Flashback [OPEN] The geometry within anatomy

[Valo]

Age: 17 33rd Spring 506AV The Enclave, library section Later afternoon Ever since he was very young indeed, the Enclave was probably one of the young artist's favourite places to be. Whether he'd spend the night tucked away in a corner reading another great lecture, or simply seek a place to rest for a while from another busy day; the doors of the library's doors seemed eternally open for him. And inside the stone rooms, rows upon rows of books awaited to share their knowledge. And books were special. Books had no secrets and loved everyone who opened them. That afternoon the elegant youth had arrived at the Enclave with little more purpose perhaps, than to read anything he could get his slender hands on. He considered him self an artist - perhaps not a fine artist, but an artist none the less. And as such, he had to perpetually practice his craft is he was ever to call him self such. Besides, he was seventeen years of age now and with his seventeenth birthdays having passed a mere two days ago, he grew in determination all the more. For Valo was a boy with a dream and that very dream was to travel Mizahar, to go to Zeltiva and enrol at the university. To devote his life to the study and perhaps one day the teaching of his fine craft. He dreamed of his paintings being hung up in galleries. Such big dreams for such a young soul And for the time being, those dreams were still unattainable. Valo found him self a somewhat tarnished seat somewhere in a corner of the library and at once produced a small sketchbook from hie bag, and with it some pencils. He preferred those to charcoal, for led did not smudge as easily. A dreamy look in his eyes, as if he was focusing on something quite otherworldly, the youth began sketching. His pose as always graceful, back straight and long long red hair, draped over his slender shoulders. Valo's hand danced upon the paper as if with a mind of it's own. The pencil creating linear marks, gentle cross hatching and shading where intended. But this was merely an occupation of relaxation, a moment to draw the very monsters and wonders his cluttered mind conjured up, without a care in the world if the work was even worth looking at. He was so carefree back then, so unphased by it all. A boy who loved what he did and did what he loved. The boy had quite a specific way of looking at living things, for he discarded the very idea that they were in fact alive. The trick to a good study of anatomy was viewing it as just another form, suspended in time rather than eternally animated. Beneath skin there was muscle that guided the flow of the body and every feature could be traced back to a single point of reference, the head. Furthermore, to aid in correct positioning, one could imagine that the body was made up of geometrical figures; circles and triangles and the sort. And once a general flow of such figures was established, an anatomical study could be almost conjured up from one's mind, perhaps not flawless but close enough for satisfaction. That was precisely how he worked. With around movement of the whole arm, rather than just the wrist, Valo placed a perfectly round circular shape on the paper. He kept his lines very light, so that it wouldn't obstruct further detailing. A guideline of a sort. The circle was then divided in half by a long line that stretched the length of the paper and then another one slightly to the side, around which a face like shape began to appear. A fain outline and an ear, horizontals marking the position of eyes, nose and lips. A face looking to the side, though the body that fallowed was oriented in the opposite direction. Soon the shoulders began to take place and judging by their slenderness, it was a female frame. A thin, but swan like neck of a lady, gentle curves of the collar bones. A trapezoid shape sprouted from those shoulders and finished abruptly at another, larger oval where one might have expected to fin the woman's hips. And within that trapezium, a faint sketch of a ribcage took shape, the kind that one might find on a surgeon's table or in a medical book, but lacked the definition of individual ribs. Another flattened oval blow it for a stomach. At that point Valo returned one again to the face, began gently sketching in the almond shapes of the eyes with heavy eyelids, faint marks of brows, the hallows of cheeks and round sort lips which seemed like they could have belonged to a doll. He began creating faint suggestions of clothing around the feminine silhouette. Gentle shading around the exposed shoulders to add depth and definition. Wrapped up in his own mind, he was and did not notice how time rolled by so freely.

[Kovac]

Age: 20

The young hunter cringed at the old archer's instructions, certainly Kovac was being punished for his short temper, or was it that he had missed three easy shots on the last hunt. Regardless, the half-breed Avora was being sent to a place of torment, at least in Kovac's eyes. The Enclave.

