4th Spring 513AV
Somewhere along Mathews Bay
Evening
This was where they once met. A man and an illusion, painted by the hands of the setting sun. The glory upon his eyelids, a lucid dream from which he abruptly awoken. Their romance was short, but oh so sweat. And she so beautiful and too so kind, a great friend he was a fool to abandon. But abandon he must, for a fear within him was to cause her pain. A fear that perpetuated though his very flesh, until that heart which no longer beat was petrified all the more by the premonition of diamonds for tears in her eyes. And if such liberty had ever the slightest chance to be granted to him, his heart would melt at the thought of her. A fondness far above that of any other.
Undead footprints in the sand...
The darkness had perched himself in the shadows of nearby rock, away from the prying eyes of those who might fancy a late evening stroll along the perimeter of the water. Leviathan waves hummed him a lullaby, the moon upon the starlit sky witnessed him with it's illuminated face. The seas and the sky alone. For all intents and purposes, Valo was now a ghost, clad in such profound darkness - a cloak over his shoulders, a heavy hood obscuring all, even his hair of velvet flame - that one could not easily tell him apart from the darkness of the shadows. Alone, in perfect internal silence, he mused of his lover. Mused of the rich hues of her hair, of the kindness in her eyes. Mused of those special nights they somehow turned into regrets. How foolish had he been.
For it seems death had put everything in perspective - yes, at this present moment Valo considered himself dead in completion. Dead to the world, dead to time itself. Dead to everything but art and religion, his religion, the god to whom he owed his utmost everything. Other than that, his head had been filled with the nostalgic and almost paranoid view of it all. A wondering whether his 'so called' demise had any affect on the world at all. Or whether he simply passed away like a fallen leaf in the breeze, having fallen in the pond, lost forever, erased from memory and history. An envy of the dead in some respect, for they would no longer need to know what happened to those they loved after they passed. Valo however, was sure he eventually would. - He truly regretted not simply confessing undying love to the woman, for fear of jumping at the occasion like a rabid dog. And she deserved love. Indeed, back then he was frightened of it all for he had one life to live and one life to waste. Now he felt like however much time he would dedicate to vegetation, he'd have a vast supply to make up for it. Time no longer mattered to him. It was the case of indulgence in that whichever tickled his fancy.
Perhaps back then he should have simply loved her the way a gentleman should. A remorse he could simply not shake. But perhaps it that rejection was all for the greater good. It would spare her suffering, for at this present moment he wanted to do all but allow her to suffer. His loss would hurt her less. Perhaps this was selflessness on his behalf. The one thing quick kept him human, love.
Valo. It means light. Yet somehow he was a darkness...
A sketchbook on his lap, pencil at hand, with which he scribbled his musings in pictorial format. A woman which he drew from his memory. A fine silhouette of line. He had began with the use of geometry. A circle for head, drawn in his usual light line as the graphite barely scraped the paper, barely left marks upon it. All line was of the same darkness, for little proficiency he possessed, but of what he had, he made the most. A vertical line that sliced straight though it. A gentle wobble to it, for his control of the device lacked in skill. Still with a few longitudinal strokes, alas that line was place. An inverted triangle upon it, just a little lower from the circle and then another oval shape, created with the very gentle round motion of his entire arm, sprouting from his shoulder. A fluidity to it. For a moment he did this, suspended in air, the outer portion of his palm rested upon the paper, also drawing circles in it, before he was sure the motion was correct. And due to his utter perfectionism, Valo proceeded with this motion for a substantial moment, before finally touching the lead tot he paper, not for a moment ceasing the movement. The circle was placed.
From there on, gently working with just his wrist, the artist placed a face shape below that circle. A cross in the centre that suggested the position of feature in the face, yet no such thing as eyes or lips was added just yet. Two lines sprouting from the chin, forming a little v that lingered semi attached within that inverted triangle of a thorax,from which the graphite suggestions of the recessions in skin that marked the collar bones sprouted directly towards two other circles, one at each edge of the triangle. smaller circles that would form shoulders. The axis at which they lingered was tilted somewhat. He then began drawing in the delicate shape of the ribcage, upon which again two circles lingered, delicate breasts which he'd soon cover by graphite clothing. At that point the line density at the top of the sketch became a little overwhelming and the more feature he would draw, the harder it seemed to tell it all apart. Often several lines would overlap which, though perhaps not so terrible if he had only a little more skill in the craft, would overpower any detailing of imminent future. Though the line had been kept light, Valo still lacked the necessary proficiency to keep it so very soft and barely visible with the softness of the hand that was needed to achieve such an affect. Thus a little rubbing out took place and too he rubbed out the parts where the warmth of his hand resting upon the paper would smudge the graphite. That was an artist's worst nightmare.
