[Flashback] A Pair of Portraits [Syllke]

[Belgar]

Belgar took the silence for an answer in the affirmative. He closed his mouth and did not move, left only with his own embarrassment and a secret gratitude that his complexion did not easily flush. Eventually, the scratch and sway of the artist’s charcoal against his paper lulled the Kelvic’s thoughts back to something artistic. He had never tried to simple pick up a chafing rock and try to recreate an image with lines in paper, but he imagined it was just as difficult as any of his attempts at carving. He wanted to see the process, to know which line to make first and how to bend them so that they seemed real. But he would not dare ask.

Then, without warning, Syllke spoke. Belgar’s eyebrows started upward and his mouth opened a fraction of an inch, but he settled quickly as he tried to absorb the words. He struggled to understand the relationship between his fighting and their art. Though he had made the association himself, he had not thought the terms comparable until Syllke said as much. When the Vantha finally allowed him a reprieve from his pose, his arms dropped to his knees and his eyes darted to the back of the canvas. “Art,” he repeated absently, still contemplating the concept.

Slowly, he stood. “May I see it?” He asked, for once in his life thankful for his difficulty with relaying emotion on his tone; he did not want to seem as eager as he was. Still, he could not help but take a few steps forward, careful not to startle the man even though the smell of fear had all but left him. “Fear is not unreasonable,” Belgar replied. “It is healthy. It makes a man strong. But we must fear the right things at the right time. That is the purpose of understanding, I think.”

He should have taken those words to heart; he should have remembered his own advice.

[Syllke Skyglow]

“Sure.” Syllke said easily. “I’d be interested in hearing what you think.” He stepped aside and looked with careful scrutiny of Belgar, still assessing and analyzing and recreating and really trying to see him. “It might not be what you expect. Art is very much like life, I’ve found.”

[Belgar]

Belgar stepped behind the easel warily, watching Syllke carefully for a sign that he was moving too fast or getting too close. The smell of fear seemed to have departed entirely, leaving a wake of curiosity and scrutiny in the Vantha’s calm eyes. Belgar’s own eyes returned to the boy once or twice before they finally settled on the image he had created. His stern face fell slack. He stared for a few long moments.

“It’s...” It was not beautiful—or maybe it was, and Belgar did not know what beauty was. It was not accurate, but he knew enough to have learned that art was not about accuracy. It was not what he had expected, at least. It made him think of strength; not movement, but the potential for it. A pause, an intention. He wished he knew how to vocalize that. A single audible breath rushed through his parted lips, almost like a chuckle. He lifted his hand just as high as his waist, hesitated, then brought it slowly to Syllke’s shoulder. He only let it rest there, without a pat or a squeeze, as he said, “It’s good.”

If the Skyglow did not recoil, his hand would fall a moment later and he would regard the portrait again. He needed something else, some conversation, some question. He needed to keep talking, keep the boy thinking, so that his mind would not stray to the recollection of Belgar’s other side. “How long did it take you to learn? How much practice does it take to make the lines come out of the charcoal, the way you do?”

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke, for his own part, was back to eyeing the sketch critically, lost in his own perception of what he had just created. Seisswyn’s suggestion had been a good one, if a total oblivion to what he was so in dread of was any indication that art, as well as music, might have charmed the savage breast of fear. He felt Belgar’s hand on his shoulder, but he did not react to it, merely accepting it for what it was – and not a potentially lethal paw the size of a dinner plate. Belgar’s succinct summation of his opinion basically went in one ear and right out the other. Syllke was so used to people frowning and tilting their heads and hemming and hawing before they finally pronounced his work ‘unusual’ or ‘different’ or ‘strange’ or, at best, ‘interesting’, he hardly listened anymore. He did something of a double take though, when the simple words finally registered and he smiled happily. “Really? You think it’s good?” He was aware that Belgar hadn’t said that he liked the sketch, but, assuming the Kelvic was being honest – and most of his race were – Syllke would take his work being good over being liked any day. He shrugged at the questions. “I’ve been learning every day of my life – and I plan to keep on until the day I die – which will be far in the future, hopefully.” He chuckled. “I’m sure being born into a hold devoted pretty much to art of one sort or another makes the learning easier – or at least, more natural. I’ve had many teachers.” He paused, considering. “I’d say I learn something about art from every person I come in contact with – and lots of things that aren’t even people. If your mind is open, you can learn all sorts of things, and sometimes in the most unusual places.” He leaned back to rest his hips against another table and contemplated Belgar, his mouth pursed and his thumb and forefinger plucking at his lower lip. After a long moment, he shook his head, for some reason known only to himself. Then his hand dropped and he played with his charcoal stick thoughtfully. “I don’t really practice. I just . . . do, if that makes any sense. I mean . . . I love to make things – to draw or paint, or carve. So I just do it all the time. It’s like breathing.” It seemed his words were secondary to some other thought that was playing out in his mind. His changeable eyes lifted to the Kelvic’s flat, dark ones, as he said in a slightly rushed voice, “Do you – do you think you could pose as . . . as a bear?” His fingers went to brush across the surface of the sketch. “I – I don’t think this is finished yet. It’s only half of you.”

[Belgar]

Belgar frowned in thought. He thought he was beginning to understand. With so many words, he must have. Art was not practiced in the same way fighting was, because art was not learned the same way. It was organic, a piece of a person, in the way he could never know. A thread of an idea wanted to compare it to hunting, a more primal and intuitive version of fighting, but he could not stitch the thought to his tongue. Instead, he simply admitted, “I was not born a Vantha, but adopted to Skyglow when Seisswyn... after I met her. I suppose my mind has been closed all these years, but I do try to see.”