Kovac was to learn again the rich heritage of his father's people, to learn again the legacy he was called to live up to. Punishment in the young man's eyes. He slipped into the cavernous library, as lost among the shelves and tables of books and tomes as one of the librarians would be in the middle of the Unforgiving. With a sigh, the olive-skinned hunter strolled through the aisles and shelves. Patrons were sparse, individuals sequestered away on corners or among the racks of books. One boy, Kovac noticed, was not reading, as the others were. He was sketching.

Drawing was only incrementally more interesting than reading, but among the echoing silence of the scholarly conclave, the artists was a beacon of appeal. Angling his approach, Kovac watched the teenager. He was thin, his features fine, almost feminine, long strands of cadmium-colored hair hung around his face as he worked studiously on his art. The mongrel found himself almost next to the young man, peering over his shoulder at the sketchings. From the evolving image appearing, Kovac discerned it was a woman he was drawing.

His voice hush, Kovac broke the silence. "Are you an artist?" It was a inane question, almost naive, but the archer meant to determine if art was the boy's hobby or occupation.

[Valo]

He had been nothing but immersed in this world of his where absolutely nothing else existed but the white of the paper and the silvery black of the lead. A world of his own where he had been the master and the creation that took place was at his hand and his hand only. Pretending for a moment like he was something great. Although silly it might have seemed, sometimes he needed that reassurance that this art of his was good enough and it seemed there was no one else better to assure him of this, than his very own self. The voice which spoke was at a hush in which the tone was indistinguishable. A hush that could easily have been mistaken for the whisper of his own mind and the words that is said, for his own. "Are you an artist?" Such a simple question that could have very well existed in the cavernous fabric of his thought. Of course that was not the case at all, for there was a change in the air and a presence stood a little too close for the startle youth's comfort. And with a profound expression of surprise painted into his features of alabaster, Valo looked up only to find a boy only two or three years older, hovering there with his eyes suspended upon the drawing that took form. But that drawing was quickly whisked away from sight as the notebook closed, almost involuntarily and with haste. It was that gleam of burgundy read to the man's dark hair that caused Valo to react in such a dishevelled manner, which would otherwise be some polite retort. But just for that moment, within the emerald eyes of the red head, a ghost danced, a memory that still caused him both happiness and immense pain. The memory of a dear friend of his who was now merely a memory. And all those childhood adventures and mischief had yet again solidified within his mind, only to dissolve in a wave of dismantlement. It was not him. Of course it was not going to be him. But the sharp sting that penetrated Valo's chest was quickly seeped under the rug of propriety and his face grew calm and perhaps a little impassive. He needed yet another moment to compose him self before even a suggestion of a smile could appear in his face. But when he spoke, his voice was saturated with utmost politeness. "In spirit, yes. Not yet in skill." He then gestured to the seat opposite himself, should the stranger wish to join him. And Valo hoped thoroughly that he may, for a number of question had arisen in his mind, which he perhaps wished to ask. Who was he? What was he doing in Wind Reach, as few strangers came into the city due to it's secluded position. And most importantly of all, why should he ask such a preposterously obvious question? The truth about Valo was that he was indeed very critical of his art. Being a boy of great curiosity and thirst for knowledge, he often read and sought out great artists, admiring their work and growing bitter when looking at his own. A great sense of inadequacy accompanied him every time he draw or painted, but it was not at all his time to give up. Not when he had his whole life to finally prove him self in the world of art. And that, is what drove his need to leave the city and to see the world and to obtain a university education in a far off land.

