Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

Posted: **Mon Jun 22, 2020 8:34 am**

Wraedas 47th of Searing, 120th of Steel

There really was an art as much to the process of selling as much as there was to the creation of the paintings. Althalos had managed to establish his shop without a great degree of difficulty, managing to stow away all the materials that he would need within the recently purchased workshop. Then he'd set to work, creating beasts from wherever he could draw their inspiration, and stepping into the countryside -- not far from Alfsos though because he didn't want to wake up vomiting another batch of maggots in a ditch -- so that he could better encapsulate the beauties of nature into his work.

Out of absence had been born an abundance. Where there had been only a space to be filled, now there were artworks crammed throughout the workshop. A couple of the more abstract pieces he'd made had been hung up on permanent fixtures on the walls. These types in particular often appealed more to the scholarly sorts who frequented the academy, and since they were often busy with all of their studies and experiments he hadn't managed to sell many of the less realistic pieces.

The other forms had proven popular enough with the locals, though. Hunters and skinners had come to him seeking whatever portrayals he could make of the vicious monsters they had slain in the woods or carved into messy chunks. What better way to demonstrate the ferocity associated with their prey than to demonstrate the scars they had collected, and utilizing the illustration of the creatures to better help their listeners understand just how brave they had been in the face of danger. Of course, there were the occasional requests to 'make them scarier', but that was to be expected.

The proud and the vain had come for the opportunity at cheap portraits, and the especially pious had nearly frothed at the mouth at the opportunity to demonstrate their faith in the Old Gods. Those illustrations had been somewhat difficult because while Althalos had wished to encapsulate the primary aspects of the deities, it was always risky to embody such transient virtues and flaws in more solidified forms. To think of gods and spirits was a simple enough endeavor, but to bind them to singular forms based upon their ideals could be interpreted negatively if a person disagreed with the nature of the painting.

All of that had brought him to the present, to sitting in the backroom of his store, listening for the opening of the lobby door that would alert him to the sudden arrival of a customer. He was preoccupied, his mind drawn intently to the art in front of him, the sway of the lines, the firmness of the shapes, and the softness of the canvas. It felt incredibly natural to sit alone in the sunlit room and allow whatever passed through his mind to be impressed upon the paper, illustrated in fanciful strokes and immortalized in the process. This piece, in particular, was something he would attempt to market to the academics, perhaps in a more private meeting with whichever of them might hear him out.

Upon the canvas were drawn the Dragon Goddess Raella in the top left corner, the first king of Atinaw now ascended to godly status himself in the top right, the glaring eye of Ulen in the bottom left -- one of the chief symbols in the representation of the Omen -- and finally Veratelle of the Weald, her husk of a form stirring in him an immense sadness for a time he had never known, and divinity that was now exposed to the slow rot of time. In the land of Atinaw with its enforced religion, it might've been risky to draw such things, but he was hoping to market them solely as indicative of the various beliefs throughout the world. Acknowledging the presence of others was important, after all... and it was the role of an artist not only to entertain but to stir the imagination and remind others of the vastness and variety of life around them.

Posted: **Tue Jun 23, 2020 11:42 am**

"Remember--" she began to remind him, "back by sunset. You have lessons tonight, and I won't have you skipping on them regardless of how important or unimportant you may imagine them to be."

Taelian exhaled through his nose, and nodded reluctantly. "Okay, Eloise," he said. "Back before the eve. I really can't promise no tardiness, however -- I'm going into Alfsos to make a very large purchase. I'm sure you've heard; I'm buying Fjord Dal from the Finla of Loregard. I'll be meeting with his business representatives today. Depending on how the exchange goes..."

"I'll meet you there at the Fjord, then. Have you thought of a name for it yet?" the woman asked.

"Ard Sgiath," the Ebon Knight replied. "Our Shield in Silvain. It'll be a good launchpad for the group I'm forming. Besides, you've wanted me to begin cleaving my influence into Atinaw. This is well on the way to that result, isn't it?"

"The result is yet to be known. Back by sunset, Taelian. That will be all."

Some time passed after their meeting, spoken through the veil of a Window of Transposition. Even through their distance he felt her focus and austere nature, as the woman stood tall in her noble garbs with padded arms and a frilled collar around her neck. Taelian sometimes found himself aspiring to be like her -- he tried to carry that same eminence in his walk, in his mannerisms, in the sharp way in which she spoke. It was a mix of admiration, affection and fear that he held for the Umpire. She was like a cold mother, lately, but one who wished for him to succeed.

