52nd Winter 512AV
The Dock
Late afternoon
Crisp perfect lines. Straight. Light of the gods, descending upon the water though the single gaping hole in the dense blanket of clouds. Divine blue, jubilant, illuminated by hope that gazed upon Zeltiva. Was it Syna's light? Likely, rendering the edges of the tear alight with soft hues of white. Not the crisp titanium white one may find in pigments, not the white of a brand new canvas, freshly stretched upon wooden planks. Frayed white, highlighting the lamb texture upon which it fell. And though that tear light seemed to pick just that one particular part of the sea, where the waves illuminated with the most magnificent glitter. Opaque blue, velvety of texture, seeming as if a man could walk upon it, so richly coloured was the water in just that single gap. A warm toned ultramarine, painted by the sun though the tear in the clouds.
The world beyond was darkness, grey and colourless. Monochrome... almost.
To the artist, the horizon line seemed profoundly beautiful, almost unrealistically so. So crisp it was, surreal and perfect, much like an abstract painting of the mind of a modernist mater. Yet it wasn't the simple case of the meeting of two stripes; one being the sky and the other one, the ocean. Many hues, many colours and visual techniques came together to make this simple act of perfection which was the horizon. And the longer the artist simply stared at it, the more beauty he saw within that, from beyond which the sun had risen very morning, and beyond which it gently lulled to sleep.
One might say that the sky was painted by watercolour in meticulous technique, using a variety of washes and bleeds and blending to piece together this jigsaw of hues. A painting that would take days, if not weeks to perfect. A painting which simply existed to the blissful obliviousness of creatures which walked upon the earth. For there was no greater masterpiece, not even the elaborate canvases and tapestries on the walls of the rich, the noted at the lips of some mystical songstress. No note of the lute, no hue of the freshly bloomed flower. Beauty of art was fleeting, hence the sky could not be named so. It seemed something grater than the creatures it shrouded from the very first day of creation, pre-Valterian - and would remain there till the end of time itself.
When looking upon the horizon, shrouded by a dense duvet of clouds, one rarely saw the beauty within it. Perhaps this was due to the natural human gravitation towards sunlight. but Valo, the artist was no sunflower. Pale as alabaster, with the mind that sought beauty in the most unlikely of places, he looked out into the distance from the dock, seeing nothing but beauty in wake of dreary weather. A certain inspiration in the groggy weather. Inspiration lingered everywhere.
A clean slice of the knife, as far as the emerald eye could see. A line, drawn with the perfect ruler,by the hands of a greater architect, or a mathematician. So pristine. that was the line of the sea, monotone yet textured. Of the densest blue, yet liquid, no doubt. Vast and dangerous, yet somehow muted at that very moment, almost as if Laviku himself had fallen asleep.The rhythmic tidal movement of a watery lullaby, almost completely featureless until the very moment it is simply cut off. That very cut seemed a white line, very thin and very bleak yet no doubt existent. A white space where the watercolour paint would dry upon a canvas, separating two hues. The hue of the water and the hue of the overhang beyond it. Above that line was precisely where the majesty of nature weaves it's most magnificence.
The groggy overhang of soft grey did not tough the equally grey water. Indeed it stopped just short of it, leaving a warm hued stripe across the sky where the clouds dissolved into the most incredible hue. Not yellow, not blue, not orange, yet somehow all at once. If fire somehow had the liberty to exist beneath water, that's precisely what it would look like. A torch, shining though some otherworldly filter, more indescribable then the eyes of Vantha. A luminous cream smudge upon the sky. The colour of glowing human skin.
Indeed such a hue was so very hard to describe in the mind of the artist who looked upon it with awe, thus he chose to simply list the combination of pigment that would go into creating such a soft fiery hue. For when cadmium red light was mixed with lemon yellow, it made an interesting dirty orange. A hue so readily presents on the very peripheral corners of candle flames. A silently powerful colour. Adding just the tiniest drop of ultramarine would elevate those grey undertones, rendering the mixture so very delicate, so very whimsical that, when mixed with white, it created the most gentle pale orange. He would then mix the colour of clear sky. Phthalo blue with a little cobalt blue - a blue pigment with the most lovely green undertones. That was the colour of the clear sky in summer. Of course that would need mixing with white too to lighten it gently. Those two hues, he would then mix together on his palette, in the ration of 2:1 in favour of the fiery orange and then, only then, would the colour of this ethereal smudge be achieved. So difficult to describe, yet so logical to achieve.
