[Job Thread] Sinking Streets and Striking Colours

by **Aislyn Leavold** on May 26th, 2015, 3:37 am

75th of Spring, 515 AV

Not every day in Alvadas was one filled with excitement and illusions and mysteries. Some were rather laid back, spent lounging within one’s home, often falling asleep only to wake up in a completely different setting. A peaceful day, spent doing nothing but relaxing.
That was what Aislyn would have been doing, had she not woken up that morning to a letter, eloquently describing the fact that today was to be a day of work, not rest.
Half awake, Aislyn clambered over to the small piece of parchment, blinking away the sleep in her eyes just to read it.

To The Artist,

“The Artist”. Aislyn liked that. It made her seem rather important, however insignificant the gesture was. She wasn’t an artist, she was the artist.

I would like to request a full-colour painting of The Mischief, which, as to my knowledge, should be stationed in the port until the end of the 75th.

Aislyn took a seat at the center table of her house. Something about that starting sentence rung warning bells in her head. The end of the 75th?.
Reaching for her notebook almost unconsciously, Aislyn flipped to the back of the book, where she kept track of the days. She had a bad feeling about how close "the 75th" really was.
Sure enough, her bad feeling wasn’t wrong.

Right there in the worn pages, her makeshift calendar bore dashes over every little square that marked a date, except for, of course, the 75th. Whoever had sent this letter either had very, very bad timing, or whoever delivered the miniature piece of parchment had taken several days to locate her house. Maybe she should invest in a mailbox. Or a more distinctive sign.
Either way, timing was her first problem. Now to find out what else was wrong, she sighed, resigning herself to read the rest of the letter before making anymore judgements.

The sizing may be small, but on a paper that won’t tear easily. The picture is meant to be as a gift, so if possible, please deliver as a scroll. The finished product may be dropped off with Micah at The Wolf’s Cave inn.
Thank you,
Red

‘Red’. Almost certainly a nickname, given the lack of surname and overall genericness of the signature. But, a commission was a commission, no matter who it came for. And at least the drop-off instructions were clear this time. She really needed to include a “must detail a return address on letters” portion of the requirements on her flyers. That would have to wait, though, as, despite the early bell, Aislyn had a lot to do in a short amount of time. She had to figure where the Hai to find some suitable paints, somehow locate a blank scroll, and, most importantly of all, finish all of that in time to make it to the docks and actually complete the petching thing before The Mischief set sail.

Aislyn had quite a day ahead of her.

by **Aislyn Leavold** on July 8th, 2015, 3:06 am

First order of business, pray to Ionu that she just happened to find a parchment shop on the way to the docks.
Packing her knapsack with her notebook, spare paper, plenty of charcoal, and of course a few snacks (she had skipped breakfast, after all), Aislyn set off.

The past few days, surprisingly, had been very dry, though Aislyn wouldn’t have particularly cared if it had continued raining. Since her house had been swept off it’s metaphorical feet, Aislyn had grown used to staying indoors. Except for one rather wet outing in which she stocked up on enough food to last her the rest of the season, she’d been contempt staying within the walls of her home. The woman had even started a new project of sorts, arranging the drawings that decorated the walls in what one could almost call order. By the time Aislyn’s Abode had settled down again, her ‘wallpaper’ was organized by oldest to newest drawings, wrapping around from left to right. Not to mention the several new sketches that joined the wall, mainly of the water. There wasn’t much else to see, really, but at least the woman had gotten very good at drawing waves.

A downside to staying indoors for a fortnight, however, was that Ionu was always plotting new tricks, whether Alvadas’ citizens were ready for them or not. In this case, Aislyn was very, very not ready.
The second she stepped out the doors of her house, the woman was met with a feeling of dread. A sinking feeling, one could say. Except this wasn’t just a gut feeling. Aislyn was actually sinking.
Into the ground.

It was easy enough to pull her feet out of the once-solid ground, but as she slowly but steadily traveled down the street, her legs began to tire. Luckily, her prayers to Ionu had been answered in the form of the bizarre, looking frighteningly tall, crossing Aislyn’s path. The ground inside the merchant building, at least, seemed pretty stable. Though once inside, Aislyn was met with a rather peculiar sight. The usually bustling marketplace seemed to be missing several stalls, as if the shopkeepers had never showed up to open up, or the miniature stores had simply sunken into the ground.
A delightful thought.