Taelian spent the next hour getting ready. He wore his black satin trousers, slim fit along the length of his legs. He also had his satin padded court jacket on, equally dark in color, with a simple white linen shirt underneath. He wore white gloves, black and white boots, and the satin half-cape he often wore in public of late. It was all a matter of presentation and prestige -- Taelian truly looked like a noble, but one from Loregard. Slim clothing, always ready to move. To fight.

He ran his hands through his silky, ivory-colored hair. The patterns across his face shimmered in the reflection of the sun. His hair had begun to grow slightly longer -- enough to conceal the Black Sigil in the back. A part of him was relieved at that thought, as it meant he wouldn't immediately be recognized as a mage.

Grabbing his satchel with the bank cheque he'd had officiated the prior afternoon, Taelian breathed worriedly one more time. All of that money in his account would be gone by the end of the day, and all of it was loaned. The interest rate was extreme. He would be paying an absurd amount of money for the castle-fort he was soon to occupy, and he hoped it would be worth the purchase. Taelian did not know for how long he would dwell in Atinaw, after all, or if the Lodge would really take off.

Stepping from his home, Taelian disappeared into a portal, and shortly thereafter emerged in one of Alfsos' alleyways. The office where he would be exchanging his funds for the deed was nearby, though the mage had time to spare before the meeting. Two hours, if the clock in his cabin was anything accurate. In the build-up to that moment, he imagined it might be prudent to purchase more things, or at least commission them. New armor, new clothes, perhaps even a tutor of Kokalath.

He'd not gone to the city for a while, and Taelian did enjoy the variety and cosmopolitan nature of the city. It was less straightforwardly 'Atinorin' than the rest of the country -- he felt less ashamed and excluded for speaking the Common tongue, for example, though of course the prevalence of Atinorin culture was still obvious. It was only... less overbearing.

"The sun is shining,
Oh, delightful, the coming nightfall--
We'll be dining, drinks abound.

Come with your wagon, to the Mewling Flagon. Taste our bread, drink 'til you're dead."

Well. Somewhat less overbearing, if one could ignore the singing, obsession with projected strength, and the hedonism. He was surprised the bard hadn't mentioned any reproductive equipment.

It was shortly after his eyes scanned over the Mewling Flagon that Taelian's eyes caught wind of a smaller, more obscure location, a workshop with an inspiring name: Stolen Moments. Taelian's curiosity swelled, and he approached the exterior of the shop before glancing inside. It appeared to be, from first examination, a painter's shop or something of the like. He started to think of all the things he'd wanted painted -- things he would hang up in Ard Sgiath, considering he would be living there frequently. Considering it was a castle fit for a Lord, and there was no Lord without fine art. It was as essential to their character as a silk robe, jewels, and embroidered belongings.

Taelian entered the store, and began to peer around. It didn't seem like the art was particularly incredible, but he was not a discerning art critic. He had rarely seen much back at home; it was a sort of foreign fantasy, spending time on something so frivolous. But it was... nice, at least.

Posted: **Tue Jun 23, 2020 12:27 pm**

☿

A customer had arrived at the art workshop. While there had been no bell hanging above the door to ring upon the man's sudden entry, nor any sort of supernatural sense accompanying Althalos which granted him insight into the sudden appearance of a patron, he had not wanted to be entirely without a system of warning. After all, if he was stuck within the backroom and inattentive to any subtle sounds like footsteps, then he would be subject to attempts at theft and robbery, no doubt. It had been for that reason that upon the purchase of the workshop from its' previous owner, he had requested that the floorboards directly surrounding the doorway be intentionally weakened.

The request had been entirely peculiar to the owner, but since it was the only major request other than that the place be emptied of its old belongings -- and he would have done that even if Althalos hadn't asked -- he had conceded and performed about an hour's worth of work on the floorboards. The result had been unsurprising, as, without the additional support that they had once possessed, the boards now creaked and groaned terribly whenever someone placed weight upon them. Naturally, since the remainder of the floorboards still retained their strength, the shriek of wood only really sounded when someone entered or exited the establishment, but it was sharp and shrill sound, and it was enough to rouse the artist from his religious iconography.

