The Colour of Stars

The night sky unfolded above the calm waters, a canvas dotted with twinkling stars. Among the crew of the merchant vessel Seapearl, flowed an air of ease as they sailed, their destination the bustling ports of the southern continent. Amidst the chatter and laughter of the sailors, one figure sat quietly on the deck, his gaze fixated upon the celestial display above.

The man of curly mess for hair, took out a wooden box, and just like the ship smoothly glided over the ocean, so had his hands gracefully flipped this box open, revealing a set of paints and brushes. Although a painter by trade, his eyes denied the scene as his commission, for he found this passage aboard a journey in search of a new inspiration. For celestial scene like this to behest his eyes.

With deft strokes against one of the few empty canvases that were concealed underneath his coat, he recreated the constellations that adorned the heavens. His peaceful, calm hand guided the brush against this colourless fabric, lined the skies, following the stars. A first set amongst the brighter ones, formed a central figure extending into a sinuous form, capturing a powerful presence as it twisted and turned among the dots. Next came a constellation — a pantheon shaped by the western stars. And each star of this blacksmith’s heart, represented a God that dwarves of Elmrior worshipped one way or another. And as such, the man with a firm hand wielding colours, paid homage to them.

A passing cloud drifted its way over his inspiration, and he took this rare moment of serenity over the open seas to breathe. He conceded himself to it. For a reasons unfamiliar, this salty, fishy air, smelled refreshing to him.

An invigorating minute passed by as the cloud made its way, revealing another celestial inspiration. Dots in the again clear sky, seemed to spread out in two directions, and formed a mirroring symmetry before connecting on the opposite end. The infamous twins. The combination of its numerous stars is what often made this mythological sign inconspicuous to the residents across these earthly realms. It, the largest of the all constellations, with each of its twinkle told a story; and each story was a part in a Vresari tale of the differences between two brothers sharing the same goal and resolution. A symbol of duality.

His eyes panned over, and over, back and forth between the celestial and the fabric-weaved canvas in front of him, with his only concern laid in perfection. His brush lined. The brush shaped. And the brush did shade. The heavenly picture now was accurately portrayed. But his blinking eyes, and perfectionist’s breath told him different. Like something was missing, as if 'something' his eyes were looking straight at, and he knew he couldn't see it.

Another drifting cloud distracted his eyes tonight. Only in it, his faultfinding observers did not see an obstacle, but an inspiration. Once again, like a mother rocking a child to sleep, he found the swaying movements of the ocean soothing. The cloud passed, and he saw the final piece. Within his capture, he faintly relined a pattern. With the lightest of weight behind them, the hairs of the brush gently graced curving lines. One after another, the lines shaped a graceful figure; a drifting veil of ethereal beauty to a subjective eye. With the gentlest of taps upon the southernmost star, he finished her portrait — the Lady.

To him, this simplistic combination of dancing lines, appeared familiar the most. The constellation was dedicated to an angel of motherhood; the Norleasan patron of children. He let go of the brush as if he wasn’t the one guiding it, while in fact, it was guiding him. As he drew those last lines, he did not draw inspiration from the heavens above, but instead from the replays of memories from his youth at the orphanage in Ordell. A flash of memories where the gaping hole in his heart, was slowly closing by the caring and loving actions of the Mothers that filled it, and the Brothers and Sisters that stitched it.

As quickly as the memories flashed, just as quickly they faded. A chaotic contrast to the ship swaying jilted away his serenity as the ship lurched violently to one side. Suddenly the air grew heavy, and a sense of unease crept over him. He turned, only to see he was not alone in this feeling. Other than passengers and stewards clutching themselves to the ship’s firmholds, the deckhands’ movements seemed fickle trying to stabilize the ship.

