Flashback [Arkale] Into the city of Syliras

[Valo]

Valo's eyes instantly lit up at the mention of Zeltiva and it's University, for it had been the most c deep childhood wish of his to enrol there and to finally be able to title him self as 'student'. There was something quite romantic about the title. A statement to the life of those well educated, beneath the skin. He wished to be one of those. A poor boy of Wind Reach, he wanted to be something greater than him self without quite comprehending the real meaning of greatness. Arkale seemed a man sent from the gods. The most unlikely yet most marvellous of coincidences. And thus Valo itched to question him about the past, about Zeltiva. What was it like? What is the fabric of the city? How did he fair at the university and what is the life of a student like? But there was also a sense of inhibition about the man, a subtle refraining from submerging in more detail about that which currently interested Valo the most. And the way he smiled beyond his helmet, for the keen eyes of the artist did not ever miss anything that could be observed, seemed a forced smile. In fact it seemed a reminder of Valo himself when he was but a child and the very way he'd force his features into a great grin every time he felt the shame he brought to his family. A capable boy that never became and Endal, never even wished for it. It shamed him perhaps even now, for old skeletons are difficult to bury. Feeling it a great rudeness, the Inarta chose not to pry and shall Arkale choose to reveal more detail about his background, he'd be delighted to listen. And perhaps he'd ask a little later, pretending he noticed not the subtle signs of inner turmoil that the Knight exhibited. As they cruised side my side Arkale spoke of the city layout and the businesses that lingered within it's structure. And what a wondrous prospect it was, for never - even in his wildest dreams, which often were utmost clad in wildness - had Valo imagine such an enormous caste. And until he ventured into the bowls of thus, he would not fully comprehend it's existence. Stormhold Keep was the name and one he'd not forget soon. Though the names seemed to fit, for no doubt there was that the castle would hold of any storm, so well fortified it was. The names of the businesses would come in one ear and out the other but what lingered were the ramblings and stories of the history of the city and the Knights. That was truly interesting. and every time the kind Knight would look to his companion in wondering whether he'd have gone of at a tangent again and had been rambling too much, Valo would smile the most pleasant of smiles and assure him that it was all very interesting and there perhaps was not another person who'd explain this priceless knowledge better than he did. For the passion of Arkale seemed to possess no boundaries, or at least not any visible ones. And such passion and love for his profession was precisely a quality that the artist cherished thoroughly in his new acquaintance.

[Arkale]

The Mage Knight led his charge to the entrance to Stormhold Keep, where a good portion of the great city was kept. His job as tour guide was getting a bit easier as Arkale was able to immerse himself in the job, showing the red-haired man the different passages that lead to which parts of the keep. He made special note of the fourth and third tiers of the keep, where the Bazaar and residences were. Talking about the Bazaar gave the knight an idea, and without another thought, he lead the traveller down to the market. It was as bright as it was outside, though the light was not the same bright sun that most people were used to. Instead the Bazaar had hundreds of suns, each one a lamp burning happily. Along the walls, strung across the tops of stalls, standing on tables, or even on the ground, lights dances all around, playing with shadows and colored glass. The effect was rather impressive, and Arkale had to admit that it was a wonderful sight. The Great Bazaar was a world of colors scents, and sounds: each from a different corner of Mizahar. After a while, the heat of the Bazaar, the walking, and the weight of the plate armor began to tire Arkale. With a sigh, he removed his helm and strapped it to his belt, where it clanged happily with each step.

[Valo]