Bright cute, thin and uneven scarred the area where the purple toned grey of the clouds dissolved into the ethereal stripe. He knew not how such scars were formed, for it was as if the artist who have painted the sky simply took his artistic liberty to another level. An under lighting of clouds, perhaps, but there seemed to be no clouds in juxtaposition to those scars. They simply hovered there in the very defiance of logic, yet more beautiful for it. Slits into the canvas upon which all of it was painted. Almost defiantly, yet another stripe bled into that fiery hue that lined the entirety of the sky. A grey toned purple, in contrast to the orange, complete complementary opposite of it that somehow, defiant of all logic, bled into the hue. It lined that white slit of the horizon, sharp on one side yet defused on the other. An imperfect feature, created no doubt by the union of Phthalo blue and cadmium red pigment which created precisely that grey toned purple. Thus Valo could not help but wonder, could complimentary colours be so simply blended and bled into one another. Surely such should not be possible though their nature, but somehow it worked. Somehow. He hadn't experimented enough with contrast. Perhaps it was time.
Th artist's fingers flexed, idle by his sides. He cursed not having his paint box and sketchbook with him today, for such a scene - so unexpectedly beautiful - was truly worth his time. And without his precious tools he could do nothing but observe. A sudden wave of shivering that tore though his body, before his muscles settled into similar idleness again. Pulling his coat a little tighter about himself, his scarf over his lips where it would keep out the biting cold and keep out the sickness, he remained just for a little longer in this idle beholding of simple beauty.
It was perhaps late noon and the dock had not been perhaps a little more crowded than usual. The city was strong, even if being hacked down one by one. A great vulgar gesture in the face of the pestilence. For each soul lost to the sickness, there was another one that burned all the more passionately, determined to bring relief from grief to the families, to cure the sick, to save lives. For ever candle snuffed out prematurely, there was another which burned twice as bright as if burning for the both of them. Sharp as stars, burning twice as fast, relentlessly, making the most of their bleak existence. A city united by the pestilence. Vayt reeked his havoc upon humans who bore such heroic determination.
What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.
The lord of the council had given a simple speech earlier on in the season, stating so honestly that those who wished to leave the plague ridden city, would find means to do so. Yet few abandoned the city. Many would rather perish beside their friends, lay down dead in their beloved city, than abandon it. Such stubborn creatures.
A sudden remembrance that he indeed had forgotten what his business was in this part of town. If he had any business at all. He must have, for he didn't leave his home when the need was not such, in fear of joining the legions who had fallen to Vayt's anger. The artist evidently sent too much time in his head lately, descending so freely into those dazes of his, foolishly and frivolously. But there was little work fro an artist during great sickness. Little work indeed. Thus with one final sigh, one final glance to the sky, he finally turned on his heel and started back up towards the town. A journey that would end in the protective warmth of his little cottage. That's was indeed the plan.
The eyes of an artist are stray, observant and disobedient. They have a habit of glancing in the most inconvenient of directions at the most inconvenient of times. For, perhaps if he had not took a moment to look up when passing the Grotto, he would not have seen what he saw; and if that was not seen then he would have no intensive to go out of his way for another being. The nature of the artist was however, to do just that. A man who simply could not turn the cheek to the distress of another.
She was a young girl, no older than twelve, perhaps even that was an over estimation of her age. The complexion which had never seen sunlight, gently freckled alabaster crowned by curls of honey. A severe juxtaposition of blue orbs against blood shot skin, dressed poorly, shivering beneath a wall of granite. Face running with tears and dirt. A truly heart braking sight.
He couldn't just simply continue on his way. Wouldn't turn a blind eye to the suffering of this little girl for that would have been so very much out of character. Thus, without much hesitation, or much thought, he removed his coat, exposing the fine material of his shirt and the midnight blue silk scarf that was wound around his neck and he crouched by the girl with a kind smile on his face, a gentle warmth in his eyes, an arm outstretched offering the garment. "What's wrong dear?" he asked in a honey smooth voice, hoping she wouldn't be frightened by this random act of kindness. Zeltiva however was a city that harboured much charity, much kindness. If it wasn't him, then perhaps some other good stranger would do this, perhaps a Wave Guard on his everyday shift.
The child was momentarily stunned, looking up at him wide-eyed, innocent, as if he was some phantom of her imagination. Eyes thrust with intent into his hair, bewildered by the very vibrant hue, as if she was seeing colour for the very first time in her life in the city of grey. It was only after a moment of this that she finally realised he was offering her his coat and she took it without a word, wrapping it around her shoulders and indulging in the momentary warmth. It seemed as if she had gotten even smaller, curled up with her knees by her chest, tattered shoes upon her little feet. Alas a mutter of a shaken voice, choking back her tears. "Th... thank you sir." Her eyes lay upon the cobbles, tears threatening to freeze upon her cheeks before she wiped them away with the cuff of her slave.
It seemed peculiar thing really, but made very much sense once one learned to speak the language of the youth. For when children cry for attention, the sobs are laud. Crying that broke both the heart and eardrums. This girl was weeping silently however, ignored by the world, perched out of the way of the crowds where every passing patron had the liberty not to take notice. She sobbed silently for she perhaps wanted no attention. She wept coss she knew not what else to do.
"What's wrong?" he urged warmly, leaning back against the wall beside her. A small distance between them, crouched at her height. Surely, perhaps it was not his place to pry, but his heart went out to the child. A certain need to help, a need to prove himself a good man. "Your parents must be worried delirious. Come, I'll walk you back home."