Settling his brush upon the edge of the palette board, and taking a final look at the half-finished product upon the easel, Althalos stirred to life and stepped into the lobby room. His eyes attuned immediately to the visitor, taking notice of the capelet which hung upon his back, and of his gloved hands which prevented any sort of dirt or muck from touching his flesh. Immediately, an assumption that he was dealing with a lordling of some fashion was made, though he sincerely doubted that it was any of the Atinawan natives. There was something rough and crude about the people of Atinaw and the way they went about their dress was no different than the way they acted, it hadn't been so difficult to see who the outsiders were and who the native residents had been.

"Good morn--" He paused, his eyes flicking past the figure to the windows which made up a good portion of the workshop's frontmost wall. "--afternoon" He corrected, acknowledging the passage of time. It really did fly when one was entrapped in their work. "My name is Althalos. Were you seeking anything in particular, today?" He hadn't realized that he had slipped immediately into Common instead of Kokalith. Normally, it would have been somewhat taboo to have done so, but there was still little doubt in the corpse's mind that this was not a native-born Atinawan. Perhaps he would appreciate the breech of conversational conduct since it meant speaking a language most people understood far easier.

"I've not seen many of our kind here, and none dressed so nicely." He complimented, the unspoken question of where he was from hanging in the air. Regardless, the painter waited eagerly to hear how he could assist the customer, hoping that he possessed deep and generous pockets.

Posted: **Wed Jun 24, 2020 7:44 pm**

Just as the painter's eyes had immediately caught Taelian's features in them, the mage also scanned the appearance of the other very quickly as he peeked his head into the storefront of the workshop. Taelian's gaze expanded as the features of a Siltori filled his eyes; one of his own. He rarely ever saw any in Atinaw, save for Eleanor, though she had come to the western world on the same mission as him. Regular locals of his complexion were an anomaly. The last one he'd really interacted with had been the Lady of Kalzasi, Sahfri. This man obviously did not hold the same regal station as her, but his story still likely held some level of strife. All of the Siltori he'd ever met had been survivors. Not a single one of them had been born into advantage, and what they had they worked for.

"I've also not seen many of our kind around," he responded, smiling softly. Taelian did not seem to notice the compliment on his dress -- if he had noticed, it did not cause him to react. "Most of us don't look beyond the first place we land in... which is often Daravin, solemnly. The journey from Sil-Elaine to Ailizane is arduous, whether through the Empire or the Cathenan desert."

Taelian glanced once more at the pieces around the storefront. Then, once more at Althalos, whose silverite gloss shimmered faintly in reflection to the light. The image infected Taelian with a fleeting warmth.

"I'm Taelian Ela'Rannoch," he introduced himself. "I wanted to have a painting of my parents commissioned. Unfortunately they are no longer with us... but, I still have a vivid image of both of them in my mind. I want to have them sculpted back into reality, before that image fades. I can't imagine it will last much longer."

It had already been seventeen years since his father passed. Even now his concept of him was blurry -- but he thought of him all the time. He still dreamt of their family, often sorrowful moments of recollection that passed through his mind. But he was reminded of them and what they represented, and what adornments they wore, and how they looked when they smiled. He wanted to have a real visual reference, perhaps so he could keep those dreams around.

"I'd need to verbally describe them. Perhaps we'd have to start with a sketch, but... after that, coloring it shouldn't be too difficult. And you're a Siltori -- you'll catch the small details perfectly well. The fabrics we often wear, the patterns on our faces, and so on. My father even had a mutation you might be familiar with..." Taelian began, glancing at what he could see of Althalos' neck. "Leaden Veins. Mostly along his forearms, and not as dark as many others. My mother had silver tears. She--"

He realized he had begun to ramble. And it was difficult to stop. The man caught himself, and took one more small breath. "Sorry. I don't know where you'd like us to start, but I'll defer to you. If you want to take a commission at all, that is."

Posted: **Fri Jun 26, 2020 8:20 am**

☿

Althalos for his part was dressed the part of the painter. His favorite nobleman's coat had been sprawled out along a chair in the backroom, out of the potential reach of any of the customers who might have mistaken it for their own property and taken it with them. In its stead, he had worn a simple linen shirt like the type he usually wore underneath of the coat, and then a large apron over it. He had briefly considered utilizing one of the heavy leather aprons that were common among blacksmiths and other forge workers because it would probably last longer, and be much harder to get dirty with any accidental flicking of paint, but he decided against it because it weighed heavily on his chest, and would almost certainly be more difficult to clean than the simple cloth piece had settled on.

