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Old 09-05-2012, 07:24 PM   #1
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Hidden Inspiration: Lust, Love, and the Muse (Closed for Palemoon2035)

Nathaniel's Trinket Shoppe sold all sorts of oddities. Amidst the dusty shelves and overfilled countertops, one could find practically anything within reason. A few things outside the boundaries of reason as well....

Nathaniel himself was a quiet merchant, keeping much to himself. He rarely refused to sell an item unless he knew it would be misused. That, he hated most of all. It was not right for the wonders that he found and bartered for to be wasted on the brash, the unkind, the ignorant. Many patrons were turned away at the door, never even allowed to peruse the glorious stock that was cluttered throughout the store.

Even the richest nobles were shunned on occasion. Nathaniel's wares were so sought after that the King himself had placed a protective order over the location. Even bruised pride would not bring harm to the shop or its owner.

And so it went for decades, Nathaniel getting older and older, but never quite seeming to age beyond his 50's. The inventory grew and grew, nearly threatening to burst the foundation of the very building itself.

One fine day in the early spring, a young woman entered Nathaniel's shop. She was an artist by trade, but had fallen on a terrible stretch of mental block. She needed something to give her that feeling back, the one that called her brush to canvas, her pen to paper, her hands to clay. Nathaniel smiled at the young lady and ushered her into the shop, nodding at her request.

"I've just the thing for you, milady. This, is a Muse. Many lose theirs along the way and never think to try and retrieve it. A travesty for those who have it no longer, but a great boon to those who might use it properly. I think you will find it very helpful to your plight."

When she tried to offer payment, the stooped old man shook his head and waved his hand at her coinpurse.

"There is no need for that. Just see that this Muse is not lost on you as well..."

He turned from her and went back to wandering the mess that the shop remained in, leaving her holding the Muse.

It was a small vessel, crafted out of a dark stone that might have been obsidian. It was engraved with golden lines and designs of obscure origin. It had a narrow neck and a simple base. No real embellishments to speak of outside of the gilded patterns. One could easily mistake it for a tiny vase. Yet, within there was power. It lay dormant, but in the right light, under the right conditions it would be just as it was named; a Muse to guide and inspire. A beacon to usher new creation.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 09-08-2012, 04:13 PM   #2
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Lasair was, for all intents and purposes, a peasant. Though, technically, she came from a family of nobles. Before we can understand her story, and how she ended up in Nathaniel’s Trinkette Shoppe, we must understand her father’s story.

The family’s money, their history, was all lost only a short time ago. It was her father, who, despite inheriting land and wealth, decided he had something to prove still. Edwin had a passion for art, and, as a young boy learned that he could paint. After coming into adulthood, rather than enjoy the privileges of the royal hunting grounds, fine dining, and other luxuries, he spent his time lost in his art. Often spending days locked in a room, painting anything and everything. It is a wonder he even managed to meet Lasair’s mother, Aela. She was a beautiful woman of Gealic descent who caught the eye of Edwin as he happened to be transporting some of his works from his home to be viewed by the king himself. It was truly love at first site.

The couple married and had a beautiful daughter who inherited Aela’s beautiful red hair. Edwin did everything he could to pass on his knowledge and artistic skills. Lasair turned out to be a young, talented artist herself, though she tended to work more with clay and stone. Of course, she could paint just like her father as well. The family had built quite a reputation over many years. Many other nobles and members of royalty commissioned and bought both Edwin’ and Lasair’s works. Suddenly it seemed as though everything was just perfect.

Now, long past the time of being considered a young woman in the eyes of others, Lasair, at the age of 23, should have been married off long ago. Instead, she stayed with her family and continued to work. Sculpting, painting, and perfecting a new craft, writing poetry and stories. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been courted. Many tried. She was a beautiful woman with pure, alabaster skin, captivating blue eyes, and rather tall slender shape. She let her fiery red hair grow down to her lower back. She didn’t desire to be with any of these men who sought her company. She didn’t feel as though any of them understood her. She was independent, and more importantly, married to her art. Yet, buried deep inside her were certain sexual desires, though, she dared not ever speak a word about them. She found such beauty in the naked female form. She admired other women in ways that she knew were sinful. The first time she had a woman pose for her in the nude, she felt such intense arousal, she stormed out of the chamber, ashamed, tearful, and frightened. She came to terms with having these feelings over time, though she understood that such desires were simply unacceptable.