"I have none." whispered the girl, another sob as she struggled to calm down from her weeping. At that moment the artist's her heart broke in half in pity of the child. Had she lost her family to the plague? What a terrible fate to befall such a young one. Perhaps she had been weeping for her family. As guess as good as any. And if so than what would happen to her now? Where should she go, alone in this world. "I live at the Farson Orphanage" she replied, putting on a relentlessly brave face. The mannerism more adult than one her age should behold. "And don't make me go back there. I won't! I won't!"
Valo was taken back momentarily by the expression on her face. One of determination. Her lips, though little and rosy, now pressed into a thin lines. Eyes wide open in an equilibrium of pleading and disobedience. Ghosts within them that should exist in no child's eyes. Fear in the gentle pulling together of her brows. She froze for a moment in that position, suspended in time, in fear that this seemingly kind stranger who was Valo,would indeed be her undoing. Thus, he could not simply take her by the hand and escort her back to the orphanage and the safety of four walls which kept illness out and the children in. A sort of protective bubble that was also a prison. And after this moment of simply studying her expression, a gentle crescent of a smile appeared upon the read haired artist's face. One that would signal defeat in his previously apparent agenda. "I won't. I won't." he smiled, words so casual as if he was merely conversing with a youngster,not indeed answering to the distress of an orphan. A sudden casual manner which would hopefully relax her in his presence a little. Perhaps then he could find out what's wrong and at least try to help. To treat the girl as his own.
Valo would perhaps be a wonderful father, at least it's what he liked to think, for he had always adored children. There wasn't a tear from a baby's innocent eyes, a teenage tantrum, that ever seemed to break his self composure. Both kind and caring and gentle in his manner, just like his mother was. One might say that he was a spitting image of the woman, both in manner and also in appearance.
She averted her eyes from him again, falling silent and that silence lingered between the two strangers for a moment before he spoke up again. Words that merely suggested in passive encouragement. "However it would be best to get you out of this cold, little one. Perhaps a meal at the World's End, where you could warm up. I'd hate to leave you shivering here for any longer that needs to be."
When their eyes met again, the little girl was hesitant. A million questions in her head that manifested so profoundly in those eyes of hers. Who was this man? Why was he so kind? Was it some sort of a trick, an evil scheme of the devil in an angel's shroud, who was after her? And he saw all this in her hesitation. But, perhaps as a stroke of luck, at that precise moment her stomach gave out a mellow rumbling for she had run away that morning having no breakfast and hunger had just about started to catch up with her. Slender she was, a scrawny child beneath a coat that was evidently too large about her feature and thus, all the warmer. And the opportunist within her took over. One that would not pass a good meal, no matter how much she wanted. Besides, in an inn full of people, this red haired stranger could not harm her, so perhaps he was just a kind stranger with no underlying agenda beneath that sugar coated action of his. A resolute child, she still didn't trust him but had not the liberty to refuse such a generous offer.
* * *
Within the World's End Grotto
The girl wasted no time to dig into her fish, devouring the food before her taste buds had the chance to truly register the flavour of what it was that she was eating. Evident hunger. But none the less, with childish suspicion she observed the man before her who pecked at his with grace. So elegant, he appeared to her, with so much female quality. Perhaps he was some kind of noble, so perhaps was his posture and pristine was his clothing. And the colour of his hair, so unlike anything she had ever seen before. Little did she know that the artist who sat before her was nothing more than a poor artist and the clothing on his back was hard earned and saved up money from his many paintings.
"So what's your name?" he asked casually. A simple curiosity. Small talk.
"Elika." she replied with such haste that her mouth was yet not empty when she spoke. "And you sir?"
"Valo." he spoke. The Inarta accent ringing gently in his voice. An ever present charming smile. It was perhaps that smile that finally eased her a little. Allowed the child to momentarily forget her worries, if only momentarily, and indulge in the well cooked food and the warmth of the inn. An indulgence in the charity of the exotic stranger, with little questioning. He seemed so kind and so genuine, thus the naive mind of a child began responding to his deeds with a little less distrust. A little more of her energetic personality began to glow. It was at that point, that she took the liberty to look him over properly with the inquisitive nature that only a child, or indeed an artist could fathom.
"Is it a wig?" she asked innocently, cocking her head to the side a little. "I have never seen a man with such bright red hair. Are you from Zeltiva mr Valo?"
As Elika studied him, so did he gaze upon her with observant eyes. A close study of the lovely little girl she was. For despite the tangled mess of blonde hair that poked out awkwardly in every direction and the subtle shadows beneath her eyes, a weariness perhaps from the lack of sleep, she was truly endearing. A face that still bore that childish roundness. Eyes which dominated the face, giving her that very sense of complete innocence. Inquisitive eyes which took not of everything they looked upon and they looked upon everything. Her tears have dried now and the candlelit interior warmed her complexion, glittering gracefully in those eyes. The artist took notice of her manner. The way she hunched over her food a little, held the fork in a tight fist, digging though the fish and meticulously removing all the white meat from the animal, without eating the skin of the bones. And then she would find a little one, lodged somewhere within the steaming flesh, she'd go to any length to remove it with her fingers, once the fork proved insufficient. Though somehow she was reluctant to let down the silver utensil. No doubt an attempt to look a little more grown up before the dignified artist.
