Death is Thicker than Blood

by **Amaria Waterstance** on December 16th, 2012, 7:03 am

42nd Winter 512 A.V. 8th Bell

Amaria sat, quiet, pondering, even so far as to brood a little, over the fact that she was home for the third day in a row. With a disease spreading through town, and no ships to be worked on for it, she had no reason to leave. It did little to help her mood though. Her normally cheerful and talkative demeanor was now quite cross; this disease was doing nothing to her in her home, save irritate her to no end. "How long must this go on!" she shouted in her empty and quiet home. The silence only served to bother her more, for the few times she had shouted, there was always a shipwright there to pull her spirits up. She let out a sigh, the longest in three days, and got up from her seat. Getting ready, and striding to her door, she slammed it open with such force that it bounced halfway back closed. Stomping out of her home she headed to the nearest place she could think of going in the mood she was in, a tavern, in the hopes that it was open, and one of her many friends were there...

...Which proved to be a very fruitless journey. The people she saw, as few as they were, scampered off as quickly as they could at the sight of her. When she finally managed to find a tavern, for not even The Kelp Bar was open, she had done two treks of the cities main roads already. All the walk did was cause her to get more foul in her mood, and the crummy, worn down, and dingy tavern on East Street didn't help either.

Upon walking in, she saw none she knew, for her friends and coworkers did not frequent East Street. The place was dull, and lifeless, with news of the illness no one tried to be on the streets if they could help it. There was only a few lights, and nothing much about the place that gave it any unique life. Even the chairs and tables seemed to be as dead as the business in the facility.

The few patrons all sat huddled in various corners, trying to stay as far away from the other patrons as possible. She went straight to the barkeep and chose a kelp beer to loosen her mood, slightly snapping at him when she ordered it, and apologizing for her manner right after. On looking around, she could tell there was but one duo, huddled together speaking in near whisper, that was fairly close to the bar itself. "Did you hear about the family down from The Quills Rest?" the older of the two patrons stated. "Dead by the illness, the poor souls." On hearing this Amaria looked down at the brew in front of her, "Rest well then spirits." she muttered, before holding her glass up slightly in toast of the memories of those passed, and chugging half before catching the other patron halting the story. "No, I can tell you I most certainly know that's not true! The daughter, Saika I believe her name was, she's still alive and well! The first patron's eyes grew large on this news. "That girl? She's naught but 9 though, there's no way her parents deaths are going to pass well for her!"

Amaria's heart started to race on this news, and her mood jumped from foul, to concerned. She knew that family, the father at least; Vorinth was his name. He was an excellent shipwright and crafter, whom she shared many a drink with. Slamming down her drink, and paying well over the amount needed, she got up and rushed from the bar. "If tha' was true, I can't leave the lass alone. I'm not having someone go through what I did, but at such a young age!" Rushing off toward The Quills Rest, Amaria's thoughts raced on her actions when she arrived there, and how she would find her old friends home.

Ledger :

by **Gale Austin McCenry** on December 16th, 2012, 8:24 pm

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by **Valo** on December 17th, 2012, 10:03 am

Some days Valo found himself hit by inspiration as if it was an arrow, expelled from some godly bow. And it hit him with so much force that he simply had to make his way down to Quill's Rest to give substance to that profound feeling. For the most an artist can ever hope for is inspiration to guide him. The kind of inspiration that becomes physical pain within his chest, a heavy weight on his mind. Only then can art of true value take form. However upon stepping though the door, seating himself at a table by the window and preparing his materials, he found that this inspiration had dissolved into something much less helpful.

On days like that, when his inspiration became short lived, a journey to the bar would indeed become short lived if not for the resolute nature of Valo himself. If he was not to create marvellous art that day, he would at least practice to improve his skill and master the medium of water paint, the hardest of all mediums to paint in. So he set out a palette of eight colours; a black, a white and two shade of each primary colour - red, yellow and blue - and dipping his squirrel hair paintbrush in water, he began mixing the colours and forming swatches on paper. And then he would annotate each swatch in particular to remind himself of the combinations for future reference.

He decided to work on the various forms a purple can take, for purple was an important colour indeed. It could be used to describe shadow or to add a grey hue into warm colours. And so many different purples could be obtained through so many different means. For example, when he mixed ultramarine blue (a blue shade with a strong tendency towards the purple spectrum) with permanent violet (a red pigment which matched that tendency) the most vibrant and true purple would form. It's perfect and crisp colour however was too pure to use in natural surroundings for not even midsummer flowers had this vibrant a coloration. However when that same red was added to a phthalo blue green (a pigment with subtle undertones of green within it) a much more subdued purple would form. It lacked that vibrancy but made up for it with universality. Valo found that he would frequently add just a tiny bit of Ochre Yellow (a dark, grey yellow pigment) to the mix which would take the adge off the colour even further. These greys, more morose tones were much more to his liking.

