[PRP] Artist and Art (Imre and Morrigan)

[spelldancer]

This is a private roleplay between Imre (spelldancer) and Morrigan Sinclair (Cajmera)

 

[spelldancer]

Imre looked around at the vast expanse of grass waving in the light wind. He had been walking for what seemed like forever and all he had seen was grass. No trees, no hills, only grass. And the occasional living being. But mostly grass. Imre sighed. This wasn’t what he had thought the world was like, boring and repetitive, when he left his… the witch’s forest. In fact it had only been two days that Imre had been walking through the grass. But Imre felt like being dramatic at the moment, and there was nothing to stop him from indulging a little.

Briefly Imre glanced at the blue sky with picturesque fluffy white clouds dotting it and contemplated flying for a bit. But Imre flew best when he was shrunken and that would not quicken the process of getting out of the grassy area. Sighing again, Imre trudged on, aimlessly wandering through the ocean of grass. At least he thought that he was going in a straight line, the sun at his back, but he was beginning to doubt that as well. Maybe he would never leave the grass. Maybe he had died in his sleep and this was his fate for leaving… NO! There was nothing wrong with leaving behind someone so poisonous, so evil, and so very very cruel. With a firm shake of his head, Imre tried to shake off this morose feeling and find something, anything, else to occupy his mind.

Cajmera

 

[Cajmera]

Morrigan didn't know what she'd expected when she'd left the forest. Some inspiration, maybe? Something to kickstart her creative juices, juices that were once more dried-up and decayed. She was used to this; the life of an artist was one of struggle in many ways, not the least of which was the struggle for inspiration. However, just because she was used to these dry spells didn't mean she appreciated them.

Morrigan sighed as she made her way through the sky, her wing beats almost lazy in their slowness. However, she didn't need speed; between them, her four sets of wings had enough surface to keep her aloft at a pace that would practically make a snail blush. She didn't care much about her personal appearance, but she'd always appreciated her wings; they were good for a lot of things, from supplying colorful feathers for her art to getting her around between projects. Or, like today, allowing her to coast along in the hope of seeing something...inspirational.

It didn't even have to be a sight; it could be a smell, or a sound; it could be a word or a phrase...inspiration was a strange animal, and it often struck where it was least expected. Looking down at the spreading ocean of grass beneath her, Morrigan was certain of one thing: this was a place where inspiration was DEFINITELY not expected. Green was a nice enough color; it had a great deal of variation and could suggest life in a very bold way. But when it was the only color, it tended to stagnate. No, she thought with a dismissive shake of her head, there was nothing inspirational here.

Or wait...

A smudge of color amidst the waving green was the first thing to catch her eye; curious, she dipped lower in the sky, maintaining the same lazy pace, but with a new purpose. Whatever it was, it was an unorthodox shade of purple, and that was worth looking into!

spelldancer

Sorry this took so long; my muses were really uncooperative last month >>;

 

[spelldancer]

Boredom is not so bad, there are worse things than being bored, Imre told himself. He could be battling skinwalkers. Well, no, he would simply run away from skinwalkers. Imre wondered at his mind and what it came up with when there was nothing else to think about.

A shadow appeared on the grass off to his left. It was slow moving and should not be there. Looking up, Imre spotted something both dark and colorful coming his way. With the thoughts of skinwalkers still in his mind Imre wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around long enough to find out what this other being wanted. Yet there was no place to go and shrinking would only make him more vulnerable not less. So, Imre stopped wandering along his nonexistent path and waited for her arrival. Imre was maybe seventy percent sure that it was female. While wondering if he was going to die today Imre thought that it was still better than being back in that forest with the witch.

Cajmera

Now it is my turn to apologize. I am sorry for the wait. With my internship and school I lost my muses.

 

[Cajmera]

Morrigan was a mare who liked things to be done in her own way, in her own time. There were few things as provoking for Morrigan to face as circumstances beyond her control, whether it was inclement weather or uncooperative creatures. This was particularly apparent when she had art on the brain; whether she was working on an active project or hunting inspiration, she did not appreciate things working against her.

Consequently, she was delighted when the purple blob suddenly and abruptly stopped moving. It wouldn't have been hard to for her to catch it if it HAD continued to move, but she liked it when things were easy. With a pleased smile at how nicely things were working for her, she coasted down to an easy landing a few feet away from the purple...stallion, she now registered. Not that the stallion part was important, but it could help speed things along!

Settling her wings against her back, Morrigan surveyed the stallion with undisguised interest. There was no denying he was very purple, but also blue, green, pink. He was many colors and patterns and textures, all in one; how very fascinating! More to herself than him, she murmured, "Many colors. One basic palette, but many colors." The question was, what was the best direction to go from there? It was an intriguing aesthetic, but as far as an urgent drive to create...there was nothing. Nothing yet, anyway.

spelldancer

No worries; sometimes, the inspiration just isn't there!

 

[spelldancer]

As the female approached, still flying, there wasn’t much that Imre could do or see. He did relax a little because she had no claws or other sharp pointy bits. He might be able to get away if she had ill intentions. That is, until he saw the glint of metal. She had a knife. Tense and nervous again, Imre watched as she landed and listened as she spoke. Then all nervousness fled and was replaced by exasperation.

“You are an artist.” Imre asserted strongly. “Damn it. I just left your kind! Why can’t you lot leave me alone?” Imre forgot that he had been scared for his life and proceeded to verbalize a rant that had been going on in his head for a while. “I am not a piece of art. I am not something to be molded to perfection. I am a living, breathing being that has feeling and wants just like everyone else. For goodness sake, what is wrong with you all? What bit of your brain is not working properly?” His voice was rising and at the end he was yelling at this artist stranger. With a huff, he stopped and simply glared at the mare.

Cajmera

 

[Cajmera]

Yes, she was an artist; a proud artist, from a line of artists in turn. Morrigan was not the sort who got caught up in details of pride...all the time. But she WAS proud of her skills, and took her calling as an artist very seriously. So she was, one the one hand, pleased to hear that she was immediately recognized as such. But since she wasn't caught up in the heat of artistic inspiration, she also caught the tone in which the stallion said 'artist,' and she was not impressed by the lack of respect there. How dare he be so rude, belittling her beloved calling!

He was also cocky, this one; imagine, thinking he was art. Inspiration, perhaps, but art? A Soquili? No, that wasn't going to be happening any time soon, certainly not with HER agreement. Narrowing her eyes, Morrigan looked over the stallion, with his intricate coat and iridescent wings. Really, he was a beautiful one, but with that attitude of his, was he really?

Granted, she wasn't one to talk; Morrigan made no claims to being morally superior to anyone. But at least she didn't go off verbally attacking people for no reason.

Oh, she let him finish, but it was with thinly veiled impatience. When he finally finished speaking, before he'd even drawn a new breath, she cut in in the same disinterested, analytical voice as before, "Are you done? I'm not about to start arguing you're art, so I think you ought to be worrying about your own mind being unbent." Sniffing, she took a long stride around the stallion, raking him over once more with her eyes. "No, you're not art," she repeated, "but you COULD inspire something. The question, though, is what? Nothing is coming to mind, but I'm sure I could figure out something."

spelldancer