A minor outburst of merry laughter, yet not at all a condescending one, on Valo's behalf. Simply the amusement at the question. "Everyone had hair like this where I'm from." he smiled. "I'm Inarta you see. Well, only half blood. I'm from Wind Reach you see. A city in a mountain, right on the very edge of Kalea." He didn't usually mention his human heritage. In fact he never mentioned it, for that was a great shame to him. The irremovable reminder of his petch of a father, who so dishonourably abandoned his beloved mother, before little Valo was even born.
A great smile lit up Elika's face. A bewilderment at the magical images that formed in her head. A city in a mountain, populated by red haired people. Magic and mysticism that could not so easily be comprehended by a child who had lived their whole life behind the closed doors of the orphanage. An unknown land that seemed so much better in her youthful mind than the city she had always lived in. And so she shared the wish that he too had when merely a child. A dream that perhaps every child has: to travel and see the world. Few grow up to live that dream. Valo was one of the very few.
That smile however subsided after moments into a grim expression. A quick remembrance of her worries and as the ghosts rolled back on, she retreated into her chair, placing down the food for a little. "Why would you come all the way here then, mr Valo? Here everyone dies of a mysterious sickness. I don't want you to die too sir, so perhaps you should go back."
He shook his head. His words a little more comforting at this worried expression on her face. Sweet it was, that she worried about him, but completely unnecessary. "Don't you worry about me, little one. I'll be fine. It is your self who should take better care of yourself." a moment of silence parted them, the artist and the child, preoccupied by food. A moment where the peripheral conversation of the other patrons who littered the Grotto drowned the out. Even if the crowd was indeed scarce. It was only after that moment , that the artist looked up to Elika again and he spoke in a hushed tone. That ivory feature of his fallen into something of a worried expression of his own. An attempt to understand in his eyes. "Is that why you were crying earlier, Elika? Is it because of the sickness."
She nodded.
"It'll pass soon. You'll see." he smile, trying to provide at least a little bit of comfort in his empty words. But that seemed impossible. No soft spoken words would truly comfort this child.
She swallowed hard, face solemn as if tears were about to spill from her eyes again. But that didn't happen. A brave little girls she was. "My best friend died the other day. Everyone said she was going to get better, but she didn't. All the children at the orphanage are slowly getting ill. It's why I ran away. I don't want to get ill too and die like my friend did."
"You can't live on the streets either. You're far more likely to become ill that way. At least at the orphanage there are people who will look after you." he noticed. It was at that moment that the foolishness of her own decision had struck the girl. What the red haired man was saying were indeed words of wisdom. A realisation came to her, that she stood no chance alone on the streets of a plagued city. And as he smiled to her, she in turn surrendered. Simply gave up on her notion of escaping the fated live she was so desperate to cling onto.Head hung,picking at her fish with disenchantment. "It's gonna be ok little one." the artist urged, trying to cheer her up just a little. "It's going to pass soon enough and the city will return to normal. Mark my words." Of course he didn't really know for sure and perhaps he was as afraid as she. But himself composure showed no sign of it. He spoke as if he already had seen the future, though no such thing was true.
* * *
The pair indulged in conversation for most of the afternoon. An inquisitive child, she was, demanding to hear all about his home town and so he spoke. Telling her about the architecture, the culture and the customs of the people.He described the views of Kalea, the mountains and the skies so vividly that in her head, with the eyes of her imagination, Elika could see everything he talked about. He told her about the many city locations and the flora and the fauna. Told her about the market days and the Wind Eagles and the Endal, the archery competitions, the seasonal events. The girl on the other hand sat with her great eyes planted into him, curled up on the chair with awe painted on her face.
Suffice to say, she had grown to like the red haired mr Valo. He was kind to her and selfless and when he talked, he spun such wondrous tales. She loved his stories. Loved the adventures he described and the land that seemed so perfect to her. Kalea, the land of milk and honey, in the youthful mind of the child. And so she questioned in her enjoyment, questioned him about his life there and when he mentioned his artistic occupation, she demanded to see his work. Thus, with a merry laugh, he promised to bring his sketchbooks upon his next visit to the orphanage, for he had promised to see her again. And too she demanded to be painted. A glorious prospect in the eyes of a child. He was so very interesting and exotic, a spark of red light in the grey world of an orphan.
Valo... It means light.
Alas, as the sun hung lower in the skies, lighting the scape of Zeltiva with hues of crimson and scarlet, the artist and the little girl finally made their way toward the orphanage. A thoroughly pleasant afternoon, despite the tear filled start. A pleasant goodbye. A promise to visit again the future.