All was wonderful the day the King commissioned Edwin to paint his portrait to be placed in the throne room. Thrilled, Edwin accepted the commission. Now, there is never a good time for death to come, but it somehow seems even more devastating when it is unexpected, and up until that moment all had seemed so right in the world for so long. It was quite unfortunate that as Edwin placed his first brush strokes on the canvas as the king posed, he received a message that his beautiful wife of 25 years had fallen deathly ill that morning after he left. It was even more unfortunate that he was painting for the king, and had no choice but to continue, hoping that his Aela would be ok. Most unfortunate of all, she passed that afternoon. He was far from finished when he received the next message. His Aela was gone. The devastated Edwin requested permission to leave. The cold hearted monarch denied this request. Of course, Edwin could not finish.

The king was not pleased as Edwin abandoned his work. More so, the king was offended at the way he appeared in the half finished portrait. In a rage, he quite easily stripped Edwin of his noble status, seizing his wealth and land. Both Edwin and Lasair were devastated. Neither felt inspired to create. They lost everything. Edwin fell ill, passing only a few months later. The cause of his death was never made clear, though it was quite obvious to those who were still his friends that h died of a broken heart.

This brings us back to Lasair. The beautiful redhead had seemed paler than ever before. She knew she couldn’t survive this way. Losing both parents, losing her gift to create. She felt hopeless and uninspired. She began to wonder if she should simply abandon the life she knew and go to work in the fields with the other peasants. Perhaps she would meet a nice man and have a beautiful family with him. Yet, she was a strong woman who held true to who she was. She was an artist. She just didn’t know what to create anymore.

Lasair was certain that she was losing her mind when she decided to visit the Trinket Shoppe. She had walked passed it so many times. Her friends made jokes about. Rumors where that the owner, Nathaniel, was some sort of dark wizard or demon who seemed to never age. Still, Lasair needed to find something, anything that could help her. She didn’t know what she was looking for, so perhaps a shop like this was the perfect place to look.

She didn’t have much time to look before the rather handsome gentleman offered her a strange dark stone object, calling it a muse. Lasair had never considered the muse to be something worth acknowledging. She had always just made art. Yet, he seemed to insist she have it. Realizing she had little money, this would probably cost more than what she had. She trembled as she opened her coin purse, unsure how she would find a way out of this one. She must have looked relieved and delighted as he insisted she take it for nothing. “Please, sir, let me give you something.” He wouldn’t take even a half cent.

Lasair placed the strange, heavy object in her satchel, and left the shoppe. She already felt…warm. She smiled for the first time in quite a while. It wasn’t so much that she was certain that this”muse” would help her. She was simply thrilled that someone had been so kind to her for the first time in a long time.

Making her way back to her humble shack; it was all that was left of her father’s fortune. She placed the obsidian object on the table next to the last bit of clay she had to work with. She sat there and stared at the object, then looked at the clay. [COLOR="rgb(153, 50, 204)"]“Ok, muse, do what you are supposed to do.”[/color] She laughed to herself, realizing she was talking to what was essentially a polished rock. Still, nothing happened. Lasair then reached and grabbed it’s neck. It was cold, hard, but so smooth. She seemed to expect instant inspiration. There was none. She sat there, holding the vase-like object. She didn’t want to let go, for some reason. Still, she found no inspiration. So she sat, and waited, holding her new possession in both hands now.
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Old 09-10-2012, 02:32 PM   #3
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Awareness. Slow and steady in its culmination, yet without definition. Warmth from an unknown source. The obsidian vessel felt. It had not done so in decades, perhaps longer. It was as though eyes were being opened, though no simple thing as sight was given. Instead, it was like a cloud being caressed against ones skin. There was heat and light, delicacy.

Within the stone, the muse was awakened. It had little power as of yet. There would need to be more time, more input, simply more. The miniscule reach it maintained could simply perceive that it was held, that it was being observed. Questioned, in its purpose.

Emotion. Without a true consciousness, emotion was nothing to it. Yet, emotion was collected in the embrace of those slender fingers clutching to it. And so, the transfer could begin. A sudden image, plucked from the emotional ocean that lay before the vastness of it's perception. More than details, the emotion of the image rang through. Embarassment, excitement, shame, and yet...pride. In this instant, the image was transferred from one and back to the other, flowing along the natural veins that humans did not know they possessed.