There was brief mention of places beyond the borders of Atinaw. Of Daravin, and of the travel from Sil-Elaine to Ailizane, of empires and deserts. The corpse smiled knowingly, though any in-depth knowledge of those places was lost on him. He knew that they existed, at least, but that was nearly as far as his knowledge on any of them really went. At some point in his history, he had probably traveled from beyond the borders of Sil-Elaine, making the treacherous journey that was now being mentioned... or perhaps he had only been the descendant of someone who had traveled before him. The Siltori were not a young race by any means, and it stood to reason that he could be the offspring of an expatriate bloodline.

The customer finally introduced himself as Taelian Ela'Rannoch. That was a curious title, considered the painter. The exact nature of it was somewhat lost on the still learning Siltori, but he knew that his own title 'Sil' was indicative of nobility. Yet, here before him stood Taelian, adorned as if though he were the prized son of his kindred, the heir apparent to whatever political empire they had managed to create, or whatever enterprises they had seen through fruition. There was little doubt in the corpse's mind that he was dealing with a nobleman, and yet, he had not come from a family of nobility. He was new blood, then, having come into wealth and power perhaps in his own lifetime. An assumption could be reasonably made that he was either incredibly lucky, the puppet of unseen forces, or else that he was an ambitious man, quick to take what he desired.

A warm and sympathetic smile creased his lips at the mention of Taelian's parents. He had managed to keep them within his mind's eye despite their passage, and he couldn't help but wonder how recently they had fallen. He hadn't expected the stab of jealousy to clutch at his heart so quickly this time around, the yearning desire in the pit of his stomach to have what Taelian had, and yet, he didn't wish to mourn did he? Perhaps it was better that he had forgotten his family entirely because it saved him from so much future suffering.

"Of course, I'm familiar with the veins. A common occurrence." He said, nodding at the mention of the mutation and its location. He'd never heard of silver tears, but he could make assumptions as to what it might've comprised. Then again, unless she was crying in the portrait, he supposed it wouldn't matter quite as much, would it? "I'd love to help you capture your family's faces, Taelian. Come, I have an easel in the backroom for these things. You can help describe them to me." He beckoned towards the sunlit room. "I'm not the best sketch artist, I will tell you, but I can paint, and we have as much time as you're willing to stay." He confessed, collecting his painting supplies throughout the room and preparing for the art-piece.

Posted: **Sat Jun 27, 2020 8:12 am**

Althalos invited him to the back room, to where he kept his easel, so that Taelian could describe his mother and father to him. He nodded once, though he had a few reservations. Describing as he went -- that would create imperfections, and Taelian wanted the piece to be utterly immaculate, without flaws. "Certainly," he began, "...but, I want it to be like something you'd see in a manor hall. A family portrait -- professional, with clean edges, careful artistry. If it must take you some time to produce the final product, then it must. Even beyond this day, I mean; further time spent refining it, or reproducing it without squandered edges. I will pay you much more, the better it looks."

He was dead-set on that. He didn't want such an important memento to be squandered, and if it was necessary for him to produce a much larger sum of farthings in exchange, then that was the appropriate compensation.

Taelian followed him to the brightly lit room, staring at the easel. There was a canvas already set up on it, but he felt it was too vertical. "A more square shape would be nice," he suggested. It was two people, after all -- they both needed their space in the painting. Once the proper canvas was set upon the easel, though, Taelian had the rest very clearly in mind.

"My mother was named Liara Sil'Morian originally. My father was Lenthor Ela'Rannoch. My mother... she was born into wealth; her uncle as a Dranoch Cardinal I believe, and he hired the rest of her family into privileged positions of administration. She was raised in central Silfanore, near the Dusk Palisades. My father on the other hand; a con artist, raised in the Pyred Bedlam like me. A swindler, a thief, a liar. But handsome -- very much so. Enough to attract a girl from Central, after all." He found himself softly smiling as he recalled the two of them -- especially his father. In some ways, the man had been an inspiration to him. That even people from the Pyred Bedlam could find happiness, and success, and love.

"Both of them had silver hair, rather than platinum or white. My father's hair actually had a sort of... ombre to it, with dark grey tips and roots. His face was a mix between soft and angular. I can remember him perhaps the most vividly; he lived longer, and the more I recall him... the more I realize that he looked sort of like me. I got some of my mother's soft features, but I have his jaw. He had narrower eyes, a more triangular shape to his nostrils, slightly lower cheekbones. His lips were a little bit thinner, too, and his brows were a bit more arched near the center, and more raised near the end. I hope that can offer a decent picture of his face," he said. Taelian would've gone into more specific terms, even, but he supposed he would just answer questions as they came.

