Open [Tain's Studio] Mellow Model

[Usme]

Location: Tain's Studio
Time: 14th hour of the 52nd day of Fall 513 After Valterrian

It was chaotic. The fitful riots going on below had quite easily destroyed all of the exterior beauty of the open plaza and Azure Market by the time Usme had bothered to leave home for a while, bored senseless of the stillness inside, and then ventured forth into the world to find it in shambles as the conglomerate masses of peoples below rampaged through the streets and establishments screaming what became of a dirge to Usme's melancholy ears, recognizing only in this song the absolute truth of the universe and its pitiful stride for unity and solidity when it is in fact, by its own nature, impermanent and volatile.

"Oh life, you bore me." The Akvatari therefore went forth, above the crowd, into the skyglass structure that was Tain's studio, seeing inside a vague emptiness. There were only artists and bent light, she saw. Having some feeling of art herself, she knew she'd be among company; not that they would understand her, but company of more suitable sorts than the rambunctious sorts outside.

She landed at the doorstep, landing gently, yet hurried, as noted by the little bob in her descent and the squishy shifts of her tits and tail. It was still warm enough for her, even at these heights, to go bare. Cold and pain, she reasoned, were as unreal and impermanent as that which she called life. She went forward on her tail, making slow undulations as to not appear hurried and awkward, such hobbling on her hands.

Usme continued through the studio, noting the beauty as the light splintered into the building and lit up the statuettes and paintings, many of which were in progress. Lifeless, she thought, for the paintings were flat and bared little resemblance to the world she recognized. Or perhaps all the more, she countered, thinking again of how false a world they all truly lived in, and how their reality and perception of space might have been the lie and the flat paintings with blurred shapes that blended together were how the world really was. Such thoughts only brought insecurity and discomfort.

Instead, Usme went to the sculpting wing and observed there a handful of works in progress. Most of the pieces were commissions well underway. She note how diligent the sculptors were in their craft, so blissfully unaware of how their efforts would be equated to a coin, and then perhaps forgotten. If not forgotten, they'd be hired back for another job until someone better overtook them. If they should indeed survive long enough, the odds of them surviving an eternity were slim to none, and then there was only a bet of faith as to whether or not their works would survive another catastrophe, or that the name would survive with them. They were nothing, never meant to be anything, fated to never be anything.

"An Akvatari," shouted a young voice. It was a young man, dark of hair, pale skin, strangely enthusiastic. "Perfect, you would be perfect! The riots are music to my ears, an inspiration, but I needed a form, and behold you appear, you muse, my art in form. Please, would you model for me?"

Usme was tickled to be called a muse, and might have smirked. It was hard to see through the bends of light. She waddled a bit closer to the young artist to speak with him.

"Muse. Yes, but I am no model. Such stillness is a lie, for were you to capture the truth of this chaos, you'd see in it the motion, the impermanence. I have no care for such lies. Alas, do you hear? Do you hear that music so sweet and dull, an agony whose power lies in its unrelenting spirit, crying like a child hungry for milk. Yet, the child will cease to cry or die, whichever is first, and perhaps then the mother will notice."

The young artist was displeased with Usme's rhetoric. What composition she had considered was proving ineffective. Knowing she was no poet, and would rather stay and be useful to some degree, she made a second motion.

"I know nothing of modeling, young artist, but I bring with me a dance. Let me dance to this chorus of pain and hurt, and invoke in me their feelings that you might fruitlessly attempt to immortalize them."

Usme ascended a modeling pedestal and took a stance, her tail in a crescent, her arms hung in the air as if held by strings. She took a moment to meditate, though the sculptor took no time to begin forming his piece.

"Perhaps I should sing too, for I'd look as foolish, but who am I to dare characterize such loathing of establishment. Their cries speak for themselves. I am no dancer, but I would sing even less, for I at least recall dancing somewhat well on Akvatar. Permit me, young artist, to show you the dance of my people."

Like the intro on a piano, Usme let her words roll off the tongue. The vaguely vain introduction signaled the wave of her arm as she began to dance. Her arms did not sway, but rather glided through the air, not permitted to fall below her breasts by the imaginary strings that might have held her. Trapped, she figured, she was trapped within the song that commanded her to dance. Up went her arms one way, and with her body she clapped twice. First her hands, but with the motion so did her jugs shuffle on her chest, and her tail tapped the stand in an echo. Then she shifted the other way, her arms coming down in a crescent, folding half way across her breasts as her tail turned the other way, and back up the arms and clap-clap, and so did her tail echo again.

Usme's stare was vacant, and her focus was elsewhere. She tried to hear the cries of the people through the walls, or glimpse out at their shuffling colors through the skyglass. She noted their forms, arms shaking angrily, the swift tossing of objects. It was sporadic, yet organized. It made her wonder to herself, and anyone who listened.

"For all their wrath there is a reason and pattern. They tire, but only so long as they are not fed more insults upon which to feed. The chaos feeds itself, only to subside if ignored, perhaps, but who could ignore such a threat. The doors are breaking, and the blood is flowing, and the emotions are raging. Ivak walks amongst us, young sculptor."

"Ivak! Brilliance, yes! Flames, must have..." her went silence again, resuming his work.

Usme's tranquil stare began to narrow as she made out one distinct form in the crowd rioting about. She began to mimic the shifting of his hands. The swaying of her arms became more distinct and meaningful, seeking a desired height. The claps were now solid, rather than lofty and helpless. The air breaking sound resounded int he room, causing some other sculptors to glare. Overall, her form and motion became more distinct and meaningful as she felt in her some sense of sorrowful anger; anger at the injustice that made her sad, or perhaps sadness for feeling so wrathful to begin with.

"Stop your clapping! You're distracting me," said one of the other sculptors.

Usme uttered to the other sculptor, "Very well. You only lie to yourself." Her claps were still solid, but she lessened the effort to made a booming sound, though she knew that the crowd wished to be heard and it was an insult that these artists came here seeking quiet to ignore those outside. "I feel them within me, their pain, their anger, their confusion. Confusion, yes..." Usme began to let her torso rock and wave on her tail lightly as she shifted her arms to and fro in the trance-like manner. The dance was bizarrely moving to the soul.