Lasair was given a gift; a reminder of her first female model. The situation was made bright and vivid. And in the end, a single image would fill her mind. The model, in the perfect pose, held forever. Waiting to be painted.

Expended. All remnant of power seeming lost. The vessel was cold again, even though the warmth was still present. Too much, too soon. But the test was passed, and so when strength was renewed, the next trial could begin.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 09-15-2012, 03:32 PM   #4
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“Come now, you strange thing, do your job,” Lasair murmured to herself…to the object. She realized this was all so silly. A muse? Surely you jest. was all she could think. She placed the vase on the table, but the very moment her finger tip left the smooth stone, she felt a prick of warmth. Surely, she imagined this. She touched it again and it was cold.

“Stupid vase.” She closed her eyes as she tilted her head back, sighing in frustration. As her eyes closed, she saw her. An image of that beautiful young woman she tried to paint so many years ago. That beautiful woman who she must have hurt when she stormed out of the room in tears. She never spoke to her again to apologize or explain. She never painted her. Yet, in her mind, as clear as day, there she was in the perfect pose. A beautiful woman with captivating eyes and a beautiful body. Lasair opened her eyes and smiled. Then, she closed them again. She saw her, still there, perfect in every way.

Lasair stared at the clay. This wasn’t right. She was trying to sculpt when she needed to paint. Making her way across the room to a dusty chest, she opened it and started to rummage through it. Pulling out her palette she began to mix the oils and pigment. Her hands trembled; she hadn’t felt this passionate about working since… Long before her mother’s untimely passing.

It began with a few simple brush strokes. She was rather rusty with her technique. Clay was her first love, but her father taught her well and she painted many beautiful pictures. Striking the canvas lightly, she arced when she should have used a blunt stroke. She stood and smiled before continuing. She couldn’t get the image of the beautiful young woman out of her head. But those thoughts, those horrible thoughts… They came back, creeping in like a storm cloud hiding the sun on a warm spring day. The nude woman in her mind, so vivid, suddenly stood up and started to cry. The model seemed to just stand up and run away, so vivid and real Lasair saw her round pale rump jiggle as she disappeared. Lasair started to think about her mother, her father, so loving, now gone.

Lasair stopped painting and sat in sadness. The moment was over. Her inspiration faded. She was tired, emotionally exhausted, and disgusted with letting herself have such false hope. Still, the smooth object that seemed to give her a fleeting moment of inspiration called to her. She picked it up, just as cold as heavy as it was the first time she held it.

So sad again, Lasair lost her appetite. She had nothing to eat anyway. So just as the sun set, she made her way to bed. Placing the “muse” on the table next to her bed. She closed her eyes, hoping to dream of a warm, much happier place, than were she was now.
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Old 09-17-2012, 03:07 AM   #5
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The ocean of emotion was lain bare before it. The conscious mind kept those thoughts at bay, held them subdued while it held power. In this state, the waves were free to ebb and flow. From its place on Lasair's bedside table, the vessel hummed softly, imperceptibly. The vibrations brought the gilded patterns to life briefly, tracing the entirety of its slender frame.

Power, again renewed. Given vitality through the unblocked stream of dream-thoughts.

In her mind, gentle tendrils reached beneath the surface thoughts, rooting around for another substantial feeling, finding only sadness and frustration. The words she'd spoken bubbled up, like a brook spewing chilled water across the vessel's budding conscience.

Stupid? Vase? These concepts were alien. Though the awareness that continued to grow did finally register the shape of its own contents.

Finally, a solid thought was held and brought to bear. Through all the sadness, a drive to work, to make, to create.

Lasair's dreams turned to a scene of her seated at her sculpting wheel. Her hands were caked with clay, the shape spinning slowly as she molded it. Her father watched from the door to the adjoined study. He was smiling. The figure she was shaping hadn't yet taken a true design, but the vision flared, a white light washing out all sight.

Yet again, the vessel had pushed itself too far. Limitations were still an obscurity. Given free reign, yet not using this power to form a cohesive essence. A genuine realization; to be more helpful, to prove worth there must be a form given to the helper. Rest. Rejuvenation. Both were necessary again.

