Role

Chapter 7

Another failure.

Vlalkon stared down at the canvas. Dull. Lifeless. Simple paint on drab
weave.

He had gone to the valleys. To the mountains. To the distant north. Swam
within the aryth for days, no matter how he loathed the taste of salt. He'd
gone to the places where she had been happiest. Hoped so deeply to be
inspired. To capture that moment. Finally to here. The black slopes of
Kiadana-Rah, in a moment of desperation. Scant miles from Veran valley,
where it had all gone so wrong.

This... was not her. There was no spark, no connection. No... passion.

In a sudden rage Vlalkon flung the pot of crimson paint he was holding
against the black basalt cliffside. The glass exploded into shards, red
liquid spraying like a parody of blood. The most recent attempt at a
painting soon following, bouncing down the mountain and out of sight into
the boiling waters below. She had always hated his temper.

He was a failure.

The wine was bitter, but he drank it all the same. Long into the early
hours of dawn he sat there, the bottle long ran dry. He had been so sure.
So sure he could do this. When hunger finally drove him from his misery, he
rose to his feet. His teacher would be so disappointed.

He turned to leave.

The red on black of the paint against the basalt cliff transfixed him. Long
since dry, and in nothing resembling a painting. But it drew his eye like
the moth to flame. The contrast shined even to his ravaged sight; and in a
single instant of inspiration he understood his error.

The rest of the canvases he had stashed in his girdle soon followed the
first into the depths below. He would not need them. Would she have wanted
to be depicted in such a medium? Of course not. What a fool he had been.

Carve her into this world.

Had his mentor given him the answer, all along?

He would need different tools. A different approach.

But from despair had come inspiration; and he would turn his failure into
his greatest work.

One worthy to show her face.