"As for his body -- he was athletic, but of a lean form. Less muscular than me; perhaps something in the middle of your physique and mine. And his clothes -- well, he wore black satin shirts, buttoned from top to bottom, with most of his arms exposed beyond the shoulders. He also often wore an ivy cap, which is more common among the lower classes of Silfanore, but he wore it for this reason. To show that he was proud of being from the Bedlam. But, I'd rather he not be wearing it in the piece," he clarified. Now... his patterns. Taelian traced along the edges of his own face, trying to recall exactly what his father's were like.

"His patterns were remarkably like stag horns along his cheeks. Like... antlers. They were quite similar to mine, in fact, and they even had that upward curve near the ear like mine. On his forehead he had another shape; it was like a... think like two crescent moons, the bottom one a bit larger, with a thin horizontal line above the two of them. Oh, and his hair was very similar to mine."

If Althalos needed more on his father, then he would give it to him. But for the moment, he moved to describing his mother.

"Liara's hair was silver, like I said, but it had more of an ivory gloss to it. Her skin was very glossy in fact; it was like her cheekbones were covered in a glittering sheen. When she turned your face you could see the gloss, and in the sunlight she looked almost translucent, but radiant. Her patterns were... complex, difficult to describe. I--"

He frowned. He... couldn't remember them exactly. It had been too long.

"Sorry. I'll try to recall them better, perhaps even do a sketch of my own. But her cheeks, they were soft, and her jaw was narrower with a softer shape, obviously. Pointer chin, too. She had wider eyes, thin brows that were often finely sculpted with... uh, these tools. She would pull out excess hairs, and sort of -- shave around them. The bridge of her nose was average sized, but she had thin nostrils and an overall soft appearance to them. Her hair... She had a braided bun in the back, with a braid coming down on the left side of her face, and a long bang coming down from the center and curving right. Her limps were more plump than my father's; more like mine."

He frowned. His directions hadn't been as clear with his mother; it was a lot murkier with her.

"She wore black silks a lot, with emblazoned silver patterns and shapes. My favorite outfit she wore had a long black collar, almost like a shawl as it came out like a ring around her neck, with the textured and emblazoned edges of a drawn sun around the collar. Think like... wavy lines, meant to represent the fire protruding from a star. It faded into a long and regal dress, like that of a noble lady's -- and it parted near her feet, with one... I guess flap in the front, one in the back, with the part beginning to widen a bit above her knees. Not that that matters, though; it's a bust. Sorry."

He bit his lower lip. "She wore a lot of silver jewelry. A band around the pointed length of her left ear, three simple ring earrings around the lower part, a silver necklace with a few oval shaped rubies at the center. Also -- the reason I mentioned her silver tears; she cried a lot. In joy, in sadness, she was always crying. So the silver came down her face a lot, and it often produced a piercing image when it reflected the sheen of her glossy skin. I was thinking, perhaps, in the piece she could be smiling with a few silver tears coming out of her left eye, and the beginning of tears from her right."

It was a lot, though he had taken breaks in his speech in-between so that the other man could try to remember the details, or log them if necessary. At the end of it all, he finally asked him a question of his own: "What is your name, by the way? I never asked."

Liara - Lenthor

Posted: **Mon Jun 29, 2020 9:21 am**

☿

While Althalos had mentioned that his own sketch work might be subpar when compared to others, he hadn't expected the nobleman to openly request that the painting be 'good'. That seemed to be one of those prerequisites of creating a product for others, and he couldn't imagine not doing his best on the portrait before handing it off to others. Frankly, if he thought there were flaws within the painting then he just wouldn't hand it over until it had been corrected. Artwork was something that appealed to the corpse on a deep level, almost as if though a portion of his own soul had been carefully cultivated over eons to be both critic and purveyor. "I won't stop until you're satisfied with it, Ela'Rannoch."

Perhaps Taelian had spent portions of his life being a critic though, but Althalos thought that it might simply be his upbringing. The way that he made requests immediately, as if though with no deference to others might've been grating, but Althalos recognized that he likely just believed things would be better a certain way or another. As it was, the canvas upon the easel had been the same as the type utilized for his religious iconography and wasn't what he would typically use for most portraits regardless, and so he had no issue acting in obedience and replacing it upon the easel.