And so Lasair's dreams became void, yet relaxing. The humming of the vessel faded to nothing as the moon reached is height in the sky.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 10-02-2012, 01:52 PM   #6
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Her eyes closed. A slight smile on her face. Lasair seemed so peaceful as she slept. The sadness that overcame her to quickly, slowly transformed into a peaceful relaxation. Dreams have that power. Despite the trails and tribulations of whatever had been going on in her life, the world of the subconscious was always an escape. A place where things that weren't real, seemed real. A place where lost loved ones come back to life.

Lasair embellished the art of dreaming. Seeing this as another state of mind to master. Ever since she was a little girl, she found she could become aware that she was dreaming. She dismissed the ideas that dreams where images fed into her mind by the devil. She laughed at the thought that they were religious experiences, or somehow prophetic of what was to be. She somehow, understood that these dreams were just a part of her, of her mind, just as her art was a part of her. She took ownership of her dreams, and believed she had some control over them.

So, at this moment, she recognized she was in a dream state. She knew, somehow, that it didn't make sense that her father was there, in the room, for he had passed. She also knew, never to question or challenge a dream, for this always led to leaving the dream and waking up. She let the events take place as they were meant to be.

Now overcome with warmth as her caring protector watched over her. Lasair was creating again. Something. Her hands moving though not at her will. She was molding the clay. Something else was taking shape. Something that was not from her mind. Something that seemed to come from somewhere else. This was strange. Something didn't feel right. For the first time, it seemed that something was prying its way into her dream world. Something that didn't belong....or did it?

Fear, anxiety, the peace was...disturbed. With that, a white light washed over the scene. Her father, the clay, her being there, it was no more.

Lasair awoke. The night sky was still prominent, the sun still lurking just below the horizon. She shed a tear. One tear dribbled down the side of her cheek. She was so glad to see her father, but so sad again to see him go in such a flash. It was all so real to her, so vivid.

Feeling about, her hands molesting her bedside table until she found the candle. Striking flint and lighting it, she then took a piece of parchment and began to write down everything from the dream that she could remember, just as she has done most every night since she learned to write. The clay... What was she creating? What was taking form? She couldn't remember. She recalled how it felt. It was strangely warm for clay that had just been wetted and had been sitting on a table. And that sound...yes. There was a sound, a vibration. But what?

Scribbling as fast as she could, capturing every detail in ink, until there was nothing left to remember and her ink well ran dry. She turned to look at the object; the muse. "Could it be?" A whisper to herself. She reached out with such curiosity. Her hand finding its way, touching the smooth black stone. She felt it. A wanting, a need for it to be true. Was it really trying to inspire her. She placed her hand on it and closed her eyes...
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Old 10-06-2012, 03:27 AM   #7
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Sudden movement, jarring its peace. An outburst of something...another emotion. Hope. This it gathered as the feeling ran through the veins of this, the vessel's owner, it's keeper. It's font of existence. For this spring of emotion and thought, the vessel had tried to become more than it was. It had lost much of its battle with its restrictions, but this new feeling...this....hope. It was enough to fuel the resurgence of change.

As Lasair held the vessel, the golden lines glowed briefly, from bottom to top.

There had to be a way to communicate, beyond the snared pictures and captured emotional waves. A way to transfer thought without needing the void of dreamspace. It heard...and realized. A voice. It must create a voice to speak with. The body of the vessel would be enough to house and expel it, but first the strength must be gathered.

The lines of the vessel grew brighter as the girl held it, flashing an almost white light before fading to nothingness again.

Words. There were so many, plucked from the continued contact with the warmth of the owner. Which words were the right ones? The myriad choices was far too vast...and yet, the ones it found seemed most fitting.

The voice was quiet; not enough strength to speak more boldly. It was a dulcet tone. There was no distinction between masuclinity and femininity. Though, it was not neuter. It sounded like a spring breeze rustling the budding leaves of a tree, or a babbling brook bubbling softly in the current.

Power. Creation. Time. Strength. Energy.

As if to emphasize its connection, it concluded with three words.

Lasair. Muse. Union.

The vessel's words hushed and the lines glowed no longer. The warmth of transference continued so long as Lasair kept holding it.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 11-10-2012, 07:34 PM   #8
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Wha-?"

