A silence fell upon them for a moment. Engulfed them within it's speech preventing grasp. Held them powerless against it's own almighty power. The stillness of silence, the uncertainty of it. That sudden spark was soon subdued within Valo, prevented to shine it's light of passion and madness. The surreal madness which could only really inhabit the body of a real artist, or at least an artist in making. thus he wondered, perhaps he had said something wrong. Perhaps he god too carried away again. Perhaps he spoke in a way that to the other would sound merely as silly blabbering of a man who evidently spent too much time pondering, too much time within the secluded interior of his own head.
Within that silence, Arkale's eyes were thrust into the artist with utmost intent. He leaned towards him ever so slightly, elbows on the table. Flex of light danced within those eyes, reflecting their glow of molten amber. Eyes as gold as the sun. In return Valo's very own emeralds stared back. Head gently cocked to the side so that his hair fell in one solid waterfall of scarlet down one side. A hit of a pleasant smile within the feature of ivory.
It was then that the question came. A question which every artist constantly wished to hear. A chance to share that very world of his with another. and it mattered not who that person was. For Valo, even his worst enemy could be looking at his work, flicking the pages of his sketchbooks and the man would be content. Even the most insignificant of being could ask that question and the artist would quickly provide. For an artist, the chance to show off his work in the most humble way possible was precious.
"Ah of course." he smiled, reaching into his bag immediately and without hesitation. A quick rummage before a tiny little sketchbook was produced. One no bigger than a hand span. "I hope you don't mind me showing you one of my smallest works but, well, it just so happened to be at hand."
A scrawny looking black bound thing with a leather strap to subdue the enormous amount of work within it. Thick and textured pages, dried in the most peculiar ways by the use of paint. Upon diving into it Arkale would see an array of the smallest little watercolour paintings one could ever see. Mostly landscape, some architecture, but far from that photo realistic, mathematically perfectionist stuff that littered the walls of fine art galleries. These were elaborate washes, splodges and bleeding of paint in the most delicate and disorderly of stiles. Often the areas of colour would go far beyond the linear outlines of the buildings and tents. Indeed paintings of Endrykas were plentiful, just as those of Riverfal, Ahnatep and other cities. Many would be then worked into with pencil or ink, many left bare and unfinished and raw. A complete artistic liberty. By many there were annotations, simple words describing the sounds and the sights and smells. A cursive writing of an impatient hand. Some virtually unreadable.
This was perhaps the chronicle of his travels. And even though Valo hated architecture with passion, this was a book of memories. A little handy book, almost bursting with the amount or work within it. Nothing even closely matching the things one might see on the walls of a mansion, yet somehow, in a strange seance, beautiful. Thus with a polite smile Valo handed the work to the knight, awaiting the man's verdict.
In all honesty, this was perhaps the last thing he wanted to share for it lacked originality. It lacked the life he had just spoken about with such elaboration. To him it was not yet the new world he spoke of. If the red haired artist could have his way, he'd share his portrait sketchbook, so substantially greater, filled with most surreal and ridiculous objects, strange portraits and simply the milk of his imagination. That however lingered somewhere at the very bottom of his bag. Rather irretrievable.
Within that silence, Arkale's eyes were thrust into the artist with utmost intent. He leaned towards him ever so slightly, elbows on the table. Flex of light danced within those eyes, reflecting their glow of molten amber. Eyes as gold as the sun. In return Valo's very own emeralds stared back. Head gently cocked to the side so that his hair fell in one solid waterfall of scarlet down one side. A hit of a pleasant smile within the feature of ivory.
It was then that the question came. A question which every artist constantly wished to hear. A chance to share that very world of his with another. and it mattered not who that person was. For Valo, even his worst enemy could be looking at his work, flicking the pages of his sketchbooks and the man would be content. Even the most insignificant of being could ask that question and the artist would quickly provide. For an artist, the chance to show off his work in the most humble way possible was precious.
"Ah of course." he smiled, reaching into his bag immediately and without hesitation. A quick rummage before a tiny little sketchbook was produced. One no bigger than a hand span. "I hope you don't mind me showing you one of my smallest works but, well, it just so happened to be at hand."
A scrawny looking black bound thing with a leather strap to subdue the enormous amount of work within it. Thick and textured pages, dried in the most peculiar ways by the use of paint. Upon diving into it Arkale would see an array of the smallest little watercolour paintings one could ever see. Mostly landscape, some architecture, but far from that photo realistic, mathematically perfectionist stuff that littered the walls of fine art galleries. These were elaborate washes, splodges and bleeding of paint in the most delicate and disorderly of stiles. Often the areas of colour would go far beyond the linear outlines of the buildings and tents. Indeed paintings of Endrykas were plentiful, just as those of Riverfal, Ahnatep and other cities. Many would be then worked into with pencil or ink, many left bare and unfinished and raw. A complete artistic liberty. By many there were annotations, simple words describing the sounds and the sights and smells. A cursive writing of an impatient hand. Some virtually unreadable.
This was perhaps the chronicle of his travels. And even though Valo hated architecture with passion, this was a book of memories. A little handy book, almost bursting with the amount or work within it. Nothing even closely matching the things one might see on the walls of a mansion, yet somehow, in a strange seance, beautiful. Thus with a polite smile Valo handed the work to the knight, awaiting the man's verdict.
In all honesty, this was perhaps the last thing he wanted to share for it lacked originality. It lacked the life he had just spoken about with such elaboration. To him it was not yet the new world he spoke of. If the red haired artist could have his way, he'd share his portrait sketchbook, so substantially greater, filled with most surreal and ridiculous objects, strange portraits and simply the milk of his imagination. That however lingered somewhere at the very bottom of his bag. Rather irretrievable.