[Arandolya]

Arandolya The only limit is the Stars . . . Age: 12 years old. The Enclave. How many times had she visited such place? In a world of uncertainty, apprenticeships, and teachers hounding her to find a skill, Arandolya found a small measure of peace within the reverent silence of the Enclave. She liked coming to hear the stories in Storyteller's Well, or read a book when she finished school. Within the Enclave Arandolya didn't have to live up to anyone's expectations or forced to swallow facts on things she didn't care about and could never remember. Here, she could just read something and be transported somewhere else. Or learn something she never knew before (and wanted to learn, thus would remember). The little girl loved to trot around the shelves that made her feel like a kindergarten Yasi, and try to reach the books that seemed almost as big as she. Arandolya couldn't help but appreciate the lure and mystery of the quiet Enclave, something that lived in its air drew her back again and again. Today was no exception. After a particularly grueling lesson on religion, Arandolya tried to forget as she buried herself into the reading of a legendary Endal. Who wouldn't admire the top rank of society? The ones who were able to bond to the very mountain itself through the birds they shared a connection to. Arandolya sometimes wished a bird would bond to her, though they all seemed content to snuggle her hand and continue about their merry way. Was the turn of life, was it not? Arandolya read slowly, as she was not apt at putting together the letters into words and then into sentences. They loved to mess with her and squirm away from her understanding. Speaking, of course Arandolya was fluent, reading though . . . reading was not particularly her thing. Her love for it though forced her to continue, connecting word after word to string them into a story that was much more than payment for her time. She was happy to spend the entire night puzzling a particular tale until the call of the Storyteller's Well drew her away and reminded her of her bedtime. As the young girl cheerfully flipped page after page, feeling a mild bout of pride every time she manged to change the light paper, Arandolya had little awareness of her surroundings. What was there really to be aware about? People walked generally silently, and moved like mice. For sake of her own sense of privacy, Arandolya had a habit of sitting in the aisles, tucking her legs up close and moving if someone need her to - which wasn't often as she purposefully planted herself in the second to do with gardening (or guarding .., she wasn't completely sure). That was perhaps the only reason the quiet speech of another drew her attention. "Are you an artist?" Arandolya glanced up, the whispered phrase almost lost in the quiet tone of her own breathing. Did she really hear it? Looking between a few books, Arandolya spotted a few older males, and almost crawled away, not a huge fan of confronting bigger people. The other male - he was male right? - replied though, and kept Arandolya in her spot. "In spirit, yes. Not yet in skill." An artist? Arandolya put her book down and peered between the books again, studying the pair of them. She hesitated for a minute, but childish curiosity drew her forwards. An artist ... drawing! That means he could make pretty pictures, like the ones in the book. Arandolya glanced at the picture of an Endal flying towards the Bay, and peeked around the two bookshelves. Her golden eyes held wide innocence and the naivety of children that made her crawl - on all fours - out from the aisle without feeling ashamed. "You're an artist?" she chirped quietly, blinking at the man with an admiring gaze. "Can I see one of your drawings?" she continued, trying to keep her eagerness downplayed in the whisper. Arandolya at age twelve was a tiny thing, barely topping 4' 9", vibrant red hair unruly as she hadn't the mind to keep it tamed. Face still holding the round quality of youth had a small nose in its center, with a marking on her cheek with thin lips to curve with her smooth chin. Wide amber eyes held endless curiosity, and an acute observational quality as she studied the two in front of her, now that she had a full view. Still on the floor, now sitting on her legs, Arandolya pushed a few strands of her curls out of her eyes, and added in a forcefully respectful and polite tone - as taught by her tutors, "Please?!"

[Kovac]

Kovac took a step back as he took the thin boy by surprise, the Inartan quickly concealing his work and giving the older boy a guarded green glance. It only occurred to the half-vanthan then that maybe the artist didn't want people disturbing him or looking over his shoulder. The boy's countenance went through a series of expressions, subtle but discernible. Was it because he was a half-breed? It would not be the first time his dark hair and olive-toned skin drew an unwanted reaction from one of his father's people. Kovac considered himself full Inarta, having been born and raised within the warrens of Wind Reach. Not everyone in Skyinarta had the same opinion.

Eventually, the cadmium-haired young man managed to muster a courteous grin, his reply measured and honest. "Well, I say the spirit is pretty strong, from the quick glance I caught of that drawing."