Finding a decent set of wares, Aislyn began to collect what she needed. Ten sheets of blank paper for drafts, a singular scroll for the final copy, and a waterproof scrollcase to keep them all secure. Her total came to almost ten gold mizas, and she hadn’t even found the paints.
After all, the patron had requested colour, and even if Aislyn drew the lines with charcoal first, she was absolutely horrid at painting. At least in her own opinion she was. Drawing was just most convenient a lot of the time, so she’d let her skill in paint go dormant for quite a while. But now she had an order, so that was something she needed to remedy.

Soon enough, she could a place that sold just the right sort of paints. Not too thick- the scroll paper was durable, but thick paint would just sit on top. A sort of watercolours, it seemed. Perfect. Drawing the ocean with watercolours. That had to work, right? A couple of paintbrushes on top of that, and she was set.
What came next was setting back off into the streets, which, this time around, Aislyn was a bit hesitant about. The ground looked relatively safe, but with a little testing, it proved very deceptive. But not deadly. Not yet.

She’d rested her legs inside, and, out of all the things in Alvadas, the docks were the easiest to find, so it couldn’t take long to get there. The seawall wind and smell of salt gave it away, so even in the constantly-changing streets of Alvadas, Aislyn could find it. However, even if she knew which way to go, she had to make it there first. Which meant stepping onto unsafe grounds.
It seemed it was just going to be one of those days.

Ledger :

by **Aislyn Leavold** on July 8th, 2015, 3:07 am

It took a good ten chimes, but after slugging through the mud-like conditions, Aislyn eventually reached the docks. Which, luckily, were above both the ocean and ground, making them impervious to the dangerous situation that was, unfortunately, the street. Even luckier, a very peculiar ship was still lying in harbor. A ship so peculiar, in fact, that Aislyn knew out of pure instinct that it had to be The Mischief.

Though Aislyn had visited the docks before, once or twice even catching the infamous ship while in harbor, she’d never really stopped and admired what the boat truly was. The woman was well aware of it’s illusionary properties, and how it never kept the same appearance for more than one docking, but that still didn’t prepare her for what she saw.

The sails of the ship didn’t appear to be in any way functional. In fact, they didn’t look like sails at all. No, the things atop the masts were most definitely clouds, held in place with much the same ropes that one would use on a cloth sail. The clouds even had tints of blue and grey among the white, mimicking the real clouds that floated far above.
But that, of course, wasn’t the extent of the strange appearance.

The sails were attached by ordinary rope and ordinary masts to an extraordinary deck, made of, what truly looked like none other than simple glass. It was easy to see through, and, on occasion, easy to see the ship’s crewmembers inside. Bustling about, obviously getting ready for the departure that was to take place later that day. Carrying crates, loading boxes; the sailors took no mind to the fact that every move they made was obvious to those outside.

For a few star-struck moments, Aislyn forgot why she had come to the docks in the first place.
Then she was hit with a moment of horror.

How in the name of Ionu was she going to draw that? The constantly changing shape of the clouds, the multi-level transparency of the glass. If she wanted to be truly accurate, she’d have to include the sailors, too. If Aislyn worked hard, it would be doable in plain charcoal, but painting, as well? Sure, she dabbled, and naturally took a shine to it, but she couldn’t learn everything in a day.
Well, she could try.

Finding an empty stretch of dock, Aislyn set herself up. She didn’t bother getting the paints out yet- it was going to take a couple drafts to figure out where she was going before the woman even considered colouring it. Just some charcoal and her first sheet of paper.
Which quickly turned into her second sheet of paper.
That then became her third.
And fourth.

By her fifth sketch, she began using the backs of the papers, minimizing her damages to just three pieces by the time she actually got a draft she was proud of. Aislyn decided to skip out on drawing the crew members, instead focusing on making sure the clouds looked just right. After that, the sky. Then the water, which she thanked the gods she’d had practice drawing. Reflections were surprisingly hard to draw in moving water. Then again, most things were harder to draw moving.

