She'd lost track of her friend a while ago.
Her friend, incidentally, had been a little flaming familiar that lazily drifted around. Venti Frappuccino® with Oat Milk, Strawberry Cream Cold Foam and Caramel Drizzle, with Vegan Whipped Topping and Hazelnut Syrup had no idea, of course, that she had full control over where the thing could go-- and she had yet to realize that the spell had simply fizzled out. To her, she'd just managed to lose the little flame while she was trying to navigate Gemini's reflective walls.
And... well, it was very easy to get lost in here, too.
Passages she thought were carved into the wall where just reflected from somewhere else. Multiple times, she thought she saw someone else wandering through the room, only to realize it must have been herself. She eventually found water that shone her face back at her and a waterfall yawning over the cave wall that was cold to the touch, and not too far from that, an alcove that dipped into the wall.
By now, Hazel's head was starting to ache. Even just a smaller room would have been a relief, but sitting in that room was... something.
It reminded her, dimly, of a mouth. A magic, shimmery mouth.
She reached out and touched it, uncertain.
A man stood at the base of a mountain, looking up in awe and terror. He had imagined it would be a relatively easy climb - after all, the mountain had not looked so tall from far away! But now that it loomed above his head, he wondered if he was out of his depths - surely, he had been taken by some kind of madness! But his spirit was still strong. Although his many travels had yet to bring him to such a dangerous obstacle, the rewards would be well-worth it. His hand wandered to the satchel around his waist, almost absently thinking of his goal at its peak. He had come here for a reason - he would be the first to capture this wonder!
And after a couple of days - long, grueling days of struggling and climbing, slowly eating through the few rations he had left - he at last stood at the mountain's highest point. He stood there, frozen, beholding before him the vast mountains of the Vaa stretching out farther then he could see, the sun gleaming off the snow-capped peaks. Luscious greenery dotted the valleys, rivers twisted through the stones to hurl themselves into pools hundreds of feet below...in the distance, eagles soared, their wings catching the light of the rising sun. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He fell immediately to his knees, his hands already struggling to unlatch the satchel, pulling out a hand-bound book, pencils, paints, and a vial of water. Barely even looking at what he was doing, he began to draw.
He captured all he could in the small space he had, the essence of it, the colors! He had few to work with, but he needed to remember the heart of it. The burning hues of the sun against rock, the shape of that mountainside, how the light caught the river just in the right way, he captured it all in quick, expert flicks of the graphite and swift blots of color. This was what he had come for, a memory he could give form. He held it out before him when he was done, comparing it to the sight before him, and nodded, approvingly.
This would, perhaps, be his greatest work yet.
The journey back would take less time, as if the excitement of his coming work spurred his steps to become tireless as he traveled home, the image of the Vaa burned into his mind. As soon as he arrived at his humble abode, he pulled out a canvas and began to paint.
Some time later, he brought the finished product to the art market in the nearby city, along with smaller, more humble works. Mere sidepieces next to his masterpiece. Buyers that had, before, passed by his work, stopped to look at the grand painting he stood beside proudly, awaiting interest. It was as beautiful as the vision he had seen with his own eyes, the sketch fully realized onto a canvas double his height in length.
He eventually sold to an enthusiastic collector, one who had bought smaller pieces from him before. A wealthy aristocrat that had never set foot on a mountain trail before. "Absolutely marvelous!" she beamed as she reached forward to gently touch the canvas. "It is as if I was truly there!"
"There is no higher praise," he responded, overwhelmed with delight.
He continued his work - traveling, sketching, painting, selling, over and over, capturing people and vistas across Let, different cultures and settings. Sketches into his book, and then painted for the world to witness. A painting from the far north of the frozen ice fields. The wastelands in the south. A ragged man begging on the streets. A woman selling flowers.
And then, war. Death. Armies marching, witches hunted, fields burning, these he captured too. His final piece would ever remain unfinished and unpainted - the sketched visage of a soldier in brutal black armor, sword raised, the target of their violence ever-concealed now by a dark splatter of dried blood.
The rift sparkles and contracts and a moment later, a worn leather belt and satchel are tumbling out of nowhere. Its quite a large thing, as if it had once been a cross-shoulder harness that had been repurposed. The satchel itself is old and slightly stained, but otherwise in good condition. Unclasping it will reveal its contents - a thick hand-bound book of yellowing paper, partially filled with colored sketches of a variety of scenic locations, people, and places across Let. These are more thumbnail sketches then full pieces, but they are beautiful nonetheless. Accompanying the book is a small wooden kit of artist's supplies - a few different pencils (some worn), brushes, an empty vial, and a small palette of old paint that has long dried, but could probably be refilled. All of these are well-worn, hand-made, but very well-kept. Their previous owner cared deeply for them and had taken care they would last well beyond his lifetime.
@Hazel
Hazel startled, rearing up onto her hind legs as the rift spat something out. She lingered, forelimbs dangling and tiny wings battering to keep her upright-- but once she realized that nothing more was going to happen, she slowly settled back down and picked up the satchel. It felt nice in her fingers-- hefty, sturdy, but a little soft and velvety, too. The buckle was a stark difference, though-- cold and hard and smooth. After a bit of tugging, she figured out how to unclasp it, and the contents clattered out.
She studied the art kit first-- the pencils and the palette. She stuck her finger in the dried colours and furrowed her brow at it, rubbing the faint, coloured dust that wiped off onto her fingers. The pencils, she found, left a thin layer of graphite on things that they touched, too. But her attention was absorbed for the longest by the journal.
It wasn't like Hazel had been to many places before, but she certainly hadn't been to anywhere that looked like what was drawn. Were they real? Were they just made up? Her thick fingers traced each careful stroke of crusted paint and dithering lines of lead, studying them quietly.
There were people that looked a little like her, though they were only on two legs. Wandering around, living their alien lives. As she went on, there were many suffering, too. There was a dim acceptance of their fate; some base instinct told her that the people here were long gone. Something bad had happened to them: and it seemed like something bad had happened to the person that drew it, too.
The centaur shifted uncomfortably. She placed everything back into the satchel carefully, uncertain what else to do with it right now. She lifted it up and left the alcove. Whatever she'd end up doing with it, she knew, for some reason, that she'd have to keep it safe.
exit