Althalos fetched a parchment and began to take notes as Taelian regaled him with the tale of his parent's union. There weren't many details in the original story of how they'd met that would be entirely relevant to the painting, and so he took fewer notes, but he did listen to the story, nodding at infrequent intervals to demonstrate that he cared. He did take note of the fact that Taelian's mother had been a Sil much like himself, and was thus of a nobler bloodline. It was curious to him that he was an Ela'Rannoch instead of Sil'Rannoch with the knowledge now available that his dame had been of blue blood, apparently a favored relative of 'Dranoch Cardinal'. Some manner of a religious or administrative figure, he assumed.

Finally, the physical descriptions came, starting with the hair that both possessed. It was good that they both had silver hair, because Althalos did as well, and it would be easier to determine roughly what the pigment of it had been. Note upon note were written out as Taelian described much of his father, including several notes about the state of his body. The artist didn't typically have many portraits where more than the upper body of a person was shown, but he supposed he would wait until the end of Taelion's recollection before questioning just how much of his parents he would like to be shown within the boundaries of the canvas.

Concluding with the notes on the father, Althalos drew a lone vertical line down the notes parchment, separating the sheet into two categories so that he could keep their details separate. While there had been a plethora of details in regards to Lenthor, there had been far fewer details given about Liara. Enough that he could get a rough idea of her facial features and her physicality, but he suspected that while he might manage to astutely draw Lenthor before too much time had elapsed, he would have to struggle to appropriately capture the visage of his spouse. Incidentally, he questioned whether Taelion would really be able to separate whatever drawing he gave him from the reality of the situation anyway given that he was struggling so heavily to keep his mother within his mind's eye. Would a painting that was "close" to her become the new reality of what she had looked like, or would he become difficult and constantly assess every painting of her to be incorrect, because he had no baseline to compare to, and simply wasn't satisfied.

"Althalos. Don't worry, I don't often ask shopkeepers for their names either." He spoke with a cordial smile, as he finished his notes. He didn't bring up the fact that he had introduced himself the moment that Taelion had walked into the building, because there was no reason to embarrass the client like that, especially given his... demeanor. "I think that's enough to at least get started." He said, settling down the writing implement atop the parchment. "I noticed you mentioned the ways they dressed quite a bit. Did you want their bodies to be included in the portrait? Most portraits stop roughly --" He shaped his hand like a knife and ran it across his body, just above his breast. "--I can include more, I just want to make sure I understand what you want best."

"About your mother's shapes, if you'd like to make a sketch of them, you're welcome to. It may make it easier to remember if you start to put it to parchment. I often find a little artwork to be therapeutic, let's you focus on all sorts of little details." He offered, outstretching a finger towards the stack of blank papers. Carefully, Althalos set himself before his easel, scooping up one of his medium-sized brushes as he considered where to begin task set before him. He looked towards Taelion a moment, watching his face, his skin, and taking it all in. The conversational and polite Althalos had gone to slumber, leaving the methodical painter in his wake.

The skin tone ascertained, the brush made contact with the parchment, and his work began.

Posted: **Mon Jun 29, 2020 8:48 pm**

Taelian faintly grinned in response to Althalos' handing off of his name -- he gave it at least, and gave Taelian a pass for not asking for it earlier. Even though... Althalos gave it earlier. The mage failed to remember, and it was perhaps possible that he would forget again. He was terribly bad at names; there were so many people, particularly in big cities like these.

The other man signaled that Taelian had given him enough information, which brought him a sense of relief. At least, enough to get started. He had sort of expected that he could just hand off the information and then leave, but he realized that he likely needed to stay for a large portion of the process. Maybe even the entire thing. "At one point," he began, "I'll need to attend a quick business transaction while you paint. I'm buying the old castle southwest of here, Fjord Dal. Ever heard of it?" he asked. Despite what it appeared, Taelian was not attempting to describe his wealth to the other man. He was just... proud, and impressed with how far he had come. From the slum of the Pyred Bedlam to the owner of a historic site. At least, he would be soon.

The other Siltori asked him a question. In truth Taelian's mind was scattered all across the room, and even the continent at the moment. It was why he described unnecessary things; he had always wanted a bust, but he couldn't keep his mind from wandering as he thought about his parents and reminisced about certain details. Details that were unimportant now, even to this painting, but things he remembered and things that he missed.