Collective panic erupted from the cacophony of creaks and groaning of the ship’s timber as it strained against an unseen force. Then, from the depths below, came a sound that sent shivers down the painter’s spine — a low ominous rumble that seemed to reverberate through the very soul of the ship. Screams and shouting ensued, while the man fumbled juggling between putting on the coat and pinning down his equipment.

With each passing moment, the attacks grew more frequent and more ferocious as if something was abruptly awoken from its slumber to wreak havoc upon the surface world. Desperation clawed at the man’s heart as he fought for his art; his breathing screamed fear and adrenaline. This once serene night had become a battleground, and he was powerless to do anything but bear witness to the chaos unfolding before his very eyes.

A chaos in which these teal sapphires got distracted again. Distracted by the madness of what his artistic soul unveiled within this budding mayhem.

In a leap of faith, the man levered himself between two wooden parts of the ship’s fastened haul, and let go of all his belongings, save for an empty canvas and his painting kit. As the relentless assault of the deep continued, he begun repainting the heavens once again. First he guided the brush, then once more, he let the brush guide him.

Between the screams of passengers, and the deafening sound of ship’s destruction, shouts from one of the crew members protruded. It was the young captain himself, shouting orders in attempts to evacuate his jewel.

Another hit sent the ship lurching to one side again, and this time ripping off all three of the ship’s masts, with the main one collapsing onto the first lifeboat paddling away, sinking it. Their eerie screams that followed were a catalyst to everybody’s already darkened thoughts. Aside from the painter’s. Like his mind, his brush still painted in a mix of neutral, cold and warm colours. Two dozen seconds after the first stroke, three masts, and the ship’s bowsprit splashing the troubled waters, were all it took to for this madman to finish his copy.

Upon its completion, the painter quickly snapped back to the grisly reality. The screams, and the sounds of crashing waves, were first to make him tremble again. He felt no wind, yet he was terrified of how upset the seas were as the ship started to sink.

Suddenly, a burly hand grasped his shoulder. The grip indeed was strong, but weak enough to comfort his soul, not add to the distress. He looked up to see it was his captain, and his steely dwarven gaze fixed upon him, of expressions grave and determined.

“Come on, lad!” The captain shouted above the din, his voice barely audible over the roars of the sea. “We’ve no time to waste! To lifeboats, now!”

Hinting at hesitation, the captain’s grip tightened, and with a firm tug, he pulled the painter away toward the last of the lifeboats. Forcefully guided into one of the two remaining vessels of hope, the man sat down with the captain. Hanging tightly onto his last piece, he mourned over tonight as he saw Seapearl drifted farther, and farther into the distance.

Eventually, it became irrelevant whether the last assault finished the captain’s jewel or not, it would’ve sank by now anyway. Their thoughts shared this terrifying uncertainty, and they all watched it. Watched the only two remaining vessels hauling cargo of second chances, drifting deeper and deeper, into the horizon of the calm, watery nothingness.

Hours breezed away, and no one was sure how far into the night they travelled. But at least it felt peaceful once more, yet the salty taste in the air this time smelled anything but refreshing. Other than the occasional splash of water the seas’ gentle waves brought, only the chatter of the shipless captain and his mates’ could be heard. With the two vessels side by side, drifting together, they had quite the attentive audience, side from the painter again. Their ears witnessed a discussion of fading hope, as the loss of the navigating equipment of the captain, emphasised his youthful inexperience.

Whilst the man still mourned, his eyes stayed glued at his last work. This identical copy of his first celestial art, really makes one wonder how the peaceful strokes can reap the same results as the troubled ones. And that was what prompted his madness, again. The madness of art.

“The Lady!” He interrupted them.

As everyone turned, his hands already lifted his art like a display. A finished piece of the skies above, a homage to the four visible constellations — the Kraken, the Anvil, the Twins, and the Lady.

“Lads, we’re going home!” The captain knew it as soon as he saw the piece. Knew that Phillip Jouvessier, in his hands, held the heavenly compass — a map under the guidance of the Lady’s southernmost star.