Further comment was interrupted by a small voice, coming from a small girl that sat on her knees on the stone floor beside them. The mop-headed girl was as wided eyed as if she had seen her first Wind Eagle. Kovac guessed that the petite waif was not yet a teenager, though her features betrayed hints of the coming changes that adolescence would bring. She chimed in with her plea to see his work, which pleased Kovac greatly, relieving him of the task of imploring the boy to share his art. He only had to bolster her supplication. "Come on, let us see it."

[Valo]

"Well, I say the spirit is pretty strong, from the quick glance I caught of that drawing." The young artist couldn't quite explain why this comment made him chuckle a little, but it did none the less. A fabulous way to break the ice and remove some of that awkward aura between the two boys. And he smiled at the other, a radiant smile this time. The distraction and the sadness in his eyes were completely replaced, forgotten and masked by self composure. For there were two types of boy in this world; those who'd ridicule him for his so un-Inarta ideology and those who cared little for ridicule. Those who'd rather spend their time making yet another acquaintance than waste their energy ostracising the outcast. This boy who reminded him so much of Corneliun at first sight was indeed that boy. Any further conversation was interrupted by a little girl, a child, much younger than both of them, who inquisitively impaled her innocent eyes into the artist. And it seemed the pair of them ganged up on poor Valo, demanding a peek at his sketchbook in a genuinely friendly mannerism. Whereas it wouldn't be that difficult saying no to the boy, the little girl melted the artist's heart with that wide-eyed gaze of her's. Denying such a simply thing from her proved impossible. In a manner of defeat, yet with a crescent now chiselled into his youthful, handsome feature, Valo handed her the sketchbook. One peek inside would reveal a world of sketches and paintings in the more whimsical of all paintings mediums, watercolours. A vast array of portraits and life of all sorts. Some at the peak of photorealism, some an art nuveau elegance of illustration and some of wild expressionism, contemporary abstract and even surrealism, suspended in fantasy-like juxtaposition of complementary colour, painted by a hand skilled in colour theory.There were simple sketches too, accompanied by vast arrays of pencil mark exercises. Inanimate drawings of inanimate household objects, where led picked out the elaborate chiaroscuro of their feature. A little book full of wonder at the hand and mind of an artistic spirit indeed. "My name is Valo, my the way." he said a little timidly, in hope that perhaps the three of them would form an acquaintance, perhaps even a friendship. That hope resided within him every time he was face with someone new, for that was his nature. And perhaps he was not a timid boy, quite the opposite, but one could not refrain from retaining a degree of obsessive self awareness when faced with new people.

[Arandolya]

Arandolya The only limit is the Stars . . . "Come on, let us see it." Support! Arandolya smiled brightly at the dark-haired boy, though when she took a good look, she found herself temporarily distracted from her plight of art by his appearance. The Inarta squinted at him as though his hair might change color under scrutiny, though it didn't. It stayed as night-black as ever, causing a small amount of surprise course through the child. Was he not an Inarta then? Touching her own vibrant hair in thought, Arandolya shrugged her shoulders in a passive manner before looking back to the other much more Inarta-looking male with a look of expectation. Hesitation seemed to stay his hand for a moment before he relinquished the book to her with a smile. Arandolya reached out to take the book, her hand revert as it gently lowered the art to her lap, now adjusting herself to sit criss-cross as she did in class. As she beamed briefly at the red-haired male in gratitude, Arandolya opened the book carefully. Watercolors greeted her eager gaze, endless paintings so carefully done by an innately skilled hand. No, perhaps not perfect, but these portraits and random splashes of inspiration held a type of grace that made Arandolya gasp in delighted surprise. Mixed in with the contrasting colors were pencil marks, detailed and beautiful in their own sense. The thrill of turning each page was obvious as Arandolya babbled about talent and spirit and her obvious awe. "I wish I was an artist like you!!" she giggled multiple times as the pages were flipped with the care a falconer would to a new chick. The book ended too quickly for Arandolya's liking, though instead of being disappointed, she only gently turned the book over and started again. "My name is Valo, by the way," the artist voiced in a subdued tone. Only here did the young girl look up to him and nodded her head. "I'm Arandolya," she said, drawing out her name a tad to ensure the other two caught how to pronounce it. Her large golden gaze blinked a couple times and she turned her eyes to the dark man. "Are you Inarta?" she asked, obnoxiously blunt with the naivety of her persona. "Because, your hair isn't red. My mother says that having red hair is ... being Inarta." Arandolya paused, tapping her finger against her chin. "Did your red fall out?" she asked worriedly. "Maybe Priskil needed to borrow it for her sunshine, what an honor!" she gaped.

