Solo No rest for the wicked

[Tatiam]

67th day of Winter, 512 AV Well... Isn't that going to be a petching good day? ...Isn't it? It was the perfect moment to depict Tatiam's gratuitous mood swings at its finest. Her endeavors as desperate, broken and ruthless as they could be. "Gods! Just tell me if this is not what I'm supposed to do!" she yelled. "Stupid petchin' wicked dreams. If they're not worth anything then why give them to me..." muttered the young artist with disdain. At least some of her paintings, mostly based off her dreamscapes, did sell, which contributed to... allowing her to live, and eat... Which was a good thing, right? Not quite. If that was a soul searching task of some kind, Tatiam was oblivious, lost and denying, to some extent. And nowhere close to being grateful for the hints or the inspiration, subconscious or otherwise. Not today anyway. The truth was that the painter couldn't wait to find out if that was but a figment of hers manifesting, or if it was... something more than herself. It was a big deal to wander in thoughts, wanting to hate herself for everything that happened, making her entirely responsible for the life that she was leading, denying every possibility of chance or fate in order to believe that it wasn't anything more than her, that it could be better, if only she wanted it as badly as she looked out for reasons to be unhappy. Then again, how could she? If she was responsible for her past, how couldn't she be a self-destructive nutcase? And then there was the other option. What if none of this was her fault? What if the Gods had just toyed with her, dragged her along a path she didn't choose? Oh the anger, the disgust, the rage. At least then she could blame something. At least then she could fight until the last drop of blood would flow out of her. At least then it meant something, all of that wicked, wicked life... But it also meant that she was helpless. That feeling which she couldn't bear to know, apprehend, and remember too often. Red paint splashed on the canvas in a distressed attempt to take it out on something, the brush sent flying in the air while the easel swayed dangerously from the impact. Tatiam's knees flinched at the same moment, dropping her to the floor suddenly. She didn't care. The bruises, the scratches, the hurting, it was nothing, it meant nothing. Knuckles connected with the floor, and she kept punching until she could paint the stones with her blood. "I'll make you a nice sunset," she mocked sarcastically, "Just need a bit of yellow to go with this..." In her frustration, Tatiam hadn't noticed the canvas falling from the easel, lying not far from her. She reached out for it, admiring the almost finished artwork. Why did I ruin this? It was fine... regretted the painter. The shadow of a thin child in the mountains glanced towards a deep blue sky, ribbons of bright light dancing high, while the dying sunset still colored its bottom in fiery hues. That was much more than a dream, it was a memory, a tainted and interpreted one, but still a memory. "Petchin' childhood." Perhaps it was better not to sell that one, in fact, as paranoid as it seemed, Tatiam preferred that no one would ask about it. Thus, it had to be destroyed. Let's make a small bonfire and burn this memory forever. Perhaps it would be more symbolic than the image itself. Tossing the canvas aside, Tatiam resolved to work with purple and dark colors this time. "This is my stairway to salvation," she mocked, fingers trembling from the trauma of hitting the stoned floor with all her strength as she held the brush in her hand.

[Tatiam]

With awkward strokes, Tatiam resolved to fill a new canvas with black paint all over, remembering the soothing darkness, the void that she had stepped in. Such a nice feeling... the young artist thought. No matter if it made sense, that she preferred feeling numb and empty to, well, any other sensation. She waited for the background paint to dry, wasting her excess of violent energy jumping and practicing punches and kicks in the air, picturing just about anything as she did. Anger was what kept her living, yet it was why she put herself in desperately dangerous situations. Could it be that the fire inside of her was not healthy, and still beneficent to her survival? Strange parasite. Once the paint looked dry enough, Tatiam mixed more pigments together, dark blue, red and a tinge of white lead, then added just enough lindseed oil to turn the powder into a smooth paste. With it, she began drawing intricate crystals forming and colliding, with a myriad of reflections and purple shades despite the lack of lighting in the scene. So... foreign... The image was clearer in her mind because of it. It seemed to go beyond the realm of her own imagination, something Tatiam wouldn't have hoped to imagine. Then she painted the grass, the colorful flowers on the bottom, some petals suspended in the air, and a stairway... Made entirely of twisted vines folded and wrapped around each other. It began at the bottom of the canvas and stretched and faded into the blackness. She left only one short stray vine hang in the middle of the stairs, on the left. That was where she made a fearless jump and grasped it. "That's how I escaped..." muttered the exiled to herself. The colors were subtle, everything had that faint purplish hue, the painting was almost a duotone. The work had consumed her time and thoughts, concentrated on the action too much to feel anything, until she was finished. Slightly tired, but satisfied, Tatiam sighed deeply. It was a peaceful dreamscape.

[Tatiam]

The Syliran citizen went to her cot and lay, eyes darting from the painting to the ceiling, an idle sleep carrying her conscience away for a short while. She woke up lazily, glanced at the picture with new eyes and a refreshed mind, deciding to add more details to it. ...Which meant half of her work only amounted to mess up what was originally better, taking her twice longer to try to fix patches of the image that then seemed wrong. She was left with the final impression that maybe it hadn't improved at all, and that she just wasted time. Again. After several layers of paint had been superposed, Tatiam decided to not to spend more resources on it and sell it as it was. She gathered a dozen other art pieces and wrapped them all in a large cloth, carried them carefully in her arms and headed to the Bazaar. After she rented a table for the rest of the day and placed her artwork for all to admire, all that was left to do was... Wait. Long bells passed, her initial excitement and nervousness had soon given place to a bored and impatient feeling. Only a few visitors threw a glance at her art and continued without even inquiring about her prices. "Hey... they're not that expensive..." tried Tatiam in a voice too low and gentle to actually reach the customer's ears. It nipped away at her courage, all that waiting... Every time, judged by simple commoners that would decide if she'd be able to afford another beer or a meal, or be finally kicked out of her apartment and into the streets. But at last, a few persons stopped by, started a light conversation with her. Tatiam's newest painting was bought, and after some inquiry, it seemed to attract more curiosity and people, and soon a second and third artwork were carried away in the hands of their new owners. Tatiam played furtively with the coins in her pockets, trying to count them as she did, a little anxious to find out if, by the end of the day, it would have been a profitable one.