Solo Reasons II

[Martini Elwood]

30th, Winter, 518
7th Bell, 30th chime
Solar Winds, Martini's Apartment

Limbs shifted under the blanket that settled over the form sprawled on the bed, it’s canopy keeping the harsh light of the coming morning from blinding the form as it groaned and rolled over, away from the dimmed lights path. A sigh, then the sheets ruffled and legs swung over the side of the bed until Martini was sitting up right. Waking always had been easier than sleeping for her but she had been sleeping more soundly than she ever thought possible for herself. It puzzled her, but perhaps she was moving on… It stung a bit to think about, letting go of her parents was never an easy thought. For now she choose to just accept it as she could process and over think it later.

The floor was cool against her feet, perhaps Morwen was returning? The winter goddess had caused a lot of problems by shirking her duties… But all would be well if she returned. Ruffling her hair she left the bed to the corner of the room where her wash basin laid. A quick clean and finally a drink from her waterskin she moved to the plant she had bought last season. It wasn’t much yet, but it was finally beginning to sprout - greens stems poking out from the soil covering the seeds.

The soil looked a bit dry, so she sprinkled a bit of water from her skin into the pot, just enough to dampen it and give the soil some color.

There were so many reasons Martini had purchased the plant, not one of them at the time had to do with moving on… Yet here she was, adjusting to life without her loved ones. It was a bit saddening really, having lost everything. But she had found resolve in their deaths and that wasn’t wrong. It had pushed her further than she would have gone if they had lived. Though a part of her couldn’t bare the thought that she was finally accepting it - that her parents were nothing more than a memory now. Sure, it hurt to hang on… But pain was a heavy reminder of life. If she held on to it would her parents last longer inside her?

She shifted her gaze to the floor, her heart heavier than when she had awoken. She’d not visited their graves before she left Syliras, but even if she had what of her father? His body was never recovered. She had desperately clung to the hope that she could appease her conscious when she was ready, but she never could bring herself to return home. If she could have, she would have long ago. Even now if someone asked why she doesn’t visit, the answer would be akin to an ‘I don’t know’. Not because she was evading the question, but because there was a legitimate mental blockade around the subject that she could never find the source of. And without the source she couldn’t bring herself to break it.

Martini never claimed she was strong. Emotionally, Mentally, or physically. There was however, a standard she held herself to. Work away the pain, don’t give yourself the time to think about the hurt. She’d lived by that for so long it was a hard habit to break. Long nights sitting at her desk avoiding sleep, dreams, and painful memories. Avoid the thoughts and feelings, avoid the pain. But life always found a way of giving you what it wanted whether you openly received it or not. It was a fact.

So as she dressed, she did so with heavy thoughts. She combed her hair, destroying the tangles with vigor. Across form sat the easel, the wretched object that had caused it’s own load of grief. Magic, the one thing that had only taken from her was now the source of her curiosity. It was a perverse twist, one that brought conflict both in her mind and in her lifestyle. She huffed at that, her whole petching life was full of conflict.

For the most part it always had been.

[Martini Elwood]

Conflict is just a part of life, she reminded herself. It wasn't a sudden realization, more of a reoccurring thought that pushed her forward through her own problems even when it seemed impossible. It was a motivation and a cripple. Martini's stress had gone through the roof when she realized that the easel had followed her from Riverfall. She'd barely paid attention to her work, the immediate 'how' and 'what-ifs' had consumed her thoughts for the longest time.

She could only assume that her avoidance was making things more difficult - the running never seemed to stop with her. She run from so many problems it wouldn't surprise her if this was the gods' ways of telling her to stop. Throwing an item that was possibly magic infused wasn't on her list of must-haves when she left Riverfall, the goal was to get rid of the wretched thing.

Martini wasn't even sure if the easel really was magic though. All she had was what could be summed up as fever dreams and and item that stuck to her housing like glue. She hadn't used the blasted thing. For all she knew the only magic it had was following her around... Even then it didn't seem very threatening.