The Dock
Late afternoon
Crisp perfect lines. Straight. Light of the gods, descending upon the water though the single gaping hole in the dense blanket of clouds. Divine blue, jubilant, illuminated by hope that gazed upon Zeltiva. Was it Syna's light? Likely, rendering the edges of the tear alight with soft hues of white. Not the crisp titanium white one may find in pigments, not the white of a brand new canvas, freshly stretched upon wooden planks. Frayed white, highlighting the lamb texture upon which it fell. And though that tear light seemed to pick just that one particular part of the sea, where the waves illuminated with the most magnificent glitter. Opaque blue, velvety of texture, seeming as if a man could walk upon it, so richly coloured was the water in just that single gap. A warm toned ultramarine, painted by the sun though the tear in the clouds.
The world beyond was darkness, grey and colourless. Monochrome... almost.
To the artist, the horizon line seemed profoundly beautiful, almost unrealistically so. So crisp it was, surreal and perfect, much like an abstract painting of the mind of a modernist mater. Yet it wasn't the simple case of the meeting of two stripes; one being the sky and the other one, the ocean. Many hues, many colours and visual techniques came together to make this simple act of perfection which was the horizon. And the longer the artist simply stared at it, the more beauty he saw within that, from beyond which the sun had risen very morning, and beyond which it gently lulled to sleep.
One might say that the sky was painted by watercolour in meticulous technique, using a variety of washes and bleeds and blending to piece together this jigsaw of hues. A painting that would take days, if not weeks to perfect. A painting which simply existed to the blissful obliviousness of creatures which walked upon the earth. For there was no greater masterpiece, not even the elaborate canvases and tapestries on the walls of the rich, the noted at the lips of some mystical songstress. No note of the lute, no hue of the freshly bloomed flower. Beauty of art was fleeting, hence the sky could not be named so. It seemed something grater than the creatures it shrouded from the very first day of creation, pre-Valterian - and would remain there till the end of time itself.
When looking upon the horizon, shrouded by a dense duvet of clouds, one rarely saw the beauty within it. Perhaps this was due to the natural human gravitation towards sunlight. but Valo, the artist was no sunflower. Pale as alabaster, with the mind that sought beauty in the most unlikely of places, he looked out into the distance from the dock, seeing nothing but beauty in wake of dreary weather. A certain inspiration in the groggy weather. Inspiration lingered everywhere.
A clean slice of the knife, as far as the emerald eye could see. A line, drawn with the perfect ruler,by the hands of a greater architect, or a mathematician. So pristine. that was the line of the sea, monotone yet textured. Of the densest blue, yet liquid, no doubt. Vast and dangerous, yet somehow muted at that very moment, almost as if Laviku himself had fallen asleep.The rhythmic tidal movement of a watery lullaby, almost completely featureless until the very moment it is simply cut off. That very cut seemed a white line, very thin and very bleak yet no doubt existent. A white space where the watercolour paint would dry upon a canvas, separating two hues. The hue of the water and the hue of the overhang beyond it. Above that line was precisely where the majesty of nature weaves it's most magnificence.
The groggy overhang of soft grey did not tough the equally grey water. Indeed it stopped just short of it, leaving a warm hued stripe across the sky where the clouds dissolved into the most incredible hue. Not yellow, not blue, not orange, yet somehow all at once. If fire somehow had the liberty to exist beneath water, that's precisely what it would look like. A torch, shining though some otherworldly filter, more indescribable then the eyes of Vantha. A luminous cream smudge upon the sky. The colour of glowing human skin.
Indeed such a hue was so very hard to describe in the mind of the artist who looked upon it with awe, thus he chose to simply list the combination of pigment that would go into creating such a soft fiery hue. For when cadmium red light was mixed with lemon yellow, it made an interesting dirty orange. A hue so readily presents on the very peripheral corners of candle flames. A silently powerful colour. Adding just the tiniest drop of ultramarine would elevate those grey undertones, rendering the mixture so very delicate, so very whimsical that, when mixed with white, it created the most gentle pale orange. He would then mix the colour of clear sky. Phthalo blue with a little cobalt blue - a blue pigment with the most lovely green undertones. That was the colour of the clear sky in summer. Of course that would need mixing with white too to lighten it gently. Those two hues, he would then mix together on his palette, in the ration of 2:1 in favour of the fiery orange and then, only then, would the colour of this ethereal smudge be achieved. So difficult to describe, yet so logical to achieve.
Bright cute, thin and uneven scarred the area where the purple toned grey of the clouds dissolved into the ethereal stripe. He knew not how such scars were formed, for it was as if the artist who have painted the sky simply took his artistic liberty to another level. An under lighting of clouds, perhaps, but there seemed to be no clouds in juxtaposition to those scars. They simply hovered there in the very defiance of logic, yet more beautiful for it. Slits into the canvas upon which all of it was painted. Almost defiantly, yet another stripe bled into that fiery hue that lined the entirety of the sky. A grey toned purple, in contrast to the orange, complete complementary opposite of it that somehow, defiant of all logic, bled into the hue. It lined that white slit of the horizon, sharp on one side yet defused on the other. An imperfect feature, created no doubt by the union of Phthalo blue and cadmium red pigment which created precisely that grey toned purple. Thus Valo could not help but wonder, could complimentary colours be so simply blended and bled into one another. Surely such should not be possible though their nature, but somehow it worked. Somehow. He hadn't experimented enough with contrast. Perhaps it was time.