The two found them selves in a bazaar of some sort. A sea of heads that mingled among seas of colour and light. And perhaps the sight was a beauty to behold, Valo found him self a little overwhelmed, a little distorted and disorientated. His eyes surveyed the place, looking about him self, trying to desperately to take it all in but such was perhaps impossible for a newcomer. Even for one who was used to crowds, for Wind Reach was not a crowd-less city indeed. Yet he felt the strain of his journey and the strain of all this new knowledge to fathom and so much to focus on and the inability to focus on it all at once. Finally Arkale removed his helmet, allowing the artist to catch a glimpse of the man he had been conversing with so pleasantly and to his surprise the man was his own age. How was it that some achieve so much in such a short amount of time, yet Valo had achieved so little. A puzzlement. The knight's eyes were striking for they were not the eyes of a blood thirsty, battle hardened veteran, yet the eyes of an innocent. Perfect orbs of liquid amber, precious and beautiful. Hair cropped short, brown and plain and skin of a gentle tan. An appearance that was perhaps the opposite of the exotic and pale Valo, yet there was something awfully pleasant about him. And when he smile, the artist could not help but smile back, to mirror that very infectious smile. "Sir Arkale." spoke Valo after they had spent a sufficient, yet not too prolonged amount of time at the bazaar. There were noted of timidness in his voice, though extremely subtle, yet present and perhaps it would have been so out of character for the charismatic young Inarta, but his tiredness was apparent. "I don't suppose there's an inn somewhere near by, a place of rest perhaps. Forgive me but the journey here was not an easy one."

[Arkale]

The Knight felt foolish. He had overlooked the fact that this man had obviously been on the road, and as such must have been tired and hungry. When the man suggested an Inn, Arkale instantly thought of the Rearing Stallion, one of the most famous inns throughout all of Syliras. "To the Rearing Stallion then. Allow me to buy, for your travels have been long, and I'm sure the gesture would be appreciated." It was very obvious Arkale was not going to take no as an answer, and he put a hand on the man's shoulder and spun him around. The Knight knew the way to the Stallion as well as any Knight, for it was not only a place of lodging, rest, and food, it seemed that almost weekly a small dispatch of guards was sent out to break up a fight that had erupted within the tavern. It didn't take long for the pair to arrive, and Arkale pushed open the door into the nosy and warm inn. He led the Inarta over to an empty table, which was by no means easy to find, and both sat down. Within moments Arkale had ordered food for both and an Ale for himself, letting his companion decide on his own form of beverage. You could tell alot about a man from his choice of drink, and Arkale wanted to see what his friend would order. "So. Tell me more about yourself kind sir. You said you arrived here from Endrykas?"

[Valo]

It humbled the artist deeply when he was given no choice upon the matter of payment, despite perhaps one too many attempts at arguing otherwise. And finally he was subdued to the wish of the knight who was perhaps by far the most generous man in Syliras, it seemed. A man who was almost too generous, suspiciously generous for he no doubt realised Valo had nothing of value to offer in return. And if Valo was any other man, he would quickly fathom a suspicion. But he was only Valo. A man who saw no evil in another until proven otherwise. A man of good heart, a naive boy in the shell of a man. Upon arriving at the tavern, the artist was faced with quite an important decision to make. A choice of beverage was presented to him and upon learning of the diversity of alcohol provided in the establishment, he made a mental note of the place for he was a man who relished in alcohol perhaps a little too much. And he would no doubt return to the place merely to indulge in glorious intoxication and the finest of alcoholic beverages. Though despite his sudden craving for the wine, his reply was simple. Ale would do him just fine for now. Besides what sort of man would he be if his conduct was to get hammered upon arrival. The inside of the tavern was indeed noisy, but the comforting limbs of warmth that now wound around Valo's slender frame in a tight embrace where very much appreciated. And perhaps Sylirian winter had nothing upon that of Wind Reach of Avanthal, still chill was chill and he was glad to have escaped it. Alas looking inquisitively about his surroundings, taking in the sight of patrons that went about their business, merrily conversing about their day, Valo had found his rest. "So. Tell me more about yourself kind sir. You said you arrived here from Endrykas?" asked Arkale in an attempt at small talk. And his companion needed little more than that. A chance to unwind and reminisce. "Well yes. Though the beginning of my adventure was my home city Wind Reach in the far north of Kalea. I have done my fair share of travelling you see, sir Arkale. I suppose besides that and my art, there is very little of interest I can share with you, for I fear I may ramble too much." smiled Valo, for even those few sentences felt like rambling. "How about you sir? You spoke of Zeltiva and the university before hand and I must say I am tremendously interested for that is my goal in life. What did you study? I beg of you, tell me all about the experience." Valo must have sounded awfully enthusiastic when he spoke, almost like a little boy, questioning the adults about the far of adventure. Only his manner was a little more mature. Still, the concealing of his apparent enthusiasm was difficult, some may say that even borderline impossible. When one spoke of knowledge to Valo, even the very prospects of such, his eyes lit up exquisitely until they became little more than the eyes of a man starving for that knowledge. It had been the case with him ever since he was a child. Old habits are hard to brake.