Not to be misunderstood, she was still afraid of the piece of wood. Martini had no clue what the easel was capable of! It seemed crazy out loud, but magic was something no one truly understood. It was dangerous and unpredictable as far she was concerned. So why had the gods chosen her for the wretched piece of wood? Was she destined to use the easel? If so, why?

Most importantly, if she had it... could she? Sure, Martini was curious about the easel. There were so many things she felt just by looking at it and picturing those wild dreams she had - the most of which was fear and mortification. She was terrified and ashamed for even wanting to use the easel in the first place. Magic had taken her parents and know she was wanting to dabble in it? Ludicrous! But if the gods willed it didn't that mean something would come of it?

How do I even know the gods are willing it?

Martini couldn't possibly be expected to do something so cruel. Yet sitting across from her was the object that held everything. If she steeled her mind she could see the paintings and good that could come of it if there was no magic involved... On the other side she could see herself crying and suffering because she was using magic like in her dreams. Conflicting thoughts aside she didn't see benefit or harm in using the item. It was simply there to entice her, test her, mock her.

And she was allowing it. She sucked in a sharp breath - how had she let it get to this point? She had never doubted herself to the distance of what she was now. She was a proud member of the Elwood family - a long line of artists from Syliras. And yet her she was moping and moaning about her problems instead of trying to solve them.

It was an easel. She was an artist. It wasn't the hardcore puzzle she was making it out to be. Grit your teeth, adjust you britches, and move the petch on! She could hear herself. She knew herself better than anyone and she knew she was right. Snapping her head up she walked toward the easel. She could prop some canvas on it no problem and just drown herself in the work.

It was a simple matter. It was a simple matter. A simple. Matter.

[Martini Elwood]

She didn’t even register the shiver and unwanted feeling of… energy, that seemed to overlap her muscles. As if saying no more waiting her body moved toward the chest in apartment. She pushed things around almost mechanically, her eyes somewhat blank and her movement not all her own… She wasn’t frightened, she wasn’t relieved, she was just… numb. No, numb implies a feeling - she was empty. No feeling, no thoughts, nothing. She watched her body move almost as if it was an out of body experience.

She was now feeling a twinge of cold fear. Her body was moving and she wasn’t controlling it. Then her hands hit the canvas, her fingers wrapping gently along the paper as she pulled a paint brush out with her other hand. No, no, no. Nothing to fear, her mind tried to soothe, but the voice in her head clearly wasn’t her own and that induced her panic. She fought with her body, making it struggle to move towards the easel, her hands clenched a bit to tightly around the objects inside them.

She wasn’t strong enough to stop it - she didn’t have the means to overcome the possession - and after a few ticks of struggle she sagged and her body was completely under the control of whatever had her. She was crying, she noticed, as he body worked against her. Her tears were warm against her cool skin and she shivered inside herself, though her body did nothing but prop the canvas on the paper. The brush was placed on the little shelf that jutted out just below where the canvas was to be propped. Then her body was back at the chest before it pulled out pain. Blue, red, and yellow paint vials were now in her arms.

They were neatly arranged against the shelf with the brush. She was shaking now, even her actually body following the tremors. Shhh, baby girl it’s okay… her lips moved but the words weren’t her own even if she had said them. She was so scared, who was doing this? Was this the gods doing? She tired to slow the hike in her breath as her hand moved towards the paintbrush. No, no, no! Her mind screamed. And then she let out a moan of pain and discomfort. It was a broken sound as the weight that was on her body lifted just as her brush dipped into the blue and touched the paper. The chill was gone and her heavy breathing and twitch in her fingers told her that her body was once again hers.

She immediately gasped, a sharp intake that somewhat hurt her lungs. She threw the brush down on the floor and walked away from the easel, paint splattering on the ground. What - what was that?! That voice in her head was so familiar and yet the dull shill in her body made it clear she hadn’t been herself just now. She was hyperventilating and she was scared as she slumped to her knees. Tears, shaking, sobs. What was that. Fear, terror dread. Why had voice seemed soothing? Cold, shivering, darkness. Why did she just see her father behind her lids?