Lasair stared at the object with intense curiousity. She was quite sure that she should have been afraid, but that wasn't her nature. As the golden lines glowed, she gazed inqusitively, simply wondering what was going to happen next. She grinned as excitement quashed any fear she was supposed to have. She didn't believe that this was the work of the devil as many would have assumed. Though, she was quite sure that she was dreaming again. Lasair thought she should pinch herself, but she couldn't bring herself to take either one of her hands away from the obsidian stone which seemed eminate warmth. It was in her naivity that she failed to realize it wasn't creating its own warmth, but returning that which she shared with it. Despite the tragedy she experienced in her life, few in the world were capable of so much love.

Then, a voice. It was faint. The barely audible whisper was not familiar, nor could she discern if it was the voice of a man or woman. Still, she was certain she heard something. Lasair's sapphire blue eyes stared at the magical object. She then closed her eyes to focus on the sound. She heard distinct syllables. Somehow she heard someone, something, helping her to harness that love which for so many years blossomed creativity.

Then there was darkness. Her eyes opened and the golden glow faded. The silence od the night returned. It was a deafening silence. Even the crickets had become mute. She felt alone again. "Alone...again,." She whispered to herself and sighed. She set the vase down on the table which legs were so lose and unstable, had the object been alive, it would have been afraid of falling. Lasair walked over to her full length mirror whose frame was laced in gold with intricate carvings of birds and trees. In the top left corner, a little girl carved in wood with ruby eyes sat beneath a mighty oak. She smiled, remembering how her father told her that she would always be that little girl sitting under the tree in his eyes. The mirror and its beautiful frame was one of the last gifts from the King's daughter which Lasair still had in her possession. She stood there and stared at herself. Wondering why she said "alone again" when she had been alone all night. Yet as she stared at the mirror, out of the corner of her eye she saw the vase sitting on the weathered night stand.

Lasair looked back into he mirror. Seeing herself, she felt inspired. She wasn't quite sure why, but she felt the crwative energy return. Perhaps it was the dream. Perhaps it was the fact that she felt the warmth and comfort of someone else in the room. She walked over and took the heavy muse into her hands and smiled. She found herself wanting to handle it with care. It was as if it needed something from her. She set it on a stool next to her table covered in clay. She wet what remained of her dwindling supply. Ligthing two candles, she set them both next to her newly prized possesion. "Maybe you just need a little warmth."

Hmmm, I am talking to a vase. Maybe it is the work of the devil she smirked as she started to work on the clay with no vision yet of what it was about to become.
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Old 11-11-2012, 03:05 PM   #9
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There was a lingering presence of the warmth, then more reflection, more introspection of its owner. She seemed drawn to a certain image. A tall plant, strong and sturdy, a fragile figure below it. It seemed more a reflection than the mirror that housed it.

Movement, a moment of heat and then more. Different, this heat. Natural, yet not the same warmth that it cherished from contact with its owner. This heat was definitely empowering, the golden lines and designs on the vessel lit up one by one. The image of the plant, the tree that towered over the small figure. It clung to this and sent it out as much as it could, projecting it into the emotional ether that drifted and flowed between the spaces mortals could not see, could not tell that permeated them to their cores. The vessel drew strength from the heat of the candles and used it to feed Lasair the image without her having to turn for inspiration. The clay beneath her hands would begin to find true form, cylindrical and then branching, reaching. Leaving a small bit of unformed mass below and offset.

The vessel ventured to expend just a bit more of the energy it was receiving to whisper one word.

Protector.

The feeling it kept reverberating as it left Lasair and found it was that of protection. She was fragile, left in a state that many would crumble within. But still she remained. She needed....something. Something to guide and shield her. The vessel felt then. Felt a feeling of its own. It wanted. Wanted to become that shield. To break free of its own bonds and give to her. There had to be a way. But for now, it would simply drink in the warmth its owner had given without touch, use it to store strength while filling her inspiration, giving her a reason to create. That would be enough. Until it found its full potential.
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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Old 11-14-2012, 07:16 PM   #10
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Confused, with no sense of direction, no vision, Lasair stared at the clay. Her hands slid over the moist earth which was destined to become art, yet her hands formed no shape from it. It felt more like something to be played with, than a medium to create with. She looked back to her mirror, seeing only her reflection. Staring as though she was looking for something hidden beneath the image of her body seated at a table with lifelessness on the table.

Lasair stared until she made herself see something. The woman. The beautiful woman who she tried to paint so long ago. Yes, it was her she needed to create. The woman's beautiful face, and flawless body would be formed from this clay. She turned to the clay and began to mold it once more. Yet, nothing happened. Globs of clay shifted to other globs. Then, light, coming from the vessel.