[Kovac]

The boy was reluctant to share his work, the archer could easily see. But he was polite and reserved, a rare trait among Kovac's Inartan half-brethren. The artist was uncommon in many ways. His features were effeminate, almost attractive, and his complexion and physical frame appeared as if he had never seen the sun nor a day of labor. With the apprehension of a child, the younger boy introduced himself. Valo.

"Kovac."The mongrel replied with a nod of his head. The girl, too, chimed in with her name, one that did not roll easily off of Kovac's lips as he mouthed it to himself. Though the child glanced at him in curiosity, Valo's artwork was of much more interests to the red-maned girl, who took the offered skecthbook with enthusiasm.

Kovac moved to look over Arandolya's shoulder, examining with equal interest the variety of media and subjects Valo's work contained. The half-breed was by no means an art critique, his interest and time was spent learning to shoot and stalk prey, though his secret indulgence was playing the lute that had belonged to his mother. But that was something he kept to himself. Being a nepophyte when it came to art, Kovac appreciated the more lifelike work. He preferred the pencil sketches. They were simple, yet managed to capture life, animate and inanimate with visceral intent.

Once Arandolya started again at the first page, Kovac looked up at the ginger artist. "This is great stuff, very good." It was the base opinion of an untrained pedestrian, but heartfelt nevertheless. His attention was drawn back to the girl, who, in rather accurate Inartan fashion, posed a series of poignant questions to him. And her comment about Priksil taking his red hair for her sunshine made him laugh out loud. The subject of his heritage was often breached with unpleasant consequences, for may Inartans were not as tolerant fo those unlike themselves. Arandolya's naive approach was refreshing.

"My father is Inarta, my mother was Vantha." Kovac replied plainly. "I have my mother's hair. In the sunlight, I have been told you can see red streaks in it." He added, as if to prove he had some inartan traits after all.

[Valo]

He watched as the little girl flicked though the pages and once the sketchbook ended, she began flicking though them all over again. And with each turn of the jagged paper, she seemed to marvel at them in such an endearing way. Truth was, that Valo has a certain weakness for children. An inability to with old anything for one as sweet as she. "I wish I was an artist like you." she giggles and his heart melted. An instant fondness which he simply could not deny. The name came and that name was Arandolya, pronounced so carefully. A drawn out sound to clearly display the complexity of the sound. So different it was than those simple one that Inarta usually possessed, it had occurred to the artist. For even his own name was a simple Valo.

She then turned her attention to the boy who's name was Kovac. Such a frivolous childish procrastination in her voice. A silly remark which only the pure and unstoppable imagination of a child could conjure up with such abrupt ease. A remark which brought a reluctant snigger to the artist's lips, even if but a muffled one. Toher however the matter seemed so terribly serious. All the praise which warmed his heart was now swept into the past by this innocently profound question.

"My father is Inarta, my mother is Vanthra." came his words. That was precisely the moment that this exotic boy - for dark hair was utmost exotic in the sea of vibrant red hue which was Wind Reach - had stolen Valo's heart. The heart of an idealistic romantic which existed at the very Core of Valo's being. And the reason his heart was stolen in such a simple way, was precisely Kovac's mixed blood. A single trait, if nothing else, which they had in common. Two mongrels. And perhaps the trait manifested in Kovac much more profoundly than in Valo, for the artist was blessed with his mother's luck and thanked Ivak for it every day, but was no less a tie to the boy.