Her head hit the floor somewhat softly, as if being guided down after she had completely passed out. She didn’t recall the ache of hitting the floor, or the cold air that wrapped her up in it’s arms of comfort, or the moan of sorrow that left the creature that had just been with her.

*****

Martini woke slowly, groggily, hesitantly. Her dreams filled with that of raging fire and storms, running and terror, screams and agony. She had cried in her sleep - that hadn’t happened in a while. She vaguely thought she felt a hand caress her hair, but she shivered and shook her head free of such paranoia until she looked around the room. She choked back a sob, breathing no longer even as she hacked and coughed her throat raw in her attempt to scream. Her father, her father was standing in front of her! She was on the floor, curled I fetal position as she sobbed louder.

“Daddy, no! Daddy..!” She wailed her eyes screwed shut and hands on her ears. This couldn’t be happening, her father was dead. Her father was dead and there wasn’t an almost translucent version of him overing above her. But then her eyes snapped open and she felt that shiver as something seemed to mess with her hair. My father used to do that - No, no nononono. “You can’t - you can’t be here..!”

But the feeling didn’t go away. She looked over at the figure ticks later, worn and weary. Beaten down too hard to be scared anymore. She simply let the transparent figure of her father comfort her, her expression blank as a few tears slipped from her lids. Was this her dad? The slight breeze through her hair said yes. Was he alive? The translucent figure lacking a shadow told her no. Nothing felt there - she could see a transparent hand on her arm. It felt cold like their was nothing but air touching her. Then the hand that played with her hair was like ice. It wasn’t solid no, not completely. It kind of moved a few stands and then they phased through it.

The figure was flickering, and once Martini tears slowed it made no move to touch her further - it paused, disappeared, then reappeared in front of her. “Are you a ghost?” A quiet voice, hoarse from coughing and strain evident spilled from Martini’s lips. The figure nodded twice. It’s mouth did not move, but the trail of wispy translucence seemed to be trailing from the easel. Her dad had come back as a ghost. “Why are you back?”

A shrugged.

“Did you c-control me earlier?”

Hesitance with a flickering pause. His face almost looked guilty as he tried to divert his gaze. The ghost nodded almost shamefully.

“Why?”

Nothing.

“Can you… speak?”

It faded, but reappeared causing martini to blink. What she assumed to be her father (What had to be really, given it’s appearance) opened it’s mouth but all that came off was a sudden chill and a silence. It opened it’s mouth, formed words again, but all that greeted her was silence. A hint of agitation was mixed with a shake of the head. Her next question was stuttered and low, almost a whisper as her lip quivered. “You’re my… you’re my dad, aren’t you?”

He only nodded, a sad but grateful smile encompassing his features. She too smiled, and despite the fear and hesitation she laughed sorrowfully. “I’ve missed you, daddy.” She covered her face with her hands, and again she cried. Happiness, sadness, grief, loss… all present in her sobs. The ghost of Lenard flickered - and then it was just before her it’s ghostly lips phasing through her as he attempted to plant a kiss on her forehead. She smiled through her tears, laying everything she felt before him.

Her father was dead. And yet he was still the same man in death he was in life. Family oriented. She had so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to do, but the top of his head began to fade into unseeable nothing as he waved. “No, wait, please don’t go!!”

But he only titled his body his smile visible before it to disappeared. She fumbled to stand, to grasp at his wispy body as he distorted against her clawing hands. She desperately wished to keep him there, but her hands were still to weak and her mind was still to gone. She cried for him as his body was sucked back into the easel as the trail disappeared. The cold around her faded and the warmth settled back into her bones as she hugged herself, only her tears and the silence of her apartment to comfort her. “Don’t go…”

[Martini Elwood]

13th Bell, 43rd Chime

The brunette wasn’t sure exactly what happened afterward - once she was done crying she’d just… blanked. She remembered a bit, such as laying down on her bed and just staring at the ceiling. Somewhere along the way her eyes must have closed and her consciousness must have fallen into a dreamless sleep. She woke tired and with great slowness to wash her face and cleanse herself of the heavy feelings. Her father was undead. Gods, that sounded ridiculous..! There was no way he could - no, he did. She still remembered the chill she felt when his lips touched her forehead. She scrubbed her face harder with the frustration - for what had he returned? And why couldn’t he speak? Was his form only temporary? Could he - would he come back?