Th artist's fingers flexed, idle by his sides. He cursed not having his paint box and sketchbook with him today, for such a scene - so unexpectedly beautiful - was truly worth his time. And without his precious tools he could do nothing but observe. A sudden wave of shivering that tore though his body, before his muscles settled into similar idleness again. Pulling his coat a little tighter about himself, his scarf over his lips where it would keep out the biting cold and keep out the sickness, he remained just for a little longer in this idle beholding of simple beauty.
It was perhaps late noon and the dock had not been perhaps a little more crowded than usual. The city was strong, even if being hacked down one by one. A great vulgar gesture in the face of the pestilence. For each soul lost to the sickness, there was another one that burned all the more passionately, determined to bring relief from grief to the families, to cure the sick, to save lives. For ever candle snuffed out prematurely, there was another which burned twice as bright as if burning for the both of them. Sharp as stars, burning twice as fast, relentlessly, making the most of their bleak existence. A city united by the pestilence. Vayt reeked his havoc upon humans who bore such heroic determination.
What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.
The lord of the council had given a simple speech earlier on in the season, stating so honestly that those who wished to leave the plague ridden city, would find means to do so. Yet few abandoned the city. Many would rather perish beside their friends, lay down dead in their beloved city, than abandon it. Such stubborn creatures.
A sudden remembrance that he indeed had forgotten what his business was in this part of town. If he had any business at all. He must have, for he didn't leave his home when the need was not such, in fear of joining the legions who had fallen to Vayt's anger. The artist evidently sent too much time in his head lately, descending so freely into those dazes of his, foolishly and frivolously. But there was little work fro an artist during great sickness. Little work indeed. Thus with one final sigh, one final glance to the sky, he finally turned on his heel and started back up towards the town. A journey that would end in the protective warmth of his little cottage. That's was indeed the plan.
The eyes of an artist are stray, observant and disobedient. They have a habit of glancing in the most inconvenient of directions at the most inconvenient of times. For, perhaps if he had not took a moment to look up when passing the Grotto, he would not have seen what he saw; and if that was not seen then he would have no intensive to go out of his way for another being. The nature of the artist was however, to do just that. A man who simply could not turn the cheek to the distress of another.
She was a young girl, no older than twelve, perhaps even that was an over estimation of her age. The complexion which had never seen sunlight, gently freckled alabaster crowned by curls of honey. A severe juxtaposition of blue orbs against blood shot skin, dressed poorly, shivering beneath a wall of granite. Face running with tears and dirt. A truly heart braking sight.
He couldn't just simply continue on his way. Wouldn't turn a blind eye to the suffering of this little girl for that would have been so very much out of character. Thus, without much hesitation, or much thought, he removed his coat, exposing the fine material of his shirt and the midnight blue silk scarf that was wound around his neck and he crouched by the girl with a kind smile on his face, a gentle warmth in his eyes, an arm outstretched offering the garment. "What's wrong dear?" he asked in a honey smooth voice, hoping she wouldn't be frightened by this random act of kindness. Zeltiva however was a city that harboured much charity, much kindness. If it wasn't him, then perhaps some other good stranger would do this, perhaps a Wave Guard on his everyday shift.
The child was momentarily stunned, looking up at him wide-eyed, innocent, as if he was some phantom of her imagination. Eyes thrust with intent into his hair, bewildered by the very vibrant hue, as if she was seeing colour for the very first time in her life in the city of grey. It was only after a moment of this that she finally realised he was offering her his coat and she took it without a word, wrapping it around her shoulders and indulging in the momentary warmth. It seemed as if she had gotten even smaller, curled up with her knees by her chest, tattered shoes upon her little feet. Alas a mutter of a shaken voice, choking back her tears. "Th... thank you sir." Her eyes lay upon the cobbles, tears threatening to freeze upon her cheeks before she wiped them away with the cuff of her slave.
It seemed peculiar thing really, but made very much sense once one learned to speak the language of the youth. For when children cry for attention, the sobs are laud. Crying that broke both the heart and eardrums. This girl was weeping silently however, ignored by the world, perched out of the way of the crowds where every passing patron had the liberty not to take notice. She sobbed silently for she perhaps wanted no attention. She wept coss she knew not what else to do.
"What's wrong?" he urged warmly, leaning back against the wall beside her. A small distance between them, crouched at her height. Surely, perhaps it was not his place to pry, but his heart went out to the child. A certain need to help, a need to prove himself a good man. "Your parents must be worried delirious. Come, I'll walk you back home."
