"It was the mask you wore to do your work. You became something other than what you were. It's the mark of an artist-thou were dedicated to your craft, and in doing so gave a part of thyself to its perfection. Making your enemies think you were a Demon made you a more fearsome warrior...Vahn Brannon was just a man, after all. He could be killed, betrayed, or beaten. But, the Demon of Gahnawende never lost a fight, did he? He never bled, or had aching joints, or felt remorse...
And so I was Iris the Artist. Not Baker. They wouldn't have liked such an ordinary name appended to mine own. A more charming and biddable soul-painter you could never hope to meet. She never argued, or told you a thing couldn't be done-unless you liked your workers to be fractious. Then she could do that to. No matter the work. No matter how painful the work...she never showed discomfort, or unease, or disdain toward those who paid her to frame their souls...my mask, I fear, was not so heavy as your own Vahn. But it was heavy enough for me."
Vahn smiled ruefully.
"No, the demon bled. It was only the providence of some higher power that I made it as far as I did; I remember that more often than not I fought with my hide full of arrows, bleeding from several wounds. I like to think that all that suffering only added to the legend; how do you kill a man who simply refuses to die? But it seems I've been abandoned, or else finally ran out of luck and vigor... or perhaps this Guardian has taken me beyond God's reach."He rubbed his scarred throat as he listened to Iris speak of her own persona - a civilized woman's mask of charm and words, not a feral man's mask of blood and violence. But he considered it no less a burden just because it wasn't his own. Perhaps he couldn't fully understand the artist's own trials and tribulations, but he could sympathize. Other people could be a blessing - he did not quite remember why he thought that - but more often than not they could equally be a curse, whether you dealt them war or peace.
"It's difficult, isn't it? To always wear those expectations. To never let your walls down, always guard what's on your mind and in your heart. I consider it an honor you would confide in me."He sipped his sigbrau slowly as she continued on, speaking of the ruin that befell her home, of the hard truth that one day all things must end. He knew that well. There was no immortality; even a legend decays, becomes warped and twisted over the years until it was forgotten or no longer recognizable. Men died, kingdoms rose and fell, their works as ephemeral as the morning dew - and even that, too, one day would no longer be a constant, when the seas dried out and all life faded.
"I understand. Most of them are young, and even that knight... he spoke of children and a wife to return to. There's no point in darkening their spirits. But you, standing in the twilight of your world, and I, standing in the twilight of my life... we see the darkness waiting for us. How easy it would be to go to her and finally rest, with our backs to the flame; let the youth tend the fires as long as they are able."The old warlock sighed and finished his drink.
"Perhaps we will regain more of our memories soon and be able to speak of gentler things than the world's ruin."
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Topic: Legacy FEF IC Thread (Read 57313 times)