to hurry. The thought was not his.

A drummer began railing on Son's temples as the aura grew and deepened. The violet had taken on a slight silver hue, and complex fractals had started to emerge from beneath the obvious polygons. Yet Sonblummatis was concerned more with swallowing the blood that pooled in his mouth than recording the aura. One of his hands clutched at his temple as the percussionist increased the tempo to his vicious metronome. The painter felt foolish now for using forceful conditioning near the end of such a strenuous day. His hand clutched the easel as his head sunk behind it to hide him wiping the dark red fluid from his eyes. It is only minor, press on. The thoughts entered his mind, but were not his. Yet what they said was true for he had not fallen unconscious, and neither was he feeling the effects of his conditioning.

Seal him in your web, he desires it.

The words were strange, conscious as if they were his own. Such a sweet melody echoing in his ears. They spoke the truth, at the very least. Rorwos did desire his influence. From the start the subject had ambled along a predestined path, he was by far one of the least troublesome Akvatari Sonblummatis had come across. He is clay in my hands.

Bind him to your will, you desire it.

Rorwos was weak willed and foolish, unwise in the ways of the world as a result of many years cooped up with diagrams and figures. His preconceived notions of the world left much to be desired, and were naive outside his bailiwick of spiraling towers and graceful arches. The Djed boiled in his blood, inundated his mouth like the crimson liquid.

He will be your puppet.

"Rorwos, the light has faded too much for me to continue. We shall meet again tomorrow at midday, in this tower, and I will finish your painting. I will not charge you for I have failed this night, and you have provided intelligent conversation." The other Akvatari looked about him, examining the sky as if he had forgotten about the time, "Yes, I suppose that would be prudent. In which case, farewell Sonblummatis. Until tomorrow." The Akvatari lingered for a moment longer before departing, but finally slipped off into the encroaching darkness.

Break him.

[Nimvahlis]

He was alone, with himself. With the voices.

With your voice.

The easel lay collapsed against a pillar, the half finished aura depiction on the ground beside it. Vials of paint in a bandoleer lay tossed near the stem of another rose, next to his easel and brushes. When Rorwos had departed the tower, Sonblummatis had struggled to hold his composure until the Akvatari was well out of sight. As soon as he felt it safe, the painter has opened his mouth and vomited blood onto the stone floor.

His stomach continued to buck on the rolling waves of the ocean, it cared little for blood. An Akvatari flew by, its aura glowing cerulean against the darkening sky. Sonblummatis reeled as the thought that his Djed was still surging forth fell upon him. His first instinct was to sever the flow and rest, yet the susurrations corrected him with their promises. Push forward, drain yourself to stop the sickness. The voices commanded, and the painter obeyed. His brain began to splinter under the intense rhythm of the drummers, but he focused his eyes on... On something... On anything. The stone roses around him glowed dull ceruleans- the melancholia of the Akvatari rubbed into even their structures.

A purple glow flew by, and Sonblummatis struck out. Hypnotic cords reached out and coiled about the passing Akvatari, wrapping her in influence. Fear vibrated up their length and forced itself upon her mind, entombing it in an inescapable phobia of the dark. They are coming. Flee! The passerby suddenly bolted forward as their wings rapidly beat to escape the night. Her head turned and saw the darkened form of Sonblummatis, liquid dripping from his eyes and mouth, and suddenly she dived down and away. Anything to escape the horror in the tower. Anything to escape you. Can you feel the power that has forever danced outside the fire? You may toy with the wills of mortals on a whim. You are a god.

A cough wracked Sonblummatis' body, and he vomited more blood. He felt the darkness press against him like heavy stones. It is everywhere, it is inescapable. Paralyzed he sat on his tower, waiting for the phantasmagoric horror to manifest. Its frigid breath was the wind that blew through the tower, its eyes the dots of torchlight in the city below. With little hope he cowered. No escape. Slow was the decline from frightened heights, the surge of terror unwilling to cease. Five chimes passed as Sonblummatis listened to the whispers urging him forth. Use your magic- hypnotism, auristics, anything! Yet the Akvatari remained frozen, until finally the surge of emotion was naught but a nagging fear in the back of his mind.

A river of Djed still courses through you, harness it. The command was simple, logical even.

He would dispel the darkness with light. Sonblummatis raised his splayed fingers before him, high into the air. Deep violets and silvers bloomed from his hands as his eyes focused their Djed upon the aura. They flared and waxed with the headache running lightning through Son's head, growing in timbre with his focus. A slight tingling sensation arose in his fingers, the forewarning of a glorious height. Sonblummatis believed the overpowering voice, this was new and strange to him. The colors bursting from his hands and arms coalesced in a chaotic, unpredictable manner that entranced Sonblummatis. The fractals of Rorwos were a world away, replaced by the raw cogitations of the painter.

You are not an Akvatari. You are a magician.

The prickling turned to numbness, crawling down his arms like a viper's venom. His arms fell as his muscles and nerves shut down, the loss of sensation spreading into his shoulders and neck. A heavy head fell back, staring at the glittering stars through the sky light. Dark patches blotted out his vision, and the world kissed unconsciousness.

[Gossamer]

. Character: Nimvahlis Experience: None due to the fact this is a past life Flashback Lore: Changing a person's mood, having intriguing converstation and debate, The climb of a struggling artist into gradual fame. Abura (living there), Remembering Past lives (Akvatari), Overgiving via auristics, Giving hope and encouragement, Identifying melancholy, Reading/Interpreting Someone’s Aura, Having a painting interrupted, Vomiting Blood due to Overgiving, Experiencing Sweet Whispers, Driving others away via magic and visual horror, Feeling godlike, and finally Having uncharacteristic urges due to Overgiving and Sweet Whispers. Additional Note: Nice, if a bit heavy, use of metaphor in your posts. I like the ‘painter of auras’ usage. That was a nice touch. I think you were a little subtle in your use of hyptnotism, though the clues of defining your djed as tendrils of vine was a very nice touch. I felt you were using Hyptnotism on Sireym, but I might be wrong in the reading since it wasn’t exactly clear and a bit more metaphor than actual stating you did so… which is never a bad thing since I prefer people to ‘show’ rather than ‘tell’. The display of Auristics was outstanding. Thank you for allowing me to read that. I think your use of Hypnotism was nicely played… you injected a thought into the subject and urged them to do something natural rather than unnatural backed up by a realistic view of your character both vomiting blood and crying tears of it. I rather enjoyed your depiction of sweet whispers. I would have liked to see some other conclusion to his fit of madness other than unconsciousness. It always seems to be an easy fall out and it left myself and several other readers disappointed. This is not due to the poor quality of the writing but rather due to an ending when we wished to read onward and hear more of what this unusual Akvatari went through. Since this was a ‘prior to death’ flashback, I cannot give you XP for skill usage, but the quality was indeed +5 drawing, +5 painting, +5 Auristics, +3 hypnotism, +3 Rhetoric, +3 Interrogation. As you might have known, this thread was a catalyst for a rather lengthy Founder discussion on skill awards. We determined that prior to death, skill flashbacks cannot be awarded but lores rediscovered are perfectly acceptable. The reason for this is that remembering doing something is vastly different than actually doing something in the physical so the body might not find it so easy. Thank you very much for always driving us to think harder, analyzed the game in new ways, and be challenged as Admins. That’s a very valuable thing you provide to the game a as a whole. .