The distortion shuddered as it-she-he-something stumbled underneath the sewers of this blasted city, gouts of paint flowing from the gyring hole in its belly and his lacerated throat that was only hung onto his chin by a few dregs of flesh. The Artistonancer had mortally injured it with that trinket/parlor trick/spell/magic of his. It’d only worsened its already ailing physical and mental state. Oh well, its mind was already fragmented to begin with. The distortion turned around into a nearby bend as he ignored the putrefying smells of rotten offal and human waste that had accumulated. [color=BLUE]“Freeze.”[/color] His joints suddenly locked up at the imperious command. A moment later, his master came into view as one of the many beams of light that snuck through the murky darkness of Santa Celia’s sewers illuminated her figure. Her porcelain skin was decaying like a glass chrysalis, chipping apart at the extremities of her limbs, but she was without a doubt the most human-looking distortion. She looked into his eyes for a moment, and then, at the circular wound at the bottom of his torso with a sneer. Her silky voice brought a shiver to his dying soul. [color=BLUE]“It appears that Artistonancy does still persist within Muller’s soul.”[/color] She traced his mutilated cheek for a while with her index finger, bits of dried paint marking her skin like an ointment before stopping. [color=BLUE]“ You have succeeded in your goals, my creation. There is no longer any purpose for you.” [/color] A sense of thrill burnt within him. This was what he lived for. A release. The promise of succor from the terrible existence of his life. She spoke simply with no fanfare whatsoever, turning around and raising her hand in the air to dismiss him. [color=BLUE]“ Now, my creation, fold.”[/color] And, so he did. The distortion’s head began to crack back at an abnormal angle before its back bent upon its itself, then it’s arms, then it’s legs as it crumpled upon itself like a rolled up ball of paper. The last thing that it saw was his masters fading shadow that casted itself on the darkness of the sewers. Assimilating his paints and palettes to incorporate into her own. Relieved of his duty. Pain. And then, peace. [hr] [color=YELLOW]The first law that every Artistonancer learns but eventually forgets is the Law of Imagination. It is one of the most simple laws, yet your Uncle didn’t teach you the true intricacies of this Law. Simply put, Artistonancy is not only a form of magic but a magic that exists within every soul as it operates on imagination and creativity. The imagination and creativity of the user act as conduits that can be used for unlimited potential....[/color] Moses began to remember why he hated university art lectures. Pretentious, shabby full-suited professors that treated art like a methodical surgical operation and looking at every shade of colour like a piece of evidence in a crime scene. He would have failed Art Theory 101 if it weren’t for Gerald’s encouragement and assistance. His mural - he was going to have to find a proper name for them sometime soon - yammered on and on in his brain like one of those digital assistant that his estranged father used to own. He’d turned on the local radio in an attempt to tune out his murals. An unsuccessful attempt at that, given that the voice of the mural had seamlessly blended with the sound of the radio jockey where Moses was able to interpret both noises at the same time in a perfect harmony. Right now, he was more concerned with cleaning up the aftermath of his fight with the distortion rather than discussing the potential uses of his abilities. Sure, he was considerably more open to usage of his abilities in the first time in 3 years when he had first discovered his magic at Arido. He was busily drawing out a simple sketch of a duster and a broom on a long ream of white paper, continuing to ignore his mural as they continued to speak to no avail. The most frustrating aspect of murals? They didn’t come with a mute button. [color=YELLOW]Thus, Moses, you must think of Artistonancy as a series of movements similar to art. Classical, postmodernism, post-impressionism-[/color] [color=PINK]“ Could you please just shut up for one second?,”[/color] Moses asked in a deadpan voice while continuing to sketch out the fine bristles of the broom with his pencil. Once he completed it, he drew a breath, brushing the edge of his thumb-nail on the corner of the sketch before dipping his hand into the drawing like he was reaching for a toy he dropped into a swimming pool. The use of his Artistonancy had broken the reverie that his mural was in, providing him with a grateful period of silence within his mind. The mural was right. Picking up his