His attention had wandered back to the portrait, drawn away only by the feel of Syllke’s probing eye. There was a passion and an intensity there that Belgar had come to appreciate in the young man, but it seemed to have grown tenfold in that moment. He should have expected the thing he said next, but somehow it struck him like a snowball.

“Yes.” He agreed finally, after a long pause filled with more confusion than hesitation. His stiff expression broke into a kind smile, warm with appreciation. The barest wisp of happy gold flitted over his Morwen-kissed irises. If Seisswyn were present, she would have been proud—not because he had gained the wary youth’s trust, but because he had really, truly smiled. With a short, habitually submissive bow, Belgar moved before the easel again. There was a short chorus of sliding tables and squealing chairs; with or without the human’s help, he created a space for himself. It was, perhaps, larger than even Syllke’s imagination would expect, but Belgar knew his body. It was just enough. He disrobed with a practiced speed, displaying a grizzled and greying body, then stepped shamelessly to the center of the clearing.

A bright light, which was at the same time white and blue and green like the aurora, illuminated the room for an instant. When it faded, the tall, straight-faced man was replaced by a beast. His arms were the width of trees and his black nose was larger than Skylle’s fist. His giant white head easily brushed the ceiling before he fell onto his front legs from standing. The wood floor groaned beneath the impact and the nearest furniture rattled briefly.

Belgar sat.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Belgar had agreed so readily, that Syllke had no time to reconsider his request. Before he quite realized the implications, Belgar was slinging tables around, and the space he cleared made Syllke frown, and then begin to stammer. But words would not form and he clenched his fists into balls, wanting once more to run from the room as fast as he could. Forcing himself with every shred of will power to remain where he was, Syllke could only watch mutely as, at last satisfied with the enormous space that he had cleared, Belgar stripped and stood for an instant. A flash of swirling light, colored like the aurora, and there in his place was . . . a bear. A very, very big bear. A bear so big that Syllke had to raise his head to look up into its face. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, feeling the stinging pin pricks of adrenalin breaking out under his arm pits, along his spine, down the back of his legs, Syllke tried to drag in a breath and felt like he was asphyxiating. His fingernails bit into his sweating palms and his muscles clenched like one with lockjaw. He wanted nothing more than to move, but he could not – not even to draw a breath. The floor rocked under his feet as the bear shifted about. The young artist dared not look – dared not open his eyes to see if the bear was coming at him. His head was spinning and lights were dancing before his tight shut eyes. Suddenly, he could breath but he was panting in quick, short gasps – hyperventilating. More quaking of the floor, and then . . .silence. The air hung with anticipation. Syllke knew he was acting like an idiot – like a coward. He knew Belgar was waiting – for him – to do . . . something. But he could not move. His eyes remained squeezed shut. His hands remained balled into fists. He could feel the charcoal pencil in his right hand. The pencil . . . Syllke brought his mind to focus on the slim, smooth cylinder. Willing his other hand to move, eyes still shut, he reached out and groped for the tilted table that served as easel. Feeling it’s smooth hard edge under his shaking fingers, he forced himself to move the few steps to its side. Opening his eyelids a fraction of an inch, he looked only towards the table’s surface, and the sketch. He saw Belgar, as he had seen him a few moments ago, as a man. He’s a man, he’s a man he’s a man, Syllke repeated over and over as he shuffled behind the table. His eyes were glued on the sheet of paper. For a very long time, he stared at it, unable to lift his eyes up. Finally, with a hammering heart, his eyes lifted and when they took in the sight of that massive, furry form, he gasped. Quickly, with lightning speed, they flew back to the paper and he began to scribble furiously.

[Belgar]

Belgar tried to think about the ice from which Seisswyn carved her greatest work, tried to remain frozen and still. His nose itched, but he dared not even twitch it; his right wrist would have been more comfortable if he stretched it, but he did not budge. He kept his breath steady and low, the way he did when he did not want a seal to smell him. His eyes were trained on Syllke’s, but the boy was looking down. He was intent on the frantic charcoal as it spilled its magic on the paper before him, work that the bear could not see no matter how he wished to.

But in his concern for the Vantha’s comfort, Belgar had forgotten to mind his body beyond the immediate trifles of discomfort. By the time he realized he was leaning too far toward the artist and his work, it was too late: he tipped forward, and the only thing that would catch him was a sudden and swift step. His yellow claws scraped haphazardly against the hardwood for an instant before the dull thump of his paw interrupted it, a whisper in a snowfield. A short ripple of stunned mortification coursed over the thick fur of his arm.

His paw had moved barely a foot and had never left the floor, but it had been sudden enough that he was sure Seisswyn’s disappointment was imminent. He stared forward, unable to look at the boy’s reaction—though he surely expected to hear it.

[Warden]

-Belgar- Skill Points: Observation 2 Persuasion 1 Philosophy 1 Lore: Being the Object of a Phobia, Artist’s Model, The Philosophy of Art -Syllke Skyglow- Skill Points: Observation 2 Drawing 2 Philosophy 1 Lore: Facing your Fear, Sketching a Kelvic, The Philosophy of Art Notes: Great thread you guys. I particularly enjoyed the discussion of the fundamentals behind art with someone that has never even attempted to draw anything, and spends his life fighting. Though I suppose it was never finished? Sadly enough.