Before continuing, Valo produced a soft bristled brush that had been kept completely dry and free of paint, fro him bag. A silly idea, perhaps, but at least it would prove a little relief from those vexatious smudges. Thus, before continuing, the artist gently brushed excess graphite from the paper, very gently, with acute motions of the wrist. And as he did so, he though to the beauty a pencil could create. The anatomical value it possessed. The monochromatic potential and the study of light and tone. Truth it was, he had not paid merely enough attention to the craft, nor did he truly explore this potential. A mental note to do some tonal studies of simple household objects. Perhaps this was what he needed to further his artistic ability. And perhaps he had never been as in love with monochrome as he had with the theory of colour, paint, it bore so much potential for greatness. Surely not that he had all this time to devote to his artistic mistress, Valo could focus on all it's aspects until one day he would become the living embodiment of the term; master of visual art. All this possibility and now so much time for it's achievement.
The figure possessed a slim waist, and as his hand had been drawing around the hips, placing in the necessary anatomy in order to carry on the shape of the thighs, he enlarged the ribcage a little, covered it with flesh so that no longer was there a skeleton upon his page, but an armless and legless woman. The waist too growing in realistic dimension. Subtle hint of a belly button before, with another motion of his entire arm, Valo created a tilted line across the hip. Yet this line was tilted in the opposite direction of that of the shoulders. Now the figure possessed dynamic, a certain posture, an animation to it that had been frozen by a frame in time, rather than simply standing naturally and blankly. A character to it. Soon the legs were drawn too and arms, crossed against her chest, before long locks framed the entire silhouette. The face however would forever linger in it's unfinishedness. Gentle whimsical clothing, well befitting the feminine shape of the body. The sketch was now complete. Yet before even allowing himself the liberty of a breath - at this point Valo already knew he no longer needed to breathe, but somehow the action had been so very engraved into his behaviour that every so often he was compelled to ventilate those useless lungs of his - the artist had already began reaching for his paintbox. Hands whiter than the paper upon which he'd been drawing were illuminated by Leth's light.
Somewhere along Mathews Bay
Evening
This was where they once met. A man and an illusion, painted by the hands of the setting sun. The glory upon his eyelids, a lucid dream from which he abruptly awoken. Their romance was short, but oh so sweat. And she so beautiful and too so kind, a great friend he was a fool to abandon. But abandon he must, for a fear within him was to cause her pain. A fear that perpetuated though his very flesh, until that heart which no longer beat was petrified all the more by the premonition of diamonds for tears in her eyes. And if such liberty had ever the slightest chance to be granted to him, his heart would melt at the thought of her. A fondness far above that of any other.
Undead footprints in the sand...
The darkness had perched himself in the shadows of nearby rock, away from the prying eyes of those who might fancy a late evening stroll along the perimeter of the water. Leviathan waves hummed him a lullaby, the moon upon the starlit sky witnessed him with it's illuminated face. The seas and the sky alone. For all intents and purposes, Valo was now a ghost, clad in such profound darkness - a cloak over his shoulders, a heavy hood obscuring all, even his hair of velvet flame - that one could not easily tell him apart from the darkness of the shadows. Alone, in perfect internal silence, he mused of his lover. Mused of the rich hues of her hair, of the kindness in her eyes. Mused of those special nights they somehow turned into regrets. How foolish had he been.
For it seems death had put everything in perspective - yes, at this present moment Valo considered himself dead in completion. Dead to the world, dead to time itself. Dead to everything but art and religion, his religion, the god to whom he owed his utmost everything. Other than that, his head had been filled with the nostalgic and almost paranoid view of it all. A wondering whether his 'so called' demise had any affect on the world at all. Or whether he simply passed away like a fallen leaf in the breeze, having fallen in the pond, lost forever, erased from memory and history. An envy of the dead in some respect, for they would no longer need to know what happened to those they loved after they passed. Valo however, was sure he eventually would. - He truly regretted not simply confessing undying love to the woman, for fear of jumping at the occasion like a rabid dog. And she deserved love. Indeed, back then he was frightened of it all for he had one life to live and one life to waste. Now he felt like however much time he would dedicate to vegetation, he'd have a vast supply to make up for it. Time no longer mattered to him. It was the case of indulgence in that whichever tickled his fancy.