[Arkale]

A world of froth and bubbles thrived inside the Mage Knight's mug, and he found it very interested as soon as the University was brought up....he was no scholar...that was his father. Arkale didn't last more than a year in the blasted University, and after that year he gave up and ran away to join the Knights...it was not a past he was proud of. He watched as a single bubble detached from the inside of the mug and raced to the top, eager to get away from the rest of the other clinging bubbles. But to where? Didn't the bubble realize that upon reaching the top it would be lost in the tulmult of foam? Did it not care that it was leaving behind safety and solace for a life of chaos and uncertanty? And with that, Arkale hefted the mug, took another gulp, and murdered the bubble. Setting down the ale, he turned his attention once again to his companion. The red-haired traveller seemed very interested in the University, and a pang of guilt and pity echoed across the Mage Knight's heart. It was obvious this man sought out the life that the school provided; the structure, the learning, the enviorment, all of it and everything about the university, the life that Arkale left behind. Who could want that? The Knight could not comprehend the desire to live such a life...it was like an animal begging for the cage. He shook away the thought. Who was he to judge? This man probably could not understand why Arkale chose to be a Knight, and why would he understand? Both of them had different pasts, upbringins, and experiences; and this shaped them to be who they were as they sat in the Rearing Stallion that day. The Knight and the Travelling Artist. "The University was something I had thought I wanted. My entire childhood I had been prepped to attend the classes and learn from the professors there. From the time I could walk I was being lectured by my father about any subject he decided was important. I was taught to write and read before I was taught to dress myself, but don't get me wrong, I was no genius or anything. I have a decent memory, and all I did was memorize. I never learned or understood, I just watched and repeated what I saw..." He murdered some more bubbles before continuing, "You didn't ask for my life story though, so let me answer your question proper. I was signed up for general classes, just to learn a little bit of everything. 'Jack of All-Trades, Master of None' you know? It was determined that would provide me with the best opportunity for obtaining a comfy and cozy job in some part of the world where I could simply tell other people what to do, and get paid for it..." More bubble were ushered to their demise. "...but it isn't what I wanted. That was not the Benaeford way of living." Arkale scowled rather venomously at the image of his father that flashed in his mind and subsequently drowned it with a hearty chug of ale. He put aside the almost empty mug and let the remaining bubbles survive....for now. "Valo, if you don't mind my asking. What reason do you have to want to go to the university?" Arkale asked, completely aware he had not finished answering the man's question.

[Valo]

The artist listened closely as the knight spoke, often finding himself wanting to comment yet hardly finding the will to so rudely interrupt. Therefore, with his eyes thrust into the other, he merely listened and absorbed the new information of his companion. His mind however was singular and though Arkale was not happy at the university, Valo was determined to prove he would be. He felt himself cut out perfectly for such a life. Fleshed out from clay, from which all men are made, conditioned by years for the humble existence between the pages of books, sprawled in greatness upon canvases. A wish stronger than the distance that divided him and Zletiva. Strong enough to overcome anything, even the disenchanted warnings of another.

He was taken back however by the abrupt scowl within Arkale's feature. The profound inverting of the corners of his mouth, the pulling together of his feature into something that seemed so unlike his natural self, or at least the self he had grown accustomed to. Was it something he had done wrong? Had he offended the man somehow?

"Valo, if you don't mind my asking. What reason do you have to want to go to the university?" came the question and at that Valo's response was careful as not to provoke that scowl from reappearing or perpetuating. Suffice to say there was something a little intimidating about the scowl of a knight. Perhaps the overhanging realisation that indeed, if he wished to, Arkale could easily break the foreigner in half.