Shaking her hands free of the water she moved to tower next to the easel. She was so hesitant to even think about it - would her father come back if she used it? He seemed adamant about her using the hunk of wood. He had even controlled her body like a puppet to try - she’d dispelled him somehow. That or the strain she felt wasn’t her won and it took energy out of him to do it. The brush was still on the floor. It loomed as if taunting her… Some of the paint had dried on the ground and as she picked up the brush she hesitated.

She moistened it in the paint that still lay on it’s jutted shelf and inhaled deeply. She wanted to see her father again - would this easel let her? What did it do and why was her father attached to it? She bit her lip hesitantly - could she really do this? If her father didn’t care… if he wanted her too… Could she do it for him? She bit harder and drew blood, the irony taste stabilizing her nerves and serving to ground her.

“I’ll try,” She whimpered quietly, her voice unsure. The canvas lay bare propped against the wooden frame - she couldn’t do this, could she? She trembled but touched the brush to the canvas - she immediately flinched and withdrew though. Something seemed to seep into her hands all at once - it scared her as she observed her hands but found nothing coating them - or out of the ordinary. What the petch, her dreams… her dreams were right?! She trembled but steeled her nerves, she could do this if it was for her father - she could do this.

“I’ll try.” Stronger, her words still held a tremble though as her lips quivered slightly. She drew her brows together and narrowed her eyes as she ran her tongue over her lips. She could do this. She made a small stroke on the canvas and withdrew to watch as the paint bled into different shapes and colors other than what the tip of her brush was dipped in. Curiosity, hesitation, fear. She put the brush tip on the canvas and made a full circle, the pool of… Energy following into her hands causing her hand to tremble. She was scared, scared - do it for him.

She continued.

Her eyes went blank as she stared of into the distance, her body on autopilot as she thought about her father. She could see his solid body perfectly as he placed ticklish hands at her sides. The bleeding turned into realistic scene - it was like watching the world on a canvas. She couldn’t tell if she was hallucinating, but when she finally put down the brush she could see her family running on the canvas.

The little girl they dragged behind them - her brunette hair was the same as Martini’s own and she just knew it was herself - she couldn’t explain how though. This was real-time in her past - and she shook as she watched the male figure pause as the lighting cracked around them and heat drew near. He whispered something and ran in the opposite direction, and tears that matched the two females reflected on Martini’s face as the painting followed her fathers footsteps. He ran back into her home - a house in Syliras Martini had longed to forget. She cried in her mind, hurry hurry, get out of there. She knew he never made it though despite her leads.

He tore through the home, into the basement where Martini gasped as she watched, the easel he attempted to drag was a mirror copy of the one in her apartment right now. He struggled and then she could see his sweat - the heat was getting to close, oh god he -

And then then he did something odd, he touched the easel in various places as if trying to check it for damage. That’s what she thought until a soft almost unseeable glow started to cover the easel. Her father was crying - he was openly sobbing as he used the magic that Martini had no name for. And as soon as the last bit of the surface was covered - fire.

Flame, melting screams, and then nothing but the canvas remained. It’s glow burning off as the flames rolled past. Not even a body remained, and Martini broke when she slid to her knees. Her tears, her sobs, all things she couldn’t control - even her words were incoherent. The repeating question in her mind the same as the unheard words on her lips.

Why..?

[Martini Elwood]

Reasons.

They always had motive or drive - some teller of why people did things they did. She wanted to say that her father had good reason to die, to protect something so useless with his last breath instead of staying with his family. He had to have known he was going to die when he went back - the storm had been so close when they fled underground. Lenard - her father - was a smart man. So why then had he done something so stupid?


Reasons.