Perhaps back then he should have simply loved her the way a gentleman should. A remorse he could simply not shake. But perhaps it that rejection was all for the greater good. It would spare her suffering, for at this present moment he wanted to do all but allow her to suffer. His loss would hurt her less. Perhaps this was selflessness on his behalf. The one thing quick kept him human, love.
Valo. It means light. Yet somehow he was a darkness...
A sketchbook on his lap, pencil at hand, with which he scribbled his musings in pictorial format. A woman which he drew from his memory. A fine silhouette of line. He had began with the use of geometry. A circle for head, drawn in his usual light line as the graphite barely scraped the paper, barely left marks upon it. All line was of the same darkness, for little proficiency he possessed, but of what he had, he made the most. A vertical line that sliced straight though it. A gentle wobble to it, for his control of the device lacked in skill. Still with a few longitudinal strokes, alas that line was place. An inverted triangle upon it, just a little lower from the circle and then another oval shape, created with the very gentle round motion of his entire arm, sprouting from his shoulder. A fluidity to it. For a moment he did this, suspended in air, the outer portion of his palm rested upon the paper, also drawing circles in it, before he was sure the motion was correct. And due to his utter perfectionism, Valo proceeded with this motion for a substantial moment, before finally touching the lead tot he paper, not for a moment ceasing the movement. The circle was placed.
From there on, gently working with just his wrist, the artist placed a face shape below that circle. A cross in the centre that suggested the position of feature in the face, yet no such thing as eyes or lips was added just yet. Two lines sprouting from the chin, forming a little v that lingered semi attached within that inverted triangle of a thorax,from which the graphite suggestions of the recessions in skin that marked the collar bones sprouted directly towards two other circles, one at each edge of the triangle. smaller circles that would form shoulders. The axis at which they lingered was tilted somewhat. He then began drawing in the delicate shape of the ribcage, upon which again two circles lingered, delicate breasts which he'd soon cover by graphite clothing. At that point the line density at the top of the sketch became a little overwhelming and the more feature he would draw, the harder it seemed to tell it all apart. Often several lines would overlap which, though perhaps not so terrible if he had only a little more skill in the craft, would overpower any detailing of imminent future. Though the line had been kept light, Valo still lacked the necessary proficiency to keep it so very soft and barely visible with the softness of the hand that was needed to achieve such an affect. Thus a little rubbing out took place and too he rubbed out the parts where the warmth of his hand resting upon the paper would smudge the graphite. That was an artist's worst nightmare.
Before continuing, Valo produced a soft bristled brush that had been kept completely dry and free of paint, fro him bag. A silly idea, perhaps, but at least it would prove a little relief from those vexatious smudges. Thus, before continuing, the artist gently brushed excess graphite from the paper, very gently, with acute motions of the wrist. And as he did so, he though to the beauty a pencil could create. The anatomical value it possessed. The monochromatic potential and the study of light and tone. Truth it was, he had not paid merely enough attention to the craft, nor did he truly explore this potential. A mental note to do some tonal studies of simple household objects. Perhaps this was what he needed to further his artistic ability. And perhaps he had never been as in love with monochrome as he had with the theory of colour, paint, it bore so much potential for greatness. Surely not that he had all this time to devote to his artistic mistress, Valo could focus on all it's aspects until one day he would become the living embodiment of the term; master of visual art. All this possibility and now so much time for it's achievement.
The figure possessed a slim waist, and as his hand had been drawing around the hips, placing in the necessary anatomy in order to carry on the shape of the thighs, he enlarged the ribcage a little, covered it with flesh so that no longer was there a skeleton upon his page, but an armless and legless woman. The waist too growing in realistic dimension. Subtle hint of a belly button before, with another motion of his entire arm, Valo created a tilted line across the hip. Yet this line was tilted in the opposite direction of that of the shoulders. Now the figure possessed dynamic, a certain posture, an animation to it that had been frozen by a frame in time, rather than simply standing naturally and blankly. A character to it. Soon the legs were drawn too and arms, crossed against her chest, before long locks framed the entire silhouette. The face however would forever linger in it's unfinishedness. Gentle whimsical clothing, well befitting the feminine shape of the body. The sketch was now complete. Yet before even allowing himself the liberty of a breath - at this point Valo already knew he no longer needed to breathe, but somehow the action had been so very engraved into his behaviour that every so often he was compelled to ventilate those useless lungs of his - the artist had already began reaching for his paintbox. Hands whiter than the paper upon which he'd been drawing were illuminated by Leth's light.
! I will reply ASAP