Jump to content

The Disappearance of an Art


AlphaMoist
 Share

Recommended Posts

     In the cave system of Vira'ker, a Mali'ame donned in his family's purple clothing lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his cramped living space from atop a makeshift bed. The pile of blankets and clothing resting on the hard, stone floor was never comfortable, but they were not the reason as to why he hadn't fallen asleep this night. While his mind was plagued by the occasional whisper, not even that was the reason why he lay awake. He was missing something.

 

     Something important to him.

     Something he worked tirelessly for decades to master to its full potential.

     Something that meant more to him than anything else in this world.

     He was missing his art.

 

     Many nights had come to pass after his former teacher had broken the news to him. While distressed at first, he had more important things to worry about at the time, so he never truly came to an understanding regarding it. But now, as he lay awake in his chambers, nothing else was on his mind. Nothing but his art. He should be sleeping. He should be enjoying the time that wasn't being spent spilling bile from his stomach. He should be enjoying the time that wasn't being spent full of anxiety and dread. He should be resting. But alas, he spent the time thinking about his art. He shot up from his bed, quickly rushing to his feet. He wasn't going to just let it go. He needed to be absolutely sure that his loss of a connection wasn't caused by the stress of the past few months' trials. He needed to be certain. Dizzy, stomach swirling within his torso, he grabs the handle of his bedroom’s door and swings it open, then walks into the main room of his small, cramped house.

 

     His floor, once littered with papers full of writings and drawings, was spotless from a long night of cleaning his house with his lover. They rested on a table a few feet away from the entrance of his home, stacked neatly and delicately. He paid no attention to any of this, and instead turned right, where, sitting on a pathetic excuse for a kitchen counter, was a puffer-fish swimming happily in its tank. He walked closer to it, bracing his hands against the lid of its aquarium. He stared at the fish, concentrating wildly as his right ear gave a singular twitch. His focus was on nothing but the fish, who paid no attention to the ‘ame watching it. He stared for minutes on end, his eyes growing red as they remained trained on the fish, unblinking, unmoving. 

 

      He had done this many times in the past. He would stare at the fish, connect to the void, and then connect to the animal’s primal mind. He’d rummage around, listen to its instincts, learn what it hungered for, or tried to understand how it was feeling. It was second nature for him. He was a master of his art, after all.

 

     But still, nothing happened.

 

     The purple clad Mali’ame furrowed his brows, straining with all his might to try and get so much of a single thought out of the creature.

 

     But still. Nothing happened. 

 

     In a fit of rage, the elf slams a fist against the counter, rattling the glass tank as his beloved fish puffs itself into a ball out of fear. He releases an angered, frustrated shout as he whips around, gripping the edge of his kitchen table tightly before slamming it onto the ground. Papers fly everywhere, once again littering the floor of his home. He stomps on the table’s leg, snapping it in half. He picks up the surface, then throws it against his house’s rocky, cavern walls, causing a loud thud to echo throughout the cave. He grits his teeth, then moves towards the entrance to his small abode. With another violent shout, he begins slamming his boot against the wood. Loud, thunderous cracks fill the night as the surface splinters and cracks. After a few more minutes, the door, which had already been partially broken from an episode a few nights prior, was smashed to pieces at its lower half. 

 

     He stomps back to his bedroom, opening a chest furiously as he takes out a book. It had been halfway filled with his own writings regarding mentalism. A druid had asked him to write it. It was supposed to be published in the town’s library after it was finished. But that did not matter anymore, for Vas had lost his art. He opens the book, then begins to rip large chunks of papers out from the bindings, tossing them onto the floor as his eyes water. So much time spent honing his magic. So much time spent mastering it, all for it to disappear without warning. Decades of his life had seemingly been wasted away. After ripping the pages out, the Mali’ame tosses the empty leather cover across the room, causing it to land against the wall adjacent of him. He falls to his knees and begins to bang his fists against the cold stone floor. His knuckles begin to bleed. His voice begins to break.

 

     He keels over, body landing against the ground as the stress he feels causes his sickness to take over. His body begins to convulse; his eyes close tightly. He does nothing but seize and whimper on the floor for the next several minutes as he rides through his episode. Soon enough, however, it passes. Just like it did a few days prior. Just like it will when it strikes him next. He lays on the stone besides his bedding, surrounded by the pages he spent weeks trying to fill. All for nothing. He stares at the cavernous ceiling, unmoving and unblinking. His face takes a neutral expression, and he can’t help but wonder what he had done to deserve this. Perhaps it was some divine prank, perhaps it was the parasite residing within him. The Ruunkav didn’t know. There was, however, one thing he was sure of at that moment. 

 

    He had lost his art.

Link to post
Share on other sites

 Share

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.



×
×
  • Create New...