magic again was akin to muscle memory, oiling the rusty joints in his technique and reducing the strain that he suffered in earlier attempts against the distortion. He focused on the same processes once more. He visualized the contours, the shape of the broom and the duster, concentrating on the image in his mind before bending the image to his will and making the immaterial material. Visualization. Materialization. The two steps of trinket creation that Gerald taught him all those years ago in Arido Valley. The familiar crackling sensation of energy pulsed up and down his right arm, invisible energy coalescing into mass as the finished product ended up being a monochrome broom and duster. Satisfied, he began to move towards the broken shards of glass to sweep it up, before the duster began to attract the glass slowly towards it like a magnet. Huh, this might be not so bad anymore. The radio suddenly began to bark with a flurry of activity, the newscaster rapidly rattling out a series of announcements. Moses stopped what he was doing, setting the broom and duster next to a cupboard and leaning over to hear the radio better. He initially thought it to be just something minor, perhaps a bout of gang activity, but the reality of the situation shook him to his core, the more and more he listened to the news. [color=GRAY]“ Reports of an explosion at Le Chateau Rogue have been sighted-” [/color] [color=PINK][i]Not my responsibility.[/i][/color] [color=GRAY]“ Mayor Murray has been confirmed to be at the center of an attack. SCPD are still trying to decipher the nature -”[/color] [i][color=PINK]But, this is your city. [/color][/i] [color=GRAY]“ - red cloud sighted over Santa Celia city hall. Meteorologists are confused and are hypothesizing that this is a man-made-”[/color] Moses hurriedly switched off the radio channel, his face white as he walked towards the window and stared out towards the sight of oblivion. A red cloud, hanging in the distance, framed by broken shards of glass. The colour of blood. The colour of death. It was like a ink blot, a blemish on the coastal skyline of Santa Celia as it cast a portent of the violent disaster to come. He turned around and shook his head, trying to convince himself that he shouldn’t interfere, that he was more of a liability than of assistance. The police could handle it. Someone else could handle it. He took up his broom and duster again, this time with doubt as he focused on cleaning the scattered piles of dust and debris that was left in his room, the scuffs in his floorboard, claw marks in his wall torn out by - How could he even think about his room at this moment? He was just - What could he do? He dropped both of his trinkets as they clattered on the floor, slumping on the coach and staring upwards towards his mouldy ceiling, patches of mildew growing in the corners, begging for a answer. An answer that he could only provide himself with. He rested his head on his hands, a headache of turmoil growing with every second as he fought for control of his desires, to bridge between the gulf between two identities. A failure of a dead order or a lowly street-artist? [i][color=PINK]What would an Artistonancer do? [/color][/i] [hr] [i]The one thing that’s same about every artist is their muse. Whether it be a person, an object , an ideal to strive towards; every artist needs a muse to inspire them, to drive them. Without your muse, you will always have a hole in your heart. So, what’s your muse, Mo? [/i] [hr] [i][color=PINK]What would Moses Muller do?[/color][/i] He opened his dried eyes, blank with indecision. He closed and opened his hands slowly, relaxing them as he took a deep breathe. Moses then stood up, back straight like a railroad spike and his stare narrowed with a certain look of resolute determination. He looked towards the cans of spray paint left near his door with a growing plan in his mind. [color=YELLOW]What are you doing? You're not properly trained. You don't know what's out there. You can't take this risk."[/color] The muse spoke worriedly as Moses took out large sheets of newspaper and Krylon Spray Paint. [color=PINK]“ I’m not doing this anymore,”[/color] Moses growled, uncapping a spray can [color=PINK]“, Standing by the goddamn sidelines.”