Role

Chapter 5

My father rarely miscalculates.

He did this time, though. I know it was meant to be a punishment. I
expected it to be a punishment. But down in the crypts scraping up remains
and helping carry out mangled husks: that is where my love for the black
art truly began.

That sounds unpleasant. Perhaps it is. But it is more than that. I had seen
animations before, of course. Seen my elder relatives call forth the lesser
and greater dead from the graves of our ancestors. But it is an art in
truth. You can appreciate it from a far. Note the brilliance in a piece:
but it is not the same as putting brush to canvas with your own hand.

Down in the crypts, I did not learn to paint.

But I did learn the first few strokes of the brush.

My hand is not the steadiest, and my will is not the scalpel that my elders
boast.

But they will be.