Lasair was reminded that the mirror was not her muse. The image she saw in the mirror was what she thought she should create. She had been fixated on this woman for so long. Yet, the vase, the vessel, the sleek black object started to glow and turned her attention to a new thought. Lasair closed her eyes and saw herself beneath the tree. The mighty Oak that protected her with its tall trunk and massive branches that were much more like a canvas of leaves.

Her eyes still closed, Lasair's fingers began to move. Up and down, they stroked the clay in such a smooth sensual way, it was as if she was one with it. The glob became long and slender. With her finger tips she began to dig in ridges in this long trunk she was molding. Despite the clay being so cold and so wet, she felt such warmth emanating from it. She opened her eyes to see what she had down. A smile swept over her face. She then whispered the words "protector," though, she was certain that someone told her to whisper this word. She looked to the vessel and smiled. The glowing lines of gold remained a mystery, but she felt comforted by them. Curious, but far from scared. It seemed this vessel was alive. Somehow, it had an essence. She sought to understand it, but her eyes returned to the clay and she continued to build the trunk of a tree. Growing and growing until she ran out of clay. She simple didn't have a enough to create such a mighty oak.

Lasair finished what she could of her work, and despite running out of earth to mold, she smiled, pleased with knowing that she had something to create. As the sun rose, she washed herself and returned to her bed. She felt so tired, so exhausted, yet so content. She closed her eyes with the intent to only rest for a moment before finding more clay to dig up and transform into the tree she desired to create. She glimpsed over to the of the mirror across the room. She smiled at the oak tree that kept the little girl beneath it so safe and loved.
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Old 11-16-2012, 02:01 AM   #11
fr33ks33k
Mr. Dark and Brooding
 
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Join Date: Oct 2005
Location: In the span between heartbeats...the eye of the needle...the second before sunrise...
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Warmth. Remembrance. Heat, both from the candles and from Lasair herself. As the sun rose, she slept. The vessel sensed that to be intrinsically wrong, but still required. It recognized tiredness. It felt it too, after exerting itself again. The warmth the candles exuded faded as they burnt out, but the light of the sun fell upon it favorably throughout the entire day. By the time late afternoon had reached its long rays into Lasair's room, casting over her sleeping form, the vessel had amassed a great deal of strength. The sea of dreamspace was filled with the same emotions, that familiar wave after wave of thoughts.

Its vision fell upon the half-formed tree that rested on her wheel. Even unfinished, it held its own strength. Wet clay that beckoned to become whole, to have a proper form. Much like the vessel itself. But it did not want to be a tree. It could not move if it were rooted to the ground. It would have a great canopy of leaves, but it could not hold Lasair. That was a new thought. It wanted to hold her. The protection it wanted to provide was more tactile.

But what form to take? It was reminded then of the image of her father, of her mother, of the woman she'd started painting. So many options. So many variances and differing details. The vessel glowed for a minute or two, trying to manifest something that would be even remotely acceptable. The warmth of the sun had gifted the vessel with a great store of power, and it used it now to pull itself free of the trappings of stone that held its consciousness.

A wavering figure took shape on the air before the potter's wheel, glowing just as golden as the lines on the vessel. It was only vaguely humanoid, but its edges kept flickering and shifting. It had no eyes, no discernible nose, nor a mouth. Yet it spoke a single word: Body.

The exertion was becoming too much, and as it felt the corners of Lasair's consciousness returning from sleep, its force-made figure shivered and retreated to the vessel from whence it came.

The voice that spoke of hope and promise, in alto and tenor at the same time, the one that the vessel had claimed as its own, spoke as if to welcome Lasair back into the realm of wakefulness.

Return to life, create anew. More clay, more work. Inspiration, reciprocation. More than clay, more than stone. Time....
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La vie n'est qu'une ombre dans l'obscurité la plus profonde

Something's gotta give...and if it's not my spine it will surely be my spirit. I only pray the splinters will shatter in such a way that every passerby takes a second to revel in my wreckage....

In the space between the sands of time and making sense he scribbles thoughts half-made and half-mad. He has written all his mind away and been left half-alive and mostly dead. His spark is the maker's forge, burning bright and hot. His soul is the flame that guides lost travelers on their wayward paths. In his thoughts he is whole, he is home, he is free. If only this poor poet's mental world were true reality...

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