[/color] He shook the can, hyper-pressurised fluid swirling inside, courage ramming down on the plunger as he resorted back to a primordial want that burned within him since he was young. To paint. [hr] His red scarf fluttered in the currents of breeze on the top roof of Glenvale Residences. The entire premise was vacated and at this late a time, the guards would only patrol the roof-tops in a 1 hour cycle. Enough time for him to gather his thoughts as he stared down towards the bustling streets of Santa Celia, honking cars and roving pedestrians huddling about. It appeared to be rush hour. Moses breathed in and processed the scents, the smells, the sharp taste of aerosol spray paint and the fetid damp smell of apartment ventilation. He held the umbrella tightly in his right hand whilst tapping his shoes against one another, normal and unassuming if one didn’t happen to notice the springs attached to the soles. [color=YELLOW]This is a bad idea, Moses Muller.[/color] He chuckled. For once, the mural actually seemed concerned about his safety. [color=PINK]“ I’ve been a big fan of bad ideas all my life. Don’t see the point of risking one - ”[/color] He struggled to finish his boast, teeth chattering for a moment in fear. [color=PINK]“ - more.” [/color] 15 stories was comparably tiny compared to some of the towering skyscrapers within Santa Celia, but to him, it was the equivalent to leaping off the Tower of Babel. He paced back and forth, twirling the umbrella in his hand as he decided. Moses then pulled the scarf over his mouth, tying it in a loose knot that covered the region under his nose in a imitation of a bandana. He was ready. The blowing wind and the smoky scent of sun-burnt concrete galvanized him into taking a single step forward towards the edge. Then, the next. Then, another. He moved at a slow pace with growing confidence. [i]“ If you’re not careful, that art of yours could get you killed.”[/i] Now, walking. Lightning waking in his veins. [i] “ Come on, Moses. Show me. Show me like you showed Gerald.” [/i] Now, jogging. Muscles tightening, his mind fighting. [i]“ Every artist was an amateur when they first began.”[/i] Now, running. Nearing the edge, inhaling, a step - [i]“ What’s your muse, Mo?” [/i] He was falling. No, rising towards the streets, limbs tangling together in a uncoordinated mess as he struggled to pull out his umbrella in the free-fall. He fumbled for the handle, geyser of wind blowing directly into his face. He swore he could have heard several screams of [i]“SUICIDE!”[/i] and [i]“SAVE HIM!”[/i] as he continued to tumble head-first towards an eventual meeting with the ground. He found the button, pressing it as he was only moments from splattering himself across the road, wincing for the inevitable sensation of pain - Only to feel something pull him off his feet, buffeting him upwards like a hot-air balloon. The parasol blossomed out like a desert flower, propelling him upwards like a parachute, succeeding his expectations. The ascent continued for a while before it began to slow down, just as he was a meter away from the ledge of the nearest roof-top. Moses shoved his body forward, closing the parasol and grabbing onto the ledge. Pulling himself up, Moses brushed the dust off him, hyperventilating as he looked over the concrete canyon of apartment buildings. The red cloud was still a block away. Moses breathed in again before running again and this time, jumping forward, pressing forward on his heels as the springs in his shoes enhanced his jump from a mere hop to a multi-meter Olympic-breaking lunge. He waited for the eventual state of falling once more before unfurling the parasol to disobey the laws of gravity. [color=PINK]“YEEAAAHHHHH!-” [/color]He whooped, landing into a roll onto the roof-top of another apartment before leaping once more, springs bouncing him forward to greater heights than humanly possible. He sprinted across the ridge of a long roof, shingles nearly falling off with each fall of his step as he leapt off again, aiming his umbrella towards the right as he ran vertically across the side of an apartment before closing his umbrella again to gain enough velocity again. He was getting used the actions of closing and opening his umbrella to direct the motion of his fall,, the repeating actions of digging his heels onto block heaters and sun-weathered concrete, skipping steps down railway stairs, vaulting over ledges, leaping vast distances with his spring shoes. His heart pumped, sang, his blood forming the rich palette as he wrought out . He whooped a yell of exhilaration, surging forward with the cathartic fervor of purpose in his lungs. [i]I’ve found my muse, Uncle Gerald.[/i] He stared ahead, cloud of burning red in the horizon, sky bleeding like a gaping wound that dripped on top of a raging inferno. He dived into another free-fall, finger hovering near the button again to wait for the inevitable rush of being zip-lined upwards to heaven. [i]Being the last Artistonancer. [/i] [hr] [color=PINK] [center][b][u][h2]SHOCKING CHRONICLES OF SANTA CELIA[/h2] [h2]INTRODUCING THE LAST ARTISTONANCER OF SANTA CELIA[/h2] [h2]SPECIAL CROSSOVER ISSUE: BE SOMEBODY[/h2] [/u][/b][/center] [/color] [hr]