"It's quite alright," he said. "The inclusion of their body is unnecessary. A bust is fine. The top part of their clothes, though, like my mother's emblazoned collar... I'd like those to be shown. Oh -- and I know the body is unimportant, but for my mother's proportions, it won't be difficult anyhow. She, ah... was very average. Average, thin body." Thin in Atinaw, at least. Siltori, likely due to their perpetual sub-starvation, were known for being somewhat gaunt in Sil-Elaine. She was not poor enough to eat so little, but like Taelian and Lenthor she missed meals. Almost everyone in Silfanore did.

Althalos offered to allow Taelian to sketch his mother, in order to define her more clearly. He frowned, uncertain. He didn't imagine he was a very good artist -- even drawing a Rune onto Patrick earlier this season had been nightmarish. He messed up the circle and wasn't certain the magic would even bind to its sloppy shape. How could he draw out his mother's defined features?

The painter himself appeared to be prepared. He sat before the easel with a brush in hand, contemplating with a sudden and inspired level of focus. Taelian did not feel that same inspiration, nor did he even know where to start. He supposed the stack of blank papers the other man had pin-pointed, and a stencil for drawing the thin, definitive lines. He tried to remember how other artists he knew did it -- like Wylen, when he was drawing up the intended results of his aesthetic surgeries. Or the clothes he was to make. Or the beasts he wished to mold with Necromancy. He would draw shapes and define around them.

Taelian tried to remember the shape of her face, and he did feel he remembered it. Her chin was somewhat pointy, her jawline narrow...

It wouldn't be difficult just to draw empty features, not connected to anything else. Or so he thought. Taelian began to draw lines and attempted to curve them into his mind's imagined shapes, though he quickly realized his hand was far from accurate or trained. His grip kept overpowering the stencil and shifting it off the mark, ruining the fine shape. He decided he would keep trying.

"How did you end up here?" he asked, randomly. Drawing with no distractions had quickly begun to frustrate him. "Your accent doesn't seem so Elainian. I don't know... I can't place it really."

He messed up another line, the dark mark veering off the page. He had been filling it up with shoddy shapes, trying not to waste the painter's blank sheets. That didn't feel possible at the current rate.

Posted: **Tue Jun 30, 2020 11:51 am**

☿

The painter had earnestly expected a great degree of silence to follow his conversation with Taelian, but this still calmness was quickly interrupted by the nobleman. It was through no act of maliciousness on his part at the least, though Althalos genuinely expected him to interrupt at least once during the painting process to inform him that a part of the painting wasn't correct, despite the fact that it would be unfinished and only a facsimile of what it would inevitably become. He'd already decided that the man before him was somewhat entitled, despite his sentimentality. One could possess both good and bad qualities after all, and some of the greater heroes of history were no doubt persons of substantial pride and self-reverence.

Such pride seemed to manifest itself in the chosen words of the nobleman, who pointed out that he would need to leave for a business transaction. This elicited only a brief nod from the painter who continued with his work eagerly, before again being interrupted, this time with a question about a geographic marker not far from them. The place was evidently known as Fjord Dal, and while the name seemed familiar enough to Althalos, he felt his attention being divided between the portrait and the patron. He bit on his cheek as he drew back, hovering the wet brush a good distance away from the portrait to avoid any accidental markings while he spoke. "Quite the large castle, as far as I remember it. Planning on fighting a war?" He questioned with evident curiosity, returning to his work again while he awaited a response.

He was, at the least, grateful that he wouldn't need to attempt to draw the bodily shapes of everyone involved in the painting. That often proved to be something of a difficult task, especially when it came to ensuring that the proportions of a person were altogether set in place. One hand could not be larger than another, after all, and while a woman's was often smaller than a man's, it was easier to simply mark as many portions of the body as absent as could be warranted, and avoid any unnecessary measurements. "Of course, I'll try to make sure she's kept modestly sized." He said, recognizing the possible innuendos only after about a minute had passed.

There was some peace and quiet at last as Taelian was distracted with the act of sketching some of his mother's markings upon parchment in the corner, and Althalos made great progress in that time, managing to finally conclude with a rough outline of both of the pairs face's, though he would still need to make the exact features more... well... exact. As it stood, these were merely skin-toned circles upon a page, with the crudest possible representation of facial features. They would need to be refined over a period of quite some time if they were to meet up with the qualifications of a living being, let alone with the strict requests by the nobleman.