Finally beginning on the base of the boat, Aislyn started with a simple outline. She could never go wrong with simple. She made sure every line of the bow was straight, every pickit of the fence on the stern clear. Even if it was a sketch, she needed it to be a good sketch, else her final copy look akin to a draft. Her strokes slowly got darker, and, by the time the sun was halfway to it’s peak, she had a decent idea of where the drawing was going. Some of the more 3D aspects of the transparent part of the ship were rather crudely made, but that, Aislyn decided, was something that could be easily smoothed out. Or glossed over, if necessary.

A bell and a half after she had started, Aislyn took out the scroll from earlier, ready to begin the final copy.

by **Aislyn Leavold** on July 8th, 2015, 3:14 am

Stopping for a break before she began work on the scroll, Aislyn drew out her canteen and took several swigs, thanking her previous thinking for bringing it. As midday grew closer, the sun had come out of hiding, beating down on Alvadas with it’s full potential. For her makeshift breakfast, Aislyn had a handful of berries her mother had picked up and a bite of salted fish. Alvadas’s specialty. Not particularly the best in hot weather, but frankly, the woman had neither time nor the mizas to visit a tavern and get some quality food.
So it was back to drawing.

Rooting the drawing to the ground with a couple of rocks and a small, spare plank, Aislyn began copying her drawing over onto the higher-quality paper. Truthfully, the artist couldn’t decide if copying was easier or harder than free-hand sketching. There was certainly less freedom to it, yes, but also a guide to help if a line went astray. Besides, after her work with Kuvarakh, she’d gotten quite good at copying. This was the first time she had replicated something of her own, though. She didn’t usually make drafts, and rarely ever redrew something she’d previously made. It just wasn’t her style.
Then again, she hadn’t really developed a style yet.
Yes, her drawings had a certain uniform to them, but that was always set to change. The way she shaded The Mischief’s clouds today could be completely different from the way she drew them tomorrow. Most things in Alvadas worked that way.

Returning her concentration to her work, Aislyn slowly but steadily duplicated the picture from parchment to scroll. She worked left to right on the page, as if writing, just to make sure the charcoal wouldn’t smudge. Usually this made proportions a nightmare to deal with, but copying an existing drawing eased the process. High to low pressure strokes, quick, sure movements… It took a lot of different steps just to get a straight line. Or curve. No one wanted a shaky curve.

At the two bell mark, Aislyn had a simple, shadeless drawing that could, in theory, be painted. With patience. And luck. Perhaps the blessing of Ionu, just to sweeten the deal.
Not that the artist was going to start on the scroll, oh no. She was going to be careful with this, even if it got her heatstroke for her troubles.
Maybe she should have found a shadier place to sit.

Selecting a fresh sheet of paper, Aislyn wrote down in charcoal which colours she was going to need. Cyan, blue, white, grey, perhaps a bit of yellow to tint the clouds. A subtle green for the ocean. The woman glanced over at the waters below her. It certainly didn’t look very green, but from her knowledge, every ocean had a little bit of green in it, so it didn’t hurt to be careful.

Signaling out the pigments she needed, Aislyn began work before realizing something very important was missing.
Water. Unless she was planning on painting with dust, of course, though dust didn’t stick to paper very well.
And, what luck, she was right next to an ocean.

Hopefully, salt water worked well with paint.

by **Aislyn Leavold** on July 8th, 2015, 3:15 am

Aislyn couldn’t have been gone for a chime, filling the dips in her wooden palette with water, before returning to her claimed spot. Yet, Ionu have it, upon her return, she realized something was very wrong. Her bag was still there, her scrollcase and drafts of The Mischief drawing still reluctantly weighed under sticks and stones. Everything was present-

-except for the scroll.
Immediately panicking, Aislyn scooped up her bag, quickly compiling her things back into a portable kit. Drafts back into the scrollcase, scrollcase back in the knapsack, and paints safely tucked away with a slightly-damp wooden palette by their side.

The woman’s first thought was that the drawing had been stolen, but that was impossible- there was next to no one around, and if it had been stolen, her bag would be gone too. There would be no reason to steal something of next-to-no value when there were clearly valuables nearby.
The second theory was that the ocean wind had gotten to it. Aislyn had weighed down the drafts, but not the scroll, as anything lying on the paper would have gotten in her way. The breeze must have caught it and rolled it away, perhaps further up the dock, or…
...into the ocean.

