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 The first stroke

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Subject Post 1PostSubject: The first stroke   Tue Aug 31, 2010 5:10 pm

The BGM:



Arkhangelsk

It means "Archangel" in English, being an average, frigid city nestled up in between the two large banks of the Northern Divina River, up in the northern portion of European Russia. Being the former chief seaport of Medieval Russia, the city housed a few hundred thousand people. To get there, one could take a plane to the city, or ride the train from Moscow all the way to the end of the railroad, which was where the bitterly cold city was. It was currently winter, the black skies of a seemingly endless night being full of dense, dark clouds. It was snowing quite a lot on the city, coating its monuments, parks, roads, and such in a blanket of frigid white. The only source of light in the environment came from the buildings and homes that were nestled close to each other, providing some decent illumination to the otherwise dim and dull area. The number of people traversing the frozen streets were shortened to a scarce few, as the sheet of frosty white slowly grew further and further, going up to the knees of those who were bold enough to walk through the intense cold. As of now, the point of focus is not in any public space or location of importance in the city, but rather an old, abandoned plant, isolated from the rest of the city. The slowly decaying, large rectangular plant has been abandoned since the end of the cold war. Most of the darkly tinted windows were either cracked or broken. The cracks on the walls grew more and more due to the expansion of the ice within them. The two tall, gray pipes of cement that stuck out from the northeastern corner stood a good 50 feet tall, having not spewed smoke in a long time. It is a suprise that the plant is still there after all this time, untouched by anyone...until now.

From within the structure, piles of iron gurters layed stacked up against the gray wall. In complete military vehicles such as humvees and tanks lined up the south end of the bottom level of the plant. There were 4 higher levels, the center of the floor of each one being cut out, so anyone who looked above the crimson rusted railing can see the bottom level below. All was quiet, excluding the sound of icy cold wind passing through the openings in the windows. That was until a bright yellow light could be seen from the far right of the bottom level. No sound was made though, it was still silent.

Standing a few feet from the gray wall, was none other than The Artist. Gernard has only moved into the city a day go, and he was already practicing in creating something he had wanted to make for awhile now, an elemental. Although a black leather overcoat, a pair of green pants, and a black, long sleeve cotton shirt was not enough to shield him from the fierce cold that beat into the plant, he did not appear to mind the low temperature.

His small, silver orbs, which appeared colder that the frigid depths outside, were fixed upon the glowing red portrait he was making. His left arm stuck out, the pinky and ring finger of his steel glove, the Fist of Suns, were sticking out. Since the ligament on his ring finger prevents it from sticking as high up as his pinky, the pinky was lowered so it was parallel to the other finger. The light yellow and red tips of teh fingers appeared to have shot out a deep yellow beam was being fired in between the two tips. Like a virtuoso in painting, he moved his hand with a dizzying speed, the light quickly etching the circle onto the wall. The artist not only focused on precision, he also focused on the speed of his drawing. The way he oh so gracefully moved the tips of his glove shown that he has spent a lot of time to better himself at making art at such a fast rate. After completing the circle, he would add the finishing touch to the conjuring seal. With one last, rapid stroke from his two fingers, the ray of golden light etched on what appeared to be a rune from the Kabbalah. Such runes were quite useful for him to use when it came to enchantments and the like. What he drew out was the ancient symbol for lightning, for destruction, fury, and power: Thurisaz


And now, his glowing work of art was complete. The Artist would slowly back away from his creation, to take full few of what the result would be. As he was stepping back from the work of art, little bolts of electricity could be seen flowing from one part of the golden ring to another. The crackling noise of electricity grew more and more as the little streams of electricity traveled around the ring, and through the image. It appeared as if it was going to work. His silver pupils widened slightly as the seal began to glow brighter and brighter. Could this be it? is this where his piece of art would manifest itself as a synthetically made being? Before any more questions could enter his mind, the seal would then explode into a thick bubble of lightning, before bursting into a great flurry of tiny bolts of electricity that rushed through varying directing. The disastrous result would induce The Artist to dive away, crossing his arms across his pale face in case the thin streams of lightning were to hit him. The left side of his body hitting the ground, he braced for impact as the electricity rushed through the metals that lined the building. Slowly, the violent crackle of electricity lessened and lessened, until at last, it died out a minute later. Moving his arms out of his face to take image of the spot where he had drown his seal, he would see nothing but a circle of steam. Propping his pale, smooth hand on the cement, he would push himself up off his side, his eyes quickly moving to scan the area for any sign of anything that was out there.

Nothing...

It would appear that The Artist has failed to draw up the desired creation, and has ended up with a shocking fluke instead. How sad, though it appeared that Gernard didn't care the slightest bit. His facial expression did not show any sadness, or shame. In fact, that event only spurred him up to try yet again. It wasn't the first time he had experienced failure. He has met many self-defeats, but has never surrendered. To a bitter, objective man like himself, he only saw failure as a stepping stone to success, not some petty little thing to skulk over.

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Last edited by Ræn on Tue Aug 31, 2010 7:05 pm; edited 9 times in total (Reason for editing : More on it later.)
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Subject Post 2PostSubject: Re: The first stroke   Sun Oct 10, 2010 3:33 pm

Locked

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Subject Post 3PostSubject: Re: The first stroke   Wed Jan 26, 2011 12:24 am

Shame that no one ever responded to this...
Archived

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Subject Post 4PostSubject: Re: The first stroke   Mon Jun 06, 2011 12:41 pm






Archived ;; Locking...


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Subject Post 5PostSubject: Re: The first stroke   Thu Mar 29, 2012 4:31 pm


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Believe nothing, no matter where you read it or who has said it, not even if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.
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