"I have none." whispered the girl, another sob as she struggled to calm down from her weeping. At that moment the artist's her heart broke in half in pity of the child. Had she lost her family to the plague? What a terrible fate to befall such a young one. Perhaps she had been weeping for her family. As guess as good as any. And if so than what would happen to her now? Where should she go, alone in this world. "I live at the Farson Orphanage" she replied, putting on a relentlessly brave face. The mannerism more adult than one her age should behold. "And don't make me go back there. I won't! I won't!"
Valo was taken back momentarily by the expression on her face. One of determination. Her lips, though little and rosy, now pressed into a thin lines. Eyes wide open in an equilibrium of pleading and disobedience. Ghosts within them that should exist in no child's eyes. Fear in the gentle pulling together of her brows. She froze for a moment in that position, suspended in time, in fear that this seemingly kind stranger who was Valo,would indeed be her undoing. Thus, he could not simply take her by the hand and escort her back to the orphanage and the safety of four walls which kept illness out and the children in. A sort of protective bubble that was also a prison. And after this moment of simply studying her expression, a gentle crescent of a smile appeared upon the read haired artist's face. One that would signal defeat in his previously apparent agenda. "I won't. I won't." he smiled, words so casual as if he was merely conversing with a youngster,not indeed answering to the distress of an orphan. A sudden casual manner which would hopefully relax her in his presence a little. Perhaps then he could find out what's wrong and at least try to help. To treat the girl as his own.
Valo would perhaps be a wonderful father, at least it's what he liked to think, for he had always adored children. There wasn't a tear from a baby's innocent eyes, a teenage tantrum, that ever seemed to break his self composure. Both kind and caring and gentle in his manner, just like his mother was. One might say that he was a spitting image of the woman, both in manner and also in appearance.
She averted her eyes from him again, falling silent and that silence lingered between the two strangers for a moment before he spoke up again. Words that merely suggested in passive encouragement. "However it would be best to get you out of this cold, little one. Perhaps a meal at the World's End, where you could warm up. I'd hate to leave you shivering here for any longer that needs to be."
When their eyes met again, the little girl was hesitant. A million questions in her head that manifested so profoundly in those eyes of hers. Who was this man? Why was he so kind? Was it some sort of a trick, an evil scheme of the devil in an angel's shroud, who was after her? And he saw all this in her hesitation. But, perhaps as a stroke of luck, at that precise moment her stomach gave out a mellow rumbling for she had run away that morning having no breakfast and hunger had just about started to catch up with her. Slender she was, a scrawny child beneath a coat that was evidently too large about her feature and thus, all the warmer. And the opportunist within her took over. One that would not pass a good meal, no matter how much she wanted. Besides, in an inn full of people, this red haired stranger could not harm her, so perhaps he was just a kind stranger with no underlying agenda beneath that sugar coated action of his. A resolute child, she still didn't trust him but had not the liberty to refuse such a generous offer.
* * *
Within the World's End Grotto
The girl wasted no time to dig into her fish, devouring the food before her taste buds had the chance to truly register the flavour of what it was that she was eating. Evident hunger. But none the less, with childish suspicion she observed the man before her who pecked at his with grace. So elegant, he appeared to her, with so much female quality. Perhaps he was some kind of noble, so perhaps was his posture and pristine was his clothing. And the colour of his hair, so unlike anything she had ever seen before. Little did she know that the artist who sat before her was nothing more than a poor artist and the clothing on his back was hard earned and saved up money from his many paintings.
"So what's your name?" he asked casually. A simple curiosity. Small talk.
"Elika." she replied with such haste that her mouth was yet not empty when she spoke. "And you sir?"
"Valo." he spoke. The Inarta accent ringing gently in his voice. An ever present charming smile. It was perhaps that smile that finally eased her a little. Allowed the child to momentarily forget her worries, if only momentarily, and indulge in the well cooked food and the warmth of the inn. An indulgence in the charity of the exotic stranger, with little questioning. He seemed so kind and so genuine, thus the naive mind of a child began responding to his deeds with a little less distrust. A little more of her energetic personality began to glow. It was at that point, that she took the liberty to look him over properly with the inquisitive nature that only a child, or indeed an artist could fathom.
"Is it a wig?" she asked innocently, cocking her head to the side a little. "I have never seen a man with such bright red hair. Are you from Zeltiva mr Valo?"
As Elika studied him, so did he gaze upon her with observant eyes. A close study of the lovely little girl she was. For despite the tangled mess of blonde hair that poked out awkwardly in every direction and the subtle shadows beneath her eyes, a weariness perhaps from the lack of sleep, she was truly endearing. A face that still bore that childish roundness. Eyes which dominated the face, giving her that very sense of complete innocence. Inquisitive eyes which took not of everything they looked upon and they looked upon everything. Her tears have dried now and the candlelit interior warmed her complexion, glittering gracefully in those eyes. The artist took notice of her manner. The way she hunched over her food a little, held the fork in a tight fist, digging though the fish and meticulously removing all the white meat from the animal, without eating the skin of the bones. And then she would find a little one, lodged somewhere within the steaming flesh, she'd go to any length to remove it with her fingers, once the fork proved insufficient. Though somehow she was reluctant to let down the silver utensil. No doubt an attempt to look a little more grown up before the dignified artist.