Quickly tossing a glance over the edge of the dock, Aislyn caught no sight of a ruined commission, just driftwood and occasionally a fish. Not even the slightest hint of parchment.
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or alarmed by this fact.
The next idea was that the scroll had been rolling down the dock. But from the direction of the wind, it seemed more likely that it would have rolled- oh no- into the street.
The sinking street.
Making a final check to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, Aislyn dashed up the dock, and back to what some people would refer to as dry land, but, truthfully, with the way Ionu’s illusion was playing out, happened to be anything but.

Sure enough, about ten paces out from the edge of the dock, was the rapidly sinking tail-end of a scroll. In any other circumstance, Aislyn would have considered her options before jumping head-first into the quicksand streets, but at the rate her hard work was sinking, she had about four ticks before it was lost forever and a bell of work (along with two silver mizas) was down the drain. If the scroll went under, the woman didn’t really think she’d have the motivation to restart it.

So in a split second decision, Aislyn ran into the street. Or rather, ran and then immediately fell.
Sure, she managed to reach the scroll and safely tuck it back into its case, but with half her body actively touching the ground, she sunk a lot quicker than she did whilst the woman had been walking.

Surprisingly, the last thing Aislyn thought before her head went effectively underground was I’m glad I opted for the waterproof scrollcase instead of leather.

by **Fable** on August 1st, 2015, 9:16 pm

Pudding. That was the best sort of description for the sensation of the ground flowing up and around her as she sunk deeper and deeper in to the ground. Breathing, while certainly an alarming thought, became a necessity, and it was found that air moved through the pudding as easily it did through the far less viscous non-pudding she had intentionally dove away from. Deeper and deeper into the ground she descended, scroll tightly held in hand, until she simply stopped.

There wasn't anything particular about her surroundings other than the darkness all about her that had, for better or worse, become familiar. All about her, it still felt as if pudding had wrapped itself around her, but movement was not impossible. In fact, it was pushed upon her, a gentle nudge from behind, much like the press of an eager puppy's head to goad on the feet of a reluctant master. Stumbling forward, the pudding seemed to pull away from her and then...

She stood in the center of a circular pedestal, inky darkness surrounding the pale stone around her, tinged red by the crimson moon's light. For miles, or perhaps it was better measure in years, there was nothing but the ever ending darkness, extending forever in every direction. The stone upon which she stood was solid, and it ran down deep into the bottomless gorge, disappearing not due to the darkness swallowing it up, but to the sheer distance. A single wrong step, and she would certainly age several seasons, if not decades, before she reached the bottom, if there was one.

The scroll she had clung to was cast in the same ruddy hue of the moon's light, only the light seemed to come from within the waterproof casing. A few chimes passed without event before there was a slight shift in the stone's stability followed by a thunderous crack. As the ground began to shift beneath Aislyn's feet, the scroll glowed ever brighter, as if each tick she grew closer to a perpetual descent, the light grew ever so closer to becoming the next sun.

by **Aislyn Leavold** on September 6th, 2015, 2:34 pm

Aislyn had grown keen to realizing when she was having a panic attack, and, eventually, she'd hoped to use this sort of sense to help herself calm the petch down. It would be a useful skill to have; the ability to pull oneself out out of a panic. To be in full, utter control of everything that went on, inside and out. But omnipotence was not a skill Aislyn had, nor, in all honesty, wanted. But then again, shaking hands and freezing limbs were not the woman's idea of an exciting adventure.

For the first few moments, Aislyn decided to hold her breath. Her head, being under whatever substance the street had melted into, would obviously provide difficulty if she tried to breathe. Or so she thought.
Right as dark spots began to probe her vision, the woman risked a breath, and, surprisingly, didn't end up with a mouthful of dirt. Air, beautiful, wonderful air graced her lungs again, despite her surroundings. That led to reason that, perhaps maybe she could see as well.