"Art." he spoke honestly with a prerequisite sip of his own ale to dampen the lip. "It's been perhaps my life long wish to make something of my self in the world of art. A devout love. Some people have the dogs to guide them, you see and I have art. For it seems despite the hair, I'm no good an Inarta." there was a smile on Valo's lip as he spoke. A warm smile with just the most subtle hints of solemn word. Another gulp of his ale, awaiting to hear Arkale's view upon his words. Wondering what the knight might think of such a confession.

[Arkale]

The Knight raised an eyebrow. Art? He did not understand the appeal of art. Sure he has seen great works of art, in fact he has even partaken in creating art, though he doubted his minor scribbles and sketches in the margin of a scroll really classified as true art. It was no something Arkale understood, and probably because Art was so open ended. One painting may look completely different from another, but both would be considered fine art, whereas in a situation where math was needed, there was only one right answer. Math followed rules and Art did not. Being a Knight, Arkale was all for rules and regulations, restrictions and boundaries. Art had none of those, and it was a whole new beast Arkale had never wanted to tackle.

He wondered what type of life would inspire someone to be an artist...what happened to them in their past that would spur them towards the life of an artist? Arkale suddenly became much more interested in this red-haired stranger.

"What made you decide you wanted to delve into art?" Arkale asked, genuinely interested in this man's story.

[Valo]

"What made you decide you wanted to delve into art?" asked the knight with a raised eyebrow. A subtly perplexed expression on his face with resulted in almost a mirror image of it in Valo's own feature. Why not art? What else was there of true beauty and complexity to behold in this world where everything seemed so grey tinted.

Art was escapism, a powerful mistress whom the young artist had never battled with, but simply embraced. It was a principle etched so deeply into him, from such a young age that he could simply not imagine himself without it. Much like he could not imagine himself without a heart, or a kidney or any other organ. Perhaps that's what art was. Yet another organ, grown within him over the years. To pull it out would result in death. It was a greater calling, greater even than the gods. So many things, was art. It was both life and eternity. Both a science and poetry. Misunderstood so greatly, yet somehow touching every single being in one way or another.

Those who beheld mathematics over art simply did not understand it. Their hearts were as dead as the equations they plaid with. Art is a sense was a fluidity of set rules. It was both etched in stone and free to interpretation, welcoming the breaking of those rules. Art was the development of one's own perspective, one's own understanding of the world. It was the perpetuating of one's skill.

In a sense there was something very mathematical about the kind of art Valo created. The lines and and angles and distances that went into creating a form. The perfect and pristine nature of anatomy. it was also very scientific, chemistry based, in the mixing of mediums and pigments. The very processes that constructed what could only be known as art rooted in nothing more than the principles upon which the world was built. Few people understood it, for few people ever took up a paint brush and learned what it meant to paint with oil upon canvas. Few people truly had a taste of the meticulous difficulty of water based pigments. To many, drawing with charcoal was a relentless art of smudging. Few truly pay attention of the theoretical genius that was plowed into the works that hung upon the walls that belonged to the rich. Few had the ability for that level of appreciation. Few looked beyond the subject itself.

To say that art was very much open to interpretation, was indeed a statement Valo was prepared to argue both for and again. Truly, some of Mizahar's greatest work's of art truly bored his eyes. Then again some were unquestionably and always true works of art and to oppose that, to him, was simply a question of bad taste. And taste, though subjective, to Valo was suspended on the black and white spectrum of things. Some people simply had bad taste. A motto, which he repeated to everyone he ever debated with, was simple: one does not need to like the particular painting, to appreciate it.

"What made me decided to do art?" he simply echoed, giving a long moment to think his answer though. And when that moment neared it's end, he still had no coherent answer to give, so indeed he decided to simply ramble. The rambling of a man so very passionate. "It's like asking; what made you decide to walk, or talk? A need within one self. A simple occupation without which I could not survive for it is as basic to me as breathing. You see, I've been paint longer than I dare to imagine. Longer than I can remember. It's so very fundamental that it's not even a second nature to me any more, but the nature of myself."