He loved his family more than anything, so why did he leave them to die alone? Anger seared the blood rushing through Martini's veins. He was such a smart man, right? Then why had he chosen a material possession over his family? Why was the easel so petching important that he was willing to risk his life for it?

Magic.

She learned to fear gods and their power in the storms. Magic was the root of that fear - seeing others who could use it to control fire like what she'd seen in the storms had put more than fear in her. It had ingrained her with hate. There was nothing that could've previously been said to dampen the mound of hatred that magic bore from her.

Magic.

It had indirectly taken he parents - and yet her father so casually threw away his life and used it to save the easel. The damned magic easel that had only amplified her grief. The easel that poured magically energy she'd learned to call djed into her hands. The hands she treasured just as closely as her family. She screamed, pounded the floor with angry fists - she didn't care who heard her.

Family.

What was lost can't be found again. She'd told that to herself so many times in order to move on. How many times had she cried herself to sleep thinking of what it would be like if her mother and father were still alive? An her father had so easily thrown that away.

Legacy.

Why had she worked so hard? Why had she wanted her name to reach them so that they'd be proud? Her father was undead - she cursed. He'd been with her since Riverfall! He'd watched her cry, he'd watched her suffer while he held the truth from her. What was her legacy then? Was it to find out she'd been lied to and betrayed by the one she trusted the most?

Why, why, why?

There was nothing that could prepare her for this onslaught of information - this dip inot the past that she had thought was a good thing before the damned easel had proved otherwise. Were the answers to her questions even real? Real... What was real anyhow? Her father teaching her that magic was bad? Her mother singing her to sleep as a kid? Her grief?

She didn't know and that hurt. The dull ache in her mind was a small fraction of what her mind was processing - She couldn't take all this. She sat on her knees, her lips a bitter scowl as she stared up at the ceiling. She had so many questions; why had he gone back? Why was the easel so important? She hesitantly directed her gaze back to the easel - the scene had started to replay.

Martini averted her gaze as the flame consumed the image. She had no tears left to cry. She just felt empty and used, weary and beaten. The few people she trusted... Had her mother known too? Had her mother been a... mage? She didn't know, probably never would. How had her life spiraled so far out of her control..?

[Orakan]

Martini Elwood

Skills

● Cosmetology - 2XP
● Observation - 4XP
● Gardening - 1XP
● Philosophy - 2XP
● Persuasion - 1XP
● Endurance - 1XP
● Organisation - 1XP
● Meditation - 2XP
● Logic - 3XP
● Interrogation - 1XP
● Socialisation - 1XP
● Painting - 1XP

Lores
● Freeing oneself of grief and moving on
● Morwen's Absence: Lack of Winter still a problem
● Cosmetology: Morning cleansing routine
● Gardening: Watering a plant when soil is dry
● Symbolism: New plant growth akin to personal growth
● Fear of parents being nothing more than a memory
● Philosophy: Pain of holding on worth keeping the memory alive
● Magic: Once feared, now a curiosity
● Philosophy: Conflict is just a part of life
● Magic Easel: Followed Martini from Riverfall
● Philosophy: Questioning the Gods and one's purpose
● Magic: Dangerous and unpredictable
● Magic Easel: A source of inner conflict and turmoil
● Persuasion: A mental push
● Endurance: Withstanding possession and the war in ones head
● Martini: Possessed by the ghost of her father.. and the magic easel?
● Interacting with and experiencing the ghost of one's father
● A connection between the magic easel and Lenard Elwood's ghost
● Meditation: Building mental fortitude
● Magic Easel: Origins
● Magic Easel: Abilities
● Understanding Lenard's sacrifice

Misc/Penalities/Loot

Congratulations! Martini has finally unlocked the mystery of the Magic Easel and its abilities! Loads of angst and trauma as a result

Comments

Lovely look into Martini's messy headspace; I really felt the pain and agony she was in. Lots of introspection and character and story development in this one - I hope the grade gives it justice! Thanks for the read and giving me the opportunity to see this Magic Easel in use! Do let me know if you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade and don't forget to delete/edit your request in the grading queue.