A minor outburst of merry laughter, yet not at all a condescending one, on Valo's behalf. Simply the amusement at the question. "Everyone had hair like this where I'm from." he smiled. "I'm Inarta you see. Well, only half blood. I'm from Wind Reach you see. A city in a mountain, right on the very edge of Kalea." He didn't usually mention his human heritage. In fact he never mentioned it, for that was a great shame to him. The irremovable reminder of his petch of a father, who so dishonourably abandoned his beloved mother, before little Valo was even born.
A great smile lit up Elika's face. A bewilderment at the magical images that formed in her head. A city in a mountain, populated by red haired people. Magic and mysticism that could not so easily be comprehended by a child who had lived their whole life behind the closed doors of the orphanage. An unknown land that seemed so much better in her youthful mind than the city she had always lived in. And so she shared the wish that he too had when merely a child. A dream that perhaps every child has: to travel and see the world. Few grow up to live that dream. Valo was one of the very few.
That smile however subsided after moments into a grim expression. A quick remembrance of her worries and as the ghosts rolled back on, she retreated into her chair, placing down the food for a little. "Why would you come all the way here then, mr Valo? Here everyone dies of a mysterious sickness. I don't want you to die too sir, so perhaps you should go back."
He shook his head. His words a little more comforting at this worried expression on her face. Sweet it was, that she worried about him, but completely unnecessary. "Don't you worry about me, little one. I'll be fine. It is your self who should take better care of yourself." a moment of silence parted them, the artist and the child, preoccupied by food. A moment where the peripheral conversation of the other patrons who littered the Grotto drowned the out. Even if the crowd was indeed scarce. It was only after that moment , that the artist looked up to Elika again and he spoke in a hushed tone. That ivory feature of his fallen into something of a worried expression of his own. An attempt to understand in his eyes. "Is that why you were crying earlier, Elika? Is it because of the sickness."
She nodded.
"It'll pass soon. You'll see." he smile, trying to provide at least a little bit of comfort in his empty words. But that seemed impossible. No soft spoken words would truly comfort this child.
She swallowed hard, face solemn as if tears were about to spill from her eyes again. But that didn't happen. A brave little girls she was. "My best friend died the other day. Everyone said she was going to get better, but she didn't. All the children at the orphanage are slowly getting ill. It's why I ran away. I don't want to get ill too and die like my friend did."
"You can't live on the streets either. You're far more likely to become ill that way. At least at the orphanage there are people who will look after you." he noticed. It was at that moment that the foolishness of her own decision had struck the girl. What the red haired man was saying were indeed words of wisdom. A realisation came to her, that she stood no chance alone on the streets of a plagued city. And as he smiled to her, she in turn surrendered. Simply gave up on her notion of escaping the fated live she was so desperate to cling onto.Head hung,picking at her fish with disenchantment. "It's gonna be ok little one." the artist urged, trying to cheer her up just a little. "It's going to pass soon enough and the city will return to normal. Mark my words." Of course he didn't really know for sure and perhaps he was as afraid as she. But himself composure showed no sign of it. He spoke as if he already had seen the future, though no such thing was true.
* * *
The pair indulged in conversation for most of the afternoon. An inquisitive child, she was, demanding to hear all about his home town and so he spoke. Telling her about the architecture, the culture and the customs of the people.He described the views of Kalea, the mountains and the skies so vividly that in her head, with the eyes of her imagination, Elika could see everything he talked about. He told her about the many city locations and the flora and the fauna. Told her about the market days and the Wind Eagles and the Endal, the archery competitions, the seasonal events. The girl on the other hand sat with her great eyes planted into him, curled up on the chair with awe painted on her face.
Suffice to say, she had grown to like the red haired mr Valo. He was kind to her and selfless and when he talked, he spun such wondrous tales. She loved his stories. Loved the adventures he described and the land that seemed so perfect to her. Kalea, the land of milk and honey, in the youthful mind of the child. And so she questioned in her enjoyment, questioned him about his life there and when he mentioned his artistic occupation, she demanded to see his work. Thus, with a merry laugh, he promised to bring his sketchbooks upon his next visit to the orphanage, for he had promised to see her again. And too she demanded to be painted. A glorious prospect in the eyes of a child. He was so very interesting and exotic, a spark of red light in the grey world of an orphan.
Valo... It means light.
Alas, as the sun hung lower in the skies, lighting the scape of Zeltiva with hues of crimson and scarlet, the artist and the little girl finally made their way toward the orphanage. A thoroughly pleasant afternoon, despite the tear filled start. A pleasant goodbye. A promise to visit again the future.
