Open Chronicles An Arrangement of Stardust

[Bliss]

In celebration of two cities sharing in their love of art and history, the bi-annual gala was to be hosted in Elbion. An opportunity for those studying at the College to attend and extend introductions to those that hail from the Anirian territories. Although a small retinue of Anirians are in attendance, given that war was being fought for better trades and service between their country and that of Cortos, invitations were extended to nobility and Dreadlords alike.

Bliss Gradimir was in her fourth year at the College, but to attend the Hall of History and Art for the gala was an opportunity she would not miss out on. She was not one to dress up, to stand out in a crowd, but if she were to have worn her usual attire, Bliss would stick out like a sore thumb. With her family's help, a dress of a lovely mauve colour was made for her to attend.

She was not the only College student to attend, and did not stray far from their small grouping. "Should we go look at the art?" Bliss asked no one in particular, but her eyes looked to each of them. "I hear they have pieces sent in from Vel Anir, Alliria, Dornoch... many cities have contributed to this collection."

Art, she had no real clue about. So she settled her eyes upon Atticus Hael. Her brow quirked, having heard that the young man knew a few good things on the subject.

---

It was easy to pick apart who were from the Anirian delegation. There was a sort of reserved nature to them, something watchful. Those that traveled from the Empire were not easily lost in this crowd, for they wielded regal flair and rich colours. Other visitors could be seen also, and by the end of the evening, all in attendance would be immersed in conversation with other delegations.

The hall was a long stretch of windows on one side, draped in splendour and lush velvet. The golden beams of a setting sun filtered through the panes of glass, the mullions casting breaks in the light and shadows that stretched into the interior. Music was kept to a light volume, although no one can pinpoint if