Common Vani Nari
77th of Fall. 513 A.V.
Docks
"You are a great drawer she said. Be an artist she said. You would make a great artist she said." Gale muttered under his breath with frustration." I knew something was going to happen... I knew it. I had a gut feeling." His right hand gripped the stick of charcoal tightly. "Something always happens..." His fingers held the mineral tighter,simply to assure himself that he wouldn't drop it. After all, his right had is more clumsy with a writing utensil than a fish is on land. It just slides everywhere! How did he even learn how to hold this thing?!
Gods, why did it have to be his hand? Why?! Don't dogs always go for the legs or the throat or something? What type of dog attacks the hand? Why not his petching leg?! The damn kelvic went for the leg!! Why did it? He could live without a leg! At least he would still be able to petching draw. Now he can't do anything anymore! Not a damn thing! What is he suppose to do now? He lost what he had been working for for almost his entire life. It's all gone. Just gone.... Just like that. "So much for being an artist..."
Back in the day, when he was just a lad, he and Hana would spend hours just talking and trying to teach each other something. He would teach Hana how to draw and she would try to get him to dance or to play her flute. Whenever Gale was frustrated with a picture or with something that happened Hana would always tell him 'to think about something else. Something that's always been and always will be'. When his mother died, after Hana died, it seemed that art was the only consistent thing in his life. It was predictable, he controlled it, nothing out of the ordinary happened. That's what he thought about in his hard times. It was always there. Now when he needs it most it's gone. So much for being consistent.
The murderer's eyebrows furrowed subconsciously as his mind washed and went through his memories like a line of clothes. Briefly looking at one right after another. His grip on the charcoal slowly getting tighter. His strokes getting slightly heavier and shorter. More scattered. Random. They no longer followed the original pattern he had in mind, but instead was forming it's own image. Flakes of the dark mineral scattered the page as the charcoal roughly scrapped against the papyrus. They were like wood shavings left after a carpenter runs his tool across a wooden surface. But Gale didn't bother brushing them away. His mind was too occupied with other things to even think about what his clumsy hand was doing.
His hand darted across the page in no majestic manner. It looked like how scrapping a knive on glass sounds. Jagged and annoying. The man's emaciated fingertips were white underneath the heavy cloak of black from the pressure they were emitting against the small utensil. Although Gale's right hand was weaker than his left, the piece cracked, and like flame, the charcoal shattered into chunks, scattering across the page and his lap. Gale jumped in shock, his eyes closing in attempts to not get any of it in his eyes. But just like a snap, his eyes reopened, examining the powder and pieces of the charcoal that use to lay in his hand.
The picture was obviously ruined. Even if he carefully blew the pieces off and used wax to get the harder pieces, the page would still look like he drew it on a dirty rag. Not to mention that the picture was horrible. It was terrible! It was the worst thing he had ever seen! The blonde's face twisted in a scowl with repugnance. A scoff let loose in the air and the enraged artist stood to his feet. Screaming in fury, he took hold of the book, cocked his arm back as far as he could, and flung it forward, releasing the sketchbook into the air. It looked almost as if his scream powered it's flight, for Gale was a terrible throw, and it managed to reach to small rolling waves at the edge of the shore.
Gods, why did it have to be his hand? Why?! Don't dogs always go for the legs or the throat or something? What type of dog attacks the hand? Why not his petching leg?! The damn kelvic went for the leg!! Why did it? He could live without a leg! At least he would still be able to petching draw. Now he can't do anything anymore! Not a damn thing! What is he suppose to do now? He lost what he had been working for for almost his entire life. It's all gone. Just gone.... Just like that. "So much for being an artist..."
Back in the day, when he was just a lad, he and Hana would spend hours just talking and trying to teach each other something. He would teach Hana how to draw and she would try to get him to dance or to play her flute. Whenever Gale was frustrated with a picture or with something that happened Hana would always tell him 'to think about something else. Something that's always been and always will be'. When his mother died, after Hana died, it seemed that art was the only consistent thing in his life. It was predictable, he controlled it, nothing out of the ordinary happened. That's what he thought about in his hard times. It was always there. Now when he needs it most it's gone. So much for being consistent.
The murderer's eyebrows furrowed subconsciously as his mind washed and went through his memories like a line of clothes. Briefly looking at one right after another. His grip on the charcoal slowly getting tighter. His strokes getting slightly heavier and shorter. More scattered. Random. They no longer followed the original pattern he had in mind, but instead was forming it's own image. Flakes of the dark mineral scattered the page as the charcoal roughly scrapped against the papyrus. They were like wood shavings left after a carpenter runs his tool across a wooden surface. But Gale didn't bother brushing them away. His mind was too occupied with other things to even think about what his clumsy hand was doing.
His hand darted across the page in no majestic manner. It looked like how scrapping a knive on glass sounds. Jagged and annoying. The man's emaciated fingertips were white underneath the heavy cloak of black from the pressure they were emitting against the small utensil. Although Gale's right hand was weaker than his left, the piece cracked, and like flame, the charcoal shattered into chunks, scattering across the page and his lap. Gale jumped in shock, his eyes closing in attempts to not get any of it in his eyes. But just like a snap, his eyes reopened, examining the powder and pieces of the charcoal that use to lay in his hand.
The picture was obviously ruined. Even if he carefully blew the pieces off and used wax to get the harder pieces, the page would still look like he drew it on a dirty rag. Not to mention that the picture was horrible. It was terrible! It was the worst thing he had ever seen! The blonde's face twisted in a scowl with repugnance. A scoff let loose in the air and the enraged artist stood to his feet. Screaming in fury, he took hold of the book, cocked his arm back as far as he could, and flung it forward, releasing the sketchbook into the air. It looked almost as if his scream powered it's flight, for Gale was a terrible throw, and it managed to reach to small rolling waves at the edge of the shore.
