[hr] [h1][color=PINK][center]MOSES MULLER - THE LAST ARTISTONANCER.[/center][/color][/h1] [hr] [i]I see colours. Hundreds of colours. Thousands. Pouring, flowing, boiling ,drowning. Drowning. Drowning me slowly. Purple. Green. Vermillion. Cerulean. Crimson. Orange. A rainbow. A kaleidoscope. A turbulent ocean of fresh palettes. Every wave a picture. Every tide a collage boiling. A tsunami of lost and empty muses that ebb and bob aimlessly. I bleed black and white. Red and blue. Green and yellow. Rivers of colours that disappears into the abyss. Tributaries of pigments that branch out from my mind. The colours of my arteries, my veins, my heart, my soul that flow into the swirling basin of grief. Blood that can be used to paint both achievements and failures. Something begins to pull me out. Someone. Throwing me a life-vest, a buoy, something to hold onto in this cursed sea. They pull me out. They tell me to wake up. They wash away the colours. They tell me what I am. They can’t tell me who I am. Who am I? [/i] [hr] He wakes up as a beam of sunlight crosses his face. His eyebrows flit suddenly as he wakes up to the sight of his room once more. The familiar briny smell of Rook Harbour fills his lungs as he slowly stands up. He notices that something has gone wrong entirely by the time he’s on his two feet. He peels open the curtains, hoping to see Santa Celia. Only it’s not Santa Celia. The skies had been washed in a pale shade of sepia blue, the alabaster clouds like glaring cosmic storms crafted from thick wax paint and the currents of the wind decorated in sequins and string like a kindergartener’s first drawing. The walls were hewn out of musty oil paints and the air dollar-store water-paint. It looked some sort of demented joint art project made out of the efforts of a thousand artists, scrambling together to find a singular direction. [color=yellow]“ Beautiful, isn’t it?” [/color] He turns around to find the source of the voice, only to be met with a strange sight. Not a person but a constantly ever-shifting body of children, animals and men. It was not unlike the body of the distortion he faced earlier except his composition seemed to be at peace with one another. The colour of its hair, skin and eyes were constantly in a state of change, fluctuating wildly. Every blink came a new body and a new face. The entity’s form rippled and shifted in place for moments before it eventually stabilised into a reflection of himself. Moses felt the inner muscles of his throat close up like an iron vice, as he struggled to murmur the question. “ Are you my mural?” [color=yellow]“ Yes and no,”[/color] The entity - mural spoke back with an unnerving tic [color=yellow]“The other murals have...moved on. Washed away by time’s tide and the silence of shock at your actions. We were the only one strong enough to survive by feasting on each of their essence so that we could hang onto the dredges of your subconscious.”[/color] “ So, how many murals - “ Moses took a step back, his voice quavering as he softly murmured with a tinge of fear. “ did you exactly….kill?” [color=yellow]“ 34 murals.”[/color] The mural began to notice Moses growing fear and then, tried to assuage him. [color=yellow]“ I wouldn’t say kill. More like consenting to euthanasia. We only feasted on those who permitted me to do so. They felt no pain throughout the process if that’s what you’re worried about. We are the amalgam of every mural in your soul. ” [/color] “ You - you,” Moses stuttered, trying to control his growing level of horror towards this twisted reflection of himself. “ The mural then began to circle around him like an wolf - no, more like a cat - appraising him with every pass of his eyes. [color=yellow]“ We were waiting for the right time when you would break out of this self-imposed exile of yours, Moses. An Artistonancer shouldn’t shield himself away from his true abilities, just as a fish shouldn’t walk out of water. Burying it all up inside you - it can be unhealthy. Even Gerald Muller wouldn’t have wished this fate upon you. ” [/color] “ Not as unhealthy as Artistonancy. Now, let me out of here,” Moses face darkened in anger when the entity mentioned his uncle’s name, shouldering past him and searching for a way out of the room. [color=yellow]“ Then, pray tell, answer me this. What happens if more distortions come out and find you?” [/color] Moses froze in the middle of his motions and the entity capitalised on his doubt, the palpable fear that radiated off him like a lighthouse signal in a dark shore. [color=yellow]“ What happens if more people discover your abilities? What then, Moses Muller? You think burning our history would absolve you of your heritage? You truly have no idea what the mantle of an Aristonancer means, Moses Muller. You are still dwelling within the doldrums of your guilt.”