He lowered his gaze for a moment, but once the words began rolling from his lips, he had no power, nor indeed the will, to stop it. A warm smile across his handsome feature before he looked back to the knight. "Everyone perceives the world in some sort of a way." It just so happened that his was entropy. And within that very entropy there was nothing but beauty which he so dearly wanted to share with others. But they could not look though his eyes, they could not see what he saw so clearly, thus he needed to show them and it was though the use of charcoal and medium that he did so.

There was of course his great love of the theory behind it all. A love so great that perhaps, beside his family, he had never known to love anything quite this much. For the naturally inquisitive man who was Valo, there was nothing better than the relentless hours of practising. the colour theory, the pencil marks, the anatomy. A certain peculiar joy in the frustration it often brought him. An ache of the heart when something went wrong, only to underline that profound joy which lingered about every worth looking at painting he produced. The very emotion, for Valo was a rather overly emotional individual, that went into creating something truly powerful. The pleasure of turning pages in a filled sketch book.

He had never thrown out any of his work, no matter how bad it was. And some of the sketches and paintings of his childhood were abominably bad.It was a way to keep a journal. A visual journal where words were unravelled and joined into lines that created form which spoke of one thing or another. Many self portraits and those of his family. Many portraits of friends. Freeze frames, time capsules. Each would bring an array of memories. Pictorial diaries of a sort, a chronicle of his life. He had improved so greatly since his earlier days and that was something worth celebrating and remembering for that was a a victory in progress. Art was progress.

"However few of us have the true power to change it." the artist continued. "Those that do... they're called artists."

It seemed that Valo didn't really have a great love for this world. Of course there were beautiful things within it, but even they were often obscured by the ugliness of reality. He didn't really have that much of a love of life either. It seemed he didn't really live but merely exist, suspended in that which he bothered not to think over for there seemed to always be something else on his mind. Detached somewhat he was, from himself and from the world. that art was his purpose. That art kept him from fading, kept his a passionate fool at the merciful hands of fate. it was art that guided him. and his passion sprouted from it. His deep burning passion, his determination and his spark of life all rotated around that single word; art. Art was life.

"Art isn't the depiction of the world. It is the creation of it. The power to take something imperfect, to shift and change it, mould it with your hands and breathe life into it. Another world within this one, too as imperfect and chaotic but different. We are born into this world so powerless and most of us life our lives in the lack of any significant power, unless the gods bestow it upon us. We are so very small. Well, this is my power. I'm the creator." When he spoke, there was a mad spark in Valo's eyes. Something perhaps a little ominous, painted in those elaborately beautiful emerald spheres, ever animated. The previously calm young gentleman had shifted ever so subtly, ever so very subtly into someone so very saturated by this sudden energy, this passion of his, that it seemed he was alight by it.

[Arkale]

Arkale was rendered speechless. How was he to respond to this man bearing his soul and passion out before him? How was a simple Mage Knight, who's singular purpose in life was to protect The Windoak and Syliras, supposed to match the passion and intensity that was laid before him by a student of creation? In truth, he could not. Arkale was not an affluent and articulate speaker. When he spoke, he tried to be clever, though it only on rare occasions came across as such. So he did the next best thing.

Arkale remained silent.

With golden eyes ignited by inspiration, Arkale gazed at the Inarta. A strange cloud of emotions began to billow within him. Though Arkale was admittedly a light weight, and the cloud could have been laden and birthed from the alcohol, it was still a real storm of emotions; however, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pin down the emotions. It was strange, almost as though Arkale could not imagine ever being apart from this red haired artist. Friendship was a funny thing, and Arkale was sure that this wanderer would become a close friend of his. The passion with which this man spoke enticed him, and while Arkale didn't fully understand the allure and velvet-like grip of Art's embrace, he did understand the passion and love that filled Valo's voice. The man was a decent speaker, and his Inartian accent made him even more enticing.

Arkale leaned his elbows on the table, as though to get closer to this man and his words...his passion. It was intoxicating, more so than the mug he had previously downed, and Arkale felt the need to be closer to the passion and love this man obviously held within.

"If you have some of your work, I would love to see it. After all, the way you talk about Art is enticing enough to convince a blind man to become a patron."