Tentatively opening her eyes, Aislyn found them neither irritated by dirt nor able to be of any use. Everything around her was purely, simply, dark. No argument about it. Blinking rapidly, she focused on the only thing she could hear- the blood rushing in her ears, combined with her intensely loud heartbeat. At least that meant she was still alive.
If she kept sinking, however, she might not be alive for much longer.

Luckily, a strange, insistent force seemed very against her staying frozen where she was. Small, nudging feelings that were rather persistent pushed her forward, wherever forward might have been. For a good few ticks the sludge that was the ground of Alvadas pulled back, before releasing her into what could technically be referred to as open air.
In the lonely darkness, Aislyn could make out next to nothing other than a faint red light, its origins unknown.
The light was not the most helpful, however, in doing anything other than providing substance to the very unnerving situation. All it really illuminated was the fact that the ground was not quite fully present; a misled step could lead to her death- if she ever hit the ground. With the unease that any sane person would have in the situation, Aislyn slowly began moving again, checking first that her bag was still securely attached to her body, then that her scroll was still intact.
The same scroll that had caused her all this trouble in the first place.

The same scroll that was... Glowing.

Glowing was not a thing scrolls often did, even in Alvadas. Unless they were lit on fire, but this particular parchment didn't appear to be engulfed in flames. In fact, nothing about the scroll appeared to have changed, aside from its new, glowing complexion. For a few moments, Aislyn studied it in her still-mildly-trembling hands, before reaffixing her death grip on the thing. It was her lifeline now; a light in the darkness was better than anything else right now.
Aside from maybe a way out, but that was beside the point. Right now, Aislyn had a scroll, not a magical pathway out of wherever she had unfortunately fallen.

Cautiously stepping forward into the dark, the woman made good use of her scroll-torch, using it to not only relieve her eyes of the stress of darkness, but also provide a way to not fall into said darkness. And die.
Yes, the scroll was rather useful indeed.

After several chimes of successfully finding the edges of the platform Aislyn had been spat out onto, the woman decided to try investigating the platform itself. If there was no way off the pedestal, maybe there was a way to move it?
Unfortunately, the moment Aislyn decided to investigate what she had landed on, the thing she had landed on split it half.

Crack

With a sort of startled, strangled shout, Aislyn went down, crouching and frantically trying to find something- anything to hold onto. Unfortunately, she found no such handhold. All the woman had left was her marginally good balance and the hope that the side of the split pedestal Aislyn had been allotted was not the one that fell into the abyss.
Ionu protect her.

by **Fable** on September 6th, 2015, 5:36 pm

If Aislyn's luck had a mouth and mind to pair with it, it would have most certainly said something to the equivalent of, "You stupid, foolish girl, I want nothing more to do with you or your precarious situation." After which, it would have flitted away. As things were, however, the abstract sense of balance between fortune and her far less fortunate brother simply wasn't there to begin with. The cracking rumble of the stone beneath her indicated that the platform was split into uneven halves, each one angling more and more before she was in the air.

At first, it was like falling. The air rushed past, whipping her hair about her as she tumbled through the nothingness. The light of the scroll had dimmed, becoming little more than a cylindrical candle as the cracking crumble of the stone around her fell in a lonely whispers all about the inky darkness lit only by the forlorn, crimson moon above.

The longer she fell, the less it felt like falling. Different sounds began to drift around her, the stones never signalling that they had reached the bottom had faded from sight and sense altogether. Instead, there was laughter. It was that of a child's, pure and clean, ringing through the darkness like a breath of fresh air, rinsing over her body with a cool, clear timbre. There was mirth; unadulterated amusement at Aislyn's plight - or perhaps it was directed at something else entirely. With the rise and fall of the child's humors, the light of the scroll grew and shrank in tandem, nothing but nothing in every direction as far as Aislyn could see.

by **Aislyn Leavold** on September 6th, 2015, 7:00 pm

As the pedestal began to shift again, Aislyn’s thoughts became very simple, and very panicked. As a whole, they went something like, oh petch, petch, oh god petching damn it I’m going to die.

