Sleep.
The artist tossed and turned in the darkest hours of the night. His sheets were a tangled mess of whites wrapped around his legs, half kicked to the floor. The dark brows beset on Vigil's perpetually pale face were creased in a mixture of frustration and confusion. Images flashed through the sleeping one's mind, distorted shapes and sounds that he never had been able to place a meaning to. Some were pleasant, meadows, people laughing, enjoying themselves. Other were less so; with violent colors, screams, shouts, screeches of metal, and a distinct presence of fear.
One particularly vibrant image flashed startlingly clear in the artist's mind, which sent him flying up in a terrified gasp. His eyes flew open to stare at the wall opposite him, blank as he struggled to regal the violent depiction his mind's eye had decided to gift him with this night. Sadly, he never could remember. The scrawny one climbed out of bed and padded silently through his small, run down apartment. The second room there, which currently served as his studio, was his goal.
Vigil walked into this room and dropped onto the stool in front of his easel. A blank canvas waited. It almost felt predetermined. He picked up his paint palette and began to spill colors from the man tubes of acrylic paints at his side onto it. A brush was taken up. There was an old glass of water present; convenient. Without so much as a pause to consider what this random moment of inspiration would unfold before him, the artist went to work.
He never quite understood how he knew what to paint, how he knew which spot deserved which color and what it was he'd been working on. But Vigil had long ago learned to trust his muse when it decided to work. His hand lifted with broad strokes at first, confident that whatever he was working on, it would be clear and worth it in the end. The blank whiteness of the canvas soon had a loose depiction of one of Rhy"Din's many narrow streets. But there was more to be done.
Hours were wasted away before that canvas, the sun had come up, and still he toiled away on it. Several hours past noon, Vigil leaned back and stared at the finished work, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. The street loomed before him on the canvas, darkened by both the lack of sun and the presence of blood. Most of his late night inspirations reflected something similar.
Shapes were vaguely painted into the shadows, cruel grins of onlookers as the man in the middle of the street let his life spill out onto the cobbled road beneath him. He had the eyes of a mad man, wide and wild. A knife rested in one hand, drenched in the crimson fluid that made up human beings" life force, the other was stretched outward, toward the artist, with blood dripping from its fingertips. The man was pleading for it to stop, gone insane by the laughter of the shadows and terrified of what they held.
Vigil dropped the paintbrush and palette. The artist stood, turning toward the door, and left the makeshift studio. He went back to his bed now that the muse had finished, tugged the sheets up, and fell back into place for a long, dreamless sleep.
The artist tossed and turned in the darkest hours of the night. His sheets were a tangled mess of whites wrapped around his legs, half kicked to the floor. The dark brows beset on Vigil's perpetually pale face were creased in a mixture of frustration and confusion. Images flashed through the sleeping one's mind, distorted shapes and sounds that he never had been able to place a meaning to. Some were pleasant, meadows, people laughing, enjoying themselves. Other were less so; with violent colors, screams, shouts, screeches of metal, and a distinct presence of fear.
One particularly vibrant image flashed startlingly clear in the artist's mind, which sent him flying up in a terrified gasp. His eyes flew open to stare at the wall opposite him, blank as he struggled to regal the violent depiction his mind's eye had decided to gift him with this night. Sadly, he never could remember. The scrawny one climbed out of bed and padded silently through his small, run down apartment. The second room there, which currently served as his studio, was his goal.
Vigil walked into this room and dropped onto the stool in front of his easel. A blank canvas waited. It almost felt predetermined. He picked up his paint palette and began to spill colors from the man tubes of acrylic paints at his side onto it. A brush was taken up. There was an old glass of water present; convenient. Without so much as a pause to consider what this random moment of inspiration would unfold before him, the artist went to work.
He never quite understood how he knew what to paint, how he knew which spot deserved which color and what it was he'd been working on. But Vigil had long ago learned to trust his muse when it decided to work. His hand lifted with broad strokes at first, confident that whatever he was working on, it would be clear and worth it in the end. The blank whiteness of the canvas soon had a loose depiction of one of Rhy"Din's many narrow streets. But there was more to be done.
Hours were wasted away before that canvas, the sun had come up, and still he toiled away on it. Several hours past noon, Vigil leaned back and stared at the finished work, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. The street loomed before him on the canvas, darkened by both the lack of sun and the presence of blood. Most of his late night inspirations reflected something similar.
Shapes were vaguely painted into the shadows, cruel grins of onlookers as the man in the middle of the street let his life spill out onto the cobbled road beneath him. He had the eyes of a mad man, wide and wild. A knife rested in one hand, drenched in the crimson fluid that made up human beings" life force, the other was stretched outward, toward the artist, with blood dripping from its fingertips. The man was pleading for it to stop, gone insane by the laughter of the shadows and terrified of what they held.
Vigil dropped the paintbrush and palette. The artist stood, turning toward the door, and left the makeshift studio. He went back to his bed now that the muse had finished, tugged the sheets up, and fell back into place for a long, dreamless sleep.