Having never truly left wind reach, having grown up amongst Inarta, Valo grew to look down on simple humans as bland creatures. Not for their intellect of achievement, or way of life, for those seemed magnificent to the youth, but for their appearance. And to an artist, appearance way indeed important. He thought them plain and uninteresting visually. An outlook he had yet to grow out of.

But this blandness wasn't the only reason he chose to identify him self as Inarta, rather than half blood. It had nothing to do with racial pride or supremacy. It was a matter of the great shame which his bather's blood caused him. the pain he had seen in his mother's eyes when he was nothing but a child. The few times she spoke of the man reluctantly, who had abandoned the infant Valo and his mother so shamelessly before he was even born. Often Valo pretended he had no father, for he had never known him. And any thought of the man was bitterness and hate. The kind of pure hate that only a burning youthful heart could fathom. Those who knew of Valo's mixed heritage ridiculed him for it. For was his elaborate femininity not enough, his slender build and his very disinterest in the ways of life of an Inarta. His dream to leave this place some day. All those things weren't quite enough to set him apart from others and alienate the poor boy. So did his blood. His damned father's blood.

He really did not mean to stare, but found him self unable to rip his eyes from Kovac, so deeply were they planted into him. A gaze that conveyed nothing but perhaps subtle awe. He really did not mean to be rude, it just sort of happened. And no reserved nature of his would disrupt this awed staring. That dark hair which was so much like Corneliun's, the green eyes of Inarta. Ah what he would do, the lengths he would go to, to perhaps establish some sort of a friendship with seemingly the only man in the whole of Wind Reach whom he could empathise with.

[Arandolya]

The male laughed at her comment of Priskil. Openly laughed! He seemed to find it amusing, of all things. Arandolya appeared immediately displeased, crossing her arms with a raised eyebrow as she listened to his more mature explanation. "My father is Inarta, my mother was Vantha. I have my mother's hair. In the sunlight, I have been told you can see red streaks in it." Arandolya huffed with a toss of her red mane, smirking at the older Inarta triumphantly. He just spoke the proof right there! Silly men, thinking they know everything. She had no idea who these 'Vantha' people were, but they couldn't be as great as Inartans could they? Either way, Kovac was being a bad Inarta, and in punishment got his color taken away! And laughing at a young child will not help his cause!

"Priskil is the goddess of hope and sunlight," Arandolya said patiently, as though teaching Kovac. "The fact that red appears in your hair in the sun only proves my point. She took your red hair and only the sun can make some it come back," she said in a tone of rebuffing. "If you keep thinking its not her, she'll never give it back." Arandolya frowned at the man, and clucked her tongue with the condescending air all young females possessed. She glared - as intimidating as a twelve year old could be - for a few more moments before including Valo in the stare-down. Don't think she missed that muffled laugh! Arandolya shook her head at the two of them as though they were children like herself, and not older - and a lot bigger - men, having little understanding of the whole 'caste' concept and age, for that matter.

Endals she could understand, they were simply great! The others though . . . what separated her mother from father? Her friend who had Endal parents, from herself who came from Chiet and Avora? Why did they spit at the others dubbed 'Dek'? They were all people in Arandolya's young eyes, and until she herself was initiated into the ranks of the system, she didn't believe anything separated them. Silly people, were just being . . . silly!

After a few moments, Arandolya brightened as though the whole thing never happened and turned her honey gaze to Valo fully. He was staring at Kovac, and not even subtly; it was a blatant and obvious stare. Thinking Kovac had something on his face, Arandolya glanced over, only to see the tall man looking the same as ever. Confused, the redhead looked in between the two as if she might trigger some sort of thought channel and enable her to understand what was going on. "I don't think he looks that weird," Arandolya felt the need to voice in defense of Kovac, settling on the conclusion Valo was displeased to learn of Kovac's half-Inarta standing.

Rising, Arandolya returned the book carefully and sauntered over to Kovac. She raised a lock of red hair as high as she could - which was about his shoulder - and squinted, comparing it to his skin tone. "He would look good with red hair, so he must be mostly Inarta," she said after a chime, looking behind her to Valo with a smile.