It wasn't only the mixing of colours that was important with water paint. A whole theory lingered behind the pigments, suspended in a water dissolvable pigments. The amount of water added would directly alter the vibrancy of the hue. One thing which Valo found was that pressing his paintbrush into the paper would dull down the colours. However hovering it over the paper so that the bristles didn't touch it at all, but the water made contact with it and so the pigment would flow down on its own accord; meant that the medium would sink into the paper, leaving only the pigments on top and giving them a much crisper feeling. Of course sometimes the pigments would clump up into tiny little clusters, but that was the paint quality at fault, not his technique. One had to also wait before paint dried before putting on another layer, for the gradient of moisture between two places on the paper created strange, lettuce leaf like lines across it which, though proving atmospheric, wreaked havoc where they were not desired. Such was the hardship of an artist.

A familiar face suddenly appeared, walking in the direction of Qill's Rest. And though at first Valo almost jumped with excitement to see her again, he noticed a worried expression upon her. At once he abandoned his work and throwing on his warm coat, he ran outside to greet her. Perhaps she would tell him what was wrong.

"Amaria, my dear, how fares you?" he asked as he took place by her side, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

by **Gale Austin McCenry** on January 14th, 2013, 6:30 am

OOCDon't mind the typos, I'll fix them later. Phones don't like corrections. Also sorry for the ramble bamble but you guys wanted me to establish that I'm ther so, here ya go!

The mind was at peace. It was calm, subtle, and thought little when one drew. It did not need to, for a drawings purpose was to evoke the emotions in one's heart and soul. How can a drawing complete its purpose if it didn't start in the place it was trying to inspire? How does a tree grow and bear fruit if it didn't come from the seed of such fruits? Thought would only hinder the magnificence of a wonderful portrait. If you wanted something to be full of thought, write a book, tell a story. Leave art to it's original purpose of inspiring other's hearts.

Gale had no intentions of ruining this picture like he had dozen of times before. Time after time he would erase, draw, erase, redraw, and all because he was thinking too much. Did her nose look like this, was her hair longer, did her eyes sparkle like starts or have a burning flame in them? All were good questions, however, he wasn't writing a story about his wife. He was drawing a picture. Two very different things that needed to be approched differently.

With the attempt to only have the picture of her in his mind, his hand, weilding charcoal, sculpted a two softly curved lines. Not identical, no, not at all. One was far shorter then the other and shrunk at the end as if going around a curved corner. These strange, floating lines were the equivilance of the dancer's eyebrows. Thin eyebrows that rose, curved, perked, and furrowed with every expression she made.

Next, the rounded lips were sketched, being just as lopsided as the eyebrows. The right side was fairly normal, proportionately, though the other was almost non-existant. It was just the outlines of it but he saved the details and shadowing for last. All he needed was the outlines for now. But even with just the simplicity of his interpritation for her lips he knew he would have to redo it later. It would take a million and one tries to get her reassuring smile right. Smiles were one of those things that is hard to replicate just right.

But the artist still moved on. Next was her ears. Only one would show, do to the angle of her head. Although Gale's ears had more distinct curves in then, creating more shadows if he were to draw a self portriat, Hana's was, like most of her other features, softly rounded, and contained no harsh curves or ultimitely distinctive features. The rounded edge was easy enough, same as her inner lobe, but most of the finer curves were to be done by shadowing.

Even with how much time Gale's process if elimination takes, going from the straight lines to the circles, it made sense to him. It was inaccurate at times, especially with faces, considering the nose and mouth could be way off and such, but drawing from top to bottom, or side to side, ect, didn't supply the hypocrite with a definitire starting point. There are many things on the top, there are many things on the sides, but the. straightest line in the picture served as Gale's base for drawing. His drawing triangle to to speak.

This "drawing traingle" of his is rather difficult to explain, despite it running through his head every time he drew anything. Even Gale found it odd at times. There was always exceptions and he never thought about it when drawing and therefore never remembers how he drew it. Nonetheless, the widower was always one hundred percent focused on his work all the time unless something interrupted him.

But hey, it's the Quill's Rest. It's a quiet place, built for artists and researchers and anyone else who needs some peace. If he was going ti avoid interruptions and distractions, why not the Quill's Rest? There was only murmers and silence. There couldn't possibly be anything to disturb him here.

by **Echelon** on May 5th, 2013, 1:54 am

Adventurer's Loot

A Gift
Experience is its own reward.

Valo's Loot :

Gale's Loot :

Amy's Loot :

(That was indeed very short.) - if you have ANY questions or concerns about this grading, please PM me.

Open Death is Thicker than Blood