Painting Poetry [OPEN] Oct 8, 2012 18:37:06 GMT -5
Post by Zen on Oct 8, 2012 18:37:06 GMT -5
Zandikar set up his easel atop the most level area he could find in the general vicinity of where he wished to paint. He had been paying close attention to the different areas around the Weyr, trying to pick out the very best place to get a view of the wings doing their drills. He would have to imagine the Thread, but he wished to paint a Threadfighting image. He had seen it from afar… very afar, well enough to make a passable representation of it at least, though he was shockingly looking forward to getting his own dragon and viewing it up close so that he might be able to improve that representation. Anything to make his art better.
He set up his canvas, a sheet of heavy, and expensive, parchment he had pre-painted with the blue he wished for the sky and stood back a moment, scanning the air above and before him. A few dragons were in flight, but the whole wing had yet to assemble. Today was a ‘free day’ for the candidates. It happened once every sevenday. No lessons and minimal chores, sign up for a chore to do at whatever hour you wished to do it. Faranth knew there were always chores to be done about this place. Being a candidate was not exactly all he had thought it would be; mostly a lot of hard work and little time for himself or his art. Hopefully things would be better once he Impressed. He understood caring for a dragon was also a lot of hard work, but feeding and oiling his own dragon seemed so much more worthwhile than doing the sharding dishes. He let out an indignant huff at that. He was an artist, not a kitchenworker.
He took out his paints, opening the jars they were stored in and setting them up with care. He knew very well that paint did not come cheap and was loathe to waste even a drop. Being an artist was a risky business, and one few on Pern could afford in every literal meaning of the word. If you did not have the talent, the gift his father would say, no one would take the time of day to teach you or give you the slightest chance to prove you were worth a few smudges of paint. It was terribly hard to make it as an artist if you were not phenomenal at what you did. Luckily for Zandikar, he was phenomenal. He couldn’t imagine going through life in any other profession… besides being a dragonrider that is. And he could still be an artist and a dragonrider at the same time. He just wouldn’t be completely focused on art at all times like now. Dragonriding was the only thing he could ever imagine being more important to him than art.
A Bronze made his way high into the sky and many other colors followed after him. He was fairly certain it was the Weyrleader. Letting out a soft sigh, Zandikar was content to watch the drill for a short few moments; a rainbow battle in the sky with all sorts of colors in all sorts of shades flying this way, darting that way, tongues of bright red-orange flame bursting into open air. It was certainly a sight to behold, a moment in time to freeze and capture for eternity so that others would never forget the wonder and the beauty of it. He picked up a spoon and dipped it into the yellow, picking up a scrap of hide and tapping the yellow glob onto it. He wiped the spoon off with a scrap of cloth, making sure it was completely clean, before dipping it into the red for just a smidge. He mixed the yellow and red until they were a nice youthful orange, comparing it to that of the Weyrleader’s Bronze high in the sky. He wiped off his spoon again before scooping out some white and adding it to his newly created orange, lightening it a bit until… there! Perfect.
He cleaned off the spoon and set it aside, picking up a thin brush and dipping it into his newly created color, dabbing excess paint off, and giving a few light strokes to create a vague silhouette of the Weyrleader’s dragon toward the top of the canvas. Yes, yes… this would turn out lovely. It was even a perfect day, not too hot, not too much moisture in the air. A soft smile set upon his lips as he dabbed and stroked and made a slightly lighter and darker shade in order to create the illusion of a gleaming metallic hide. He made the rider an extension of his dragon, a darkened form of his dragon’s own color that looked as if he belonged there, a very part of the dragon he rode. Yes… perfect. For what was a dragon without his rider, or vice versa? Nothing, from what he’d heard. Dragons betweened without their rider, riders were a shell of what they had been, half of their very selves ripped away and gone forever. They were a part of each other mentally, emotionally, but he could not represent that in this particular image… so physically would have to suffice.