[/color] Moses crumpled onto himself like a scrunched ball of paper, leaning back against the mache walls of his home and curling upon himself like a tangled piece of hair. He looks at him - the murals - a mural with a gaze of isolation, walls that he’d built up for himself in the last 3 years crashing down upon him. “ Then, I don’t want the mantle. I’m just an street artist. I didn’t ask for this.” There’s a hitched breath of frustration and then, sympathy - no - empathy as his reflection begins to speak towards him once more, this time more careful with his words. [color=yellow]“ Leonardo Da Vinci never did. Pablo Picasso never did. Vincent Van Gogh never did. Andy Warhol never did. Bob Ross never did. Artistonancy is born in the most unlikely of souls, from the lowliest of peasants to the most royal of kings. Every artistonancer in the world was in the same position as you are right now, Moses. They experienced triumph, failure and regrets but it’s how you live with those experiences that marks the true test of an artist. Every artist was an amateur when they first began. ”[/color] His reflection places a hand on his shoulder that feels like they’re placing the weight of the world on him. “ We’re not asking you to uphold the mantle, but to do something with it. Can you promise us that?” Moses looks at the shifting hand on his shoulder, ever-constantly gripping tight and transforming between that of a young child, an old geriatric man and even a chimpanzee and then, at his own shaking hands. Hands that wrought, shaped and forged mistakes and miracles. He clenches them for a moment, his face a stormy cyclone of indecision, before looking upwards towards his reflection, resolute. “ I can, but -, “ He hesitates “ I don’t know how to do it.” His reflection chuckles. [color=yellow]“ That’s what murals are for.” [/color] The room around him begins to disintegrate into a cliff-side, eroded limestone and granite being pounded by the gentle swathes of the tide, as he stands on the brink of an ocean of colour. He looks back with trepeditation, taking a few steps towards the edge before turning back towards his reflection, unsure of himself. “ How can you - all of you - forgive me just like that? After everything that I’ve done?, “ he says as his reflection approaches him, splitting slowly into an entire crowd of Artistonancers with centuries of hands slowly pushing him over the edge. They all smile. [color=yellow]“ You never forgot. That’s enough.” [/color] He falls, plunging into the depths below. No, rising into the depths above. He closes his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable - [hr] He wakes up as a beam of sunlight crosses his face. His eyebrows flit suddenly as he wakes up to the sight of his room once more. The familiar briny smell of Rook Harbour fills his lungs as he slowly stands up. He notices that something has gone wrong entirely by the time he’s on his two feet. He peels open the curtains, hoping to see Santa Celia. It’s Santa Celia in all of its unvarnished, dilapidated glory. The skies had been washed in a pale shade of sepia blue, the alabaster clouds like glaring cosmic storms crafted from thick wax paint and the currents of the wind decorated in sequins and string like a kindergartener’s first drawing. The walls were hewn out of musty oil paints and the air dollar-store water-paint. It looked some sort of demented joint art project made out of the efforts of a thousand artists, scrambling together to find a singular direction. Just like his dream. Moses then closes the window and looks at the shattered ruins of the room around him. He scratches his head for a moment, before looking at his tattoo with a solemn gaze. Wondering. Just maybe. He then presses his fingers deep into the pentagram of writing utensils, reaching deep into the faded ink that he applied himself all those years ago. His fingers burns with an fire, no, an raging cataclysm of ethereal energy that he invokes with every push that he makes. His lower abdomen contracts and feels on the edge of rupturing from the effort of it all, like an untrained lay-man trying to bench-press as an Olympic weightlifter. The pain stops and he opens his eyes. An indescribable feeling of thrill and excitement, a rush that he hasn't felt in what seems like almost decades, fills his nerves as he dances the trinket in between his hands, looking through the window as he does so. In his hand, a simple pencil and Santa Celia, his canvas. [color=YELLOW] LET US BEGIN. [/color] “ Could you please stop shouting? It’s getting really annoying.” [color=YELLOW] Sorry. [/color]