Thread: Masks [Lagertha x Ryees]

'Perhaps one day..' The Artist had been silent for a time, watching her and pulling her body around. It missed this. It missed being able to be fully tangible to everything and everyone, to create its splendor. It missed the smells, the feeling of the paint on it's black hands. It missed being able to create life and people. For, it had once been a God. For, it still remembered that time. There was still the feelings and sensations it gained through its user. Sapping their energy so the Artist could reveal itself. The process took time, and it took a certain person to be at the wavelength they needed to connect. It could still remember those lonely nights in the ruins of a forgotten land searching for someone whose energy he could connect with. It remembered the centuries it was in solitude, losing almost all its power and wondering if it would be the end. Wondering if..it would never be remembered again. Of course there were artists and creative people over the decades and millenniums that it could have bonded with, but, like most parasites, the intake of energy it would sap from these lower beings would be all too much and kill them. It could have taken several. There were so many humans that had creative talents that it could link itself to. Yet. They would have not lasted long enough for it to manifest as it did for her, as it had for Leorn Ero. It knew that the people before Leorn, had it so chosen to bind with them, would last maybe seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, or a few months before dying a painful death. As much as it had hated to be forgotten, to be alone and unable to share it's gifts with the world it so loved..the Artist had waited. It still remembered the time when it had found life precise, when it had found Leorn Ero's energy was much higher than the others, when it knew it would not kill him and be able to form a solid bond. It's purple orbs of color glanced at the painting at it remembered. It knew all too well the images would pour into her head, jumbled. None of it would make sense to Yerinia, their bond was only beginning. The painting had turned from it's rough edges, her hand moving to create more curved lines. The small purple eyes, narrowed to purple lines, before opening wide, as though fire was coming out of it. When it had lost its sense of compassion? It's sense of love? 'Stupid girl! What have you done?' The artists moved as Yerinia looked up at it. Its black hand grabbed hers, the right, the dominant hand, going over the curved lines she had made. A mix of personalities in paint. 'You've ruined it! It must be fixed! FIXED!' There was a desperation in its voice, commanding the young woman to finish the painting the way it saw. Yerinia nodded. Following its instructions. She could still remember the first time she had heard it, calling to her, begging for her to listen. The woman of twenty and six, had heard it as clearly as she heard the waves crash against the shore, the birds above, the people who would chatter as they walked by, and the sound of slushing as she moved the paints around. It had been subtle..until it had grown so loud she could swear someone had been trapped beneath the waves, crying out for help. However..whenever she had asked someone who passed by, no one else had seemed to hear the voice and well...Well eventually Yerinia decided to rush into the waves, and dive below the current. There she had found it. How much longer? She was tired, and the Artist was impatient. Still, a noise sounded, a feeling of something off. The Artist stiffened, circular head veering in the direction of the sound. It moved, it's cloaklike body running over the paints on the canvas. Yerinia looked up, watching it. What is it- It growled, a warning she need to silence herself. Slowly, she watched it move, as if it walking down stairs backwards into the paint and moving to form a puddle once more. Everything disappeared but it's eyes stayed above the surface, round on top, white mask framed around those purple glowing eyes, and it's sharp fingers held onto the edges of the puddle, as if keeping itself up to watch out. It looked at her, hidden in front of her, but in such a position it could see between her right bicep and the side of her body. 'Something is coming. We should be careful.' Careful. We. It was the first time Yerinia had heard the being address them together. Though she had known it had likely said it before then denied it. It seemed to loath the fact it was stuck with her. At least, in her eyes. She moved, but the Artist snarled. 'Keep still! Let it approach...that man..' Yerinia continued look at the paint, staring down. The Artist watched, calculating as the man approached them, and then finally addressed her, Yerinia. 'Be quick about making him go away.' Yerinia sat up on her knees, before turning to look over her right shoulder at the stranger. 'Something is strange about this human...' It warned, as Yerinia gave the man a confused look. Excuse me? Yerinia tilted her head back to the left, her long hair swaying. The bottom was coated with drying paint, but the wet parts stuck to her lower back. 'Friendly! Friendly Yerinia! Least he find you out..' The voice growled in front of her. Who might you be? A friend of my father's? An Art collector? Yerinia moved, wiggling her way back off the painting until her feet touched the sand and she could stand straight up. She whipped around, her back to the blob the Artist had made on the canvas. It glared at him, but she looked up at the strange man. Man. He was tall. Her arms crossed under her chest, pushing them upward unintentionally. Might I be able to help you? If you are looking for artwork on sale..it'd be in the house. You know..the weird house with the large seashells? That was definitely the Theriko's home. Ever since Abinon had found Yerinia, his whole perspective had changed. Once a gold and silver thing, with god and silver still shining through under the bright blue paint, the thing was different than everything else. Large shells as tall as twenty feet or more, made a line around the base of the manson. All of white were different shades of greens, and blues, and pinks. The walkway he had made of the tiniest shells, and everyone with a brain knew which home was his..in the mass of silver and gold homes, his was the only one with shells and blue. Did my father send you out here? Her head inclined to the right side, hair falling in line behind her. Seems like him to send a strange man out here to entice me to stop working. She huffed. 'Nicer! Be Nicer! Yerinia!' the voice was panicked, as though it felt something was off. Yet, it could not expose itself to a normal person. Still regaining itself, it watched from a distance as she interacted with the male. As though he was a friendly couch reminding her to not blow their cover. Despite it's insanity, The artist knew better than to let others know it was here with a new user before it was fully recovered.