Her hands, flailing, briefly connected with the rock, scraping its surface before weakly grasping onto the edge as it turned. For a moment, Aislyn simply hung, vertically stretched with one arm keeping her up, the other hanging limp, the glowing scroll, now too bright to look at, held it her hand. Her knuckles had turned white from gripping it.
Earlier, Aislyn had thought light was the most important thing she needed. Now, it seemed that solid ground was much rarer.
For a few, precious ticks that felt more like bells, Aislyn kept her grip on the rotating pedestal, her breath rasping out in short, pressured bursts. Then her hand began to falter, and her breathing stopped altogether.
Aislyn held her breath up until the very moment she became detached from everything around her.

After that, she fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Both hands now assigned to keeping hold of the glowing scroll that was definitely not worth the trouble it had caused, Aislyn was free to let out as many startled, strangled shouts as she wanted, each and every one of them sucked away with the wind that was rushing by her ears. Soon, the only thing that escaped her lips was air. Her body seemed fully paralyzed, unable to move even if she tried. Even if she had moved, she wouldn’t have known. All sense of self was slowly drained away from her as she fell. Her body became useless. Frozen.
Her mind, on the other hand, was active. And panicked.
And so she prayed.
To any god that would listen, but she named Ionu in her thoughts. She didn’t ask for much, as she usually avoided.
All she wished for was that "a light might find me at the end of this tunnel, and the ground be soft enough to land on." Perhaps the message was rushed, but in the few seconds it was concocted, Aislyn was certain she was about to die. Certain that she wouldn’t have time to pray at all if she thought any more about it.

Chimes passed, her prayer hanging in the rushing air as Aislyn began to grow frighteningly used to falling. Her scroll had dimmed, its parchment no longer illuminating the hands that grasped it, nevermind the surroundings around them. The darkness engulfed her, and after a while, the illusionist let ‘Maya’ slowly drift away as well. Five hours, she could usually hold on to ‘Maya’ for, and if her illusions had faltered now, that meant she’d been falling for half a bell, a bell, maybe more.
After that, she was silent.
Her surroundings, however, were not. Creaking noises, like unoiled doors, then far away crashes. Finally, laughter. Children’s laughter, if she were not mistaken. At first, the woman ignored it, taking it as salt in the wounds from the deity that presumably favoured her. Perhaps it wasn’t Ionu themself laughing, but the laughter stung nonetheless. The instances became harder to ignore, however, when a light became visible through Aislyn’s closed eyelids.

The scroll was glowing once again, symbiotically intensifying and withering away as the child laughed and grew quiet, respectively.
Every time the light swelled, Aislyn used it to look around her, seeing if anything had changed.
Nothing ever did.

It seemed she’d have a lot of time to pray, after all.

by **Fable** on September 14th, 2015, 4:33 am

When Aislyn stopped falling, it was not as if she had finally come to the end of the endless journey she had found herself upon, rather it was simply that, at one point, she had been falling, and at another... she wasn't. If anything, it was difficult to tell if she had already fallen, or if she had never fallen at all - then were was always the possibility that she was still falling, but the solid, messy cobbles beneath her and the uneven lay of brick and mortar around her presented a relatively stable environment, one that seemed to have been there all along, only... It hadn't been. Or had it?

Then, there was the man who sat on a large slab of stone.

His appearance was vaguely reminiscent of a young buck, though he was human enough, and so scantily clad that it was difficult to refute his more masculine nature. Still, his leg was dutifully crossed, and the strange stiff white collar that adorned his shoulders, coming to a flare about the bottom of his ears, were the only two things that served to conceal him from the elements, and more appropriately, Aislyn's attentions should she cast them upon him. His chest held a dusting of dark, curly hair, a faint reflection of the messy coils that wrapped themselves in a haphazard pile atop his head, from which two horns sprouted in an uneven manner from either side above his temples. In spite of his more provocative features, the man's more prominent of qualities was his face: angled, bushy brows atop a nearly cynical stare that drifted above a pair of large, supple lips - which had they appeared on their own, it would have been difficult to place them to any other but a woman of a more voluptuous proclivity.

The man eyed Aislyn, his gaze steady, but confounding as it silently danced between that of a critic finding nothing praiseworthy and a dreamer who had found his muse. When he did speak, his voice was distant, as if - though he looked directly at her - his mind was years, if not lifetimes away, gazing into the past or future, anywhere but the present. "Did you fail as well?"

Completed [Job Thread] Sinking Streets and Striking Colours