Another sanctimonious breach of the silence was made, and once more Althalos found himself pulling away from the painting to avoid any smudging while he spoke. He didn't want to mark it even slightly while he was distracted less he might somehow ruin the work before it could be concluded. "I came from --" There was a pause as the gravity of the full question suddenly struck him, forcing him to whirl his head around and look towards the Siltori for the first time in several minutes. "--I came with a trade caravan from a distant place and decided to make a new life here. Don't feel bad, most people don't recognize the accent." He concluded with a faint smile. It wasn't the exact truth, of course, but it wasn't as deceptive as it could have been either. "What about yourself? Ela'Rannoch and you're purchasing a castle. If I had to wager a guess, I would think you were a warrior." He didn't care if his guess had been correct or not. Most people had a funny habit of making corrections when there were wrong assessments, and it was easy enough to gather information just by making vague insinuations.

Posted: **Sun Jul 12, 2020 3:48 pm**

Planning on fighting a war? The man asked him. Taelian pressed his lips, aware that he was likely irritating Althalos with his few brief forays into conversation -- they were enough to distract him, it appeared.

"Of sorts," Taelian replied. It would have been difficult to explain, if he actually meant to. Few people outside of Sil-Elaine had knowledge on the Dranoch, who the secluded castle were intended to keep out. Even though Althalos was one of his own, he... did not appear particularly knowledgeable on Siltori culture, and Taelian had concluded that he was certainly no Elainian. He was one of the few who originated elsewhere -- and one of the even fewer whose 'elsewhere' did not appear to be Daravin or Lorien.

Their conversation veered back to the painting -- proportions and the shape of bodies. Althalos made a strangely placed comment, but Taelian did not hear any innuendo in it, perhaps as a result of Common being his second language. He simply nodded, while examining the poorly drawn shapes upon his own sheet. He couldn't really present anything to the other man at this rate, which meant that Althalos' conception of his parents risked being far from perfect. The Elven man sighed.

He decided to ask the other of his origins, and in return received a less than satisfactory response. The Siltori pursed his lips slightly, before the left side of his lips curled into a frown. A trade caravan from a... faraway place was too vague for him. A part of him wanted to prod further, though he wasn't certain if it would be proper to do so. The sort of answer he was received was one that implied the other had no interest in sharing the full truth.

"You sound like you're from the north," he stated. He supposed even suggesting he had some idea was improper, but he was entertaining himself to some degree by guessing. The other was certainly not a Cathenan or a Gelerian man, so he had to be from the Free Cities, or Radenor, or . . . perhaps some part of Lorien that he hadn't met anyone from. Taelian supposed Lorien was a possibility; its people were known for being both cold and eloquent. In many ways, Althalos personified those traits.

"I'm from the Pyred Bedlam. It's the undercity of Silfanore; where all of the poor people live. Which is, well -- the majority of the city's population. Most of Central is occupied by Dranoch, and the outer edges of it are the Sil who held onto their mortality, but serve the Dranoch's purpose in some way. Then there's the Bedlam, for the normal people. Consider it a different city altogether -- it effectively is one," he stated. Taelian gave up on his scribbles; he couldn't portray things quite so well as he wanted. He figured it would probably be better to, perhaps, direct Althalos on a separate paper -- like one for sketching -- by verbalizing what he was looking for.

"Also . . . yes. I'm a warrior, from the Black Remedy. I don't know if you've ever heard of it, but it's a revolutionary order that has liberated large parts of Sil-Elaine from the Dranoch. I am in this country to assist in fulfilling their international agenda. I said before that I was participating in a war -- of sorts. That is the war I am referring to, but the castle is for a variety of purposes. I intend to gain significant political power in this country, and I wish to embody the role that I seek to fulfill. Castles, wardrobes, political capital and individual power -- these are things I can acquire with or without origins in this nation. And they will construct the image I wish to present; one of leadership."

Taelian rose from his seat. "I need to attend my business transaction, now," he said. "I'll leave you to your devices for the moment, and we can resume later. I can tell that I'm distracting you, so it would be better for both of us if I excused myself for the moment." The mage opened a portal, doing so by flicking his wrist after extending out his arm. The portal appeared to capture the wind around it, drawing from natural energy.

"Thank you for your assistance, and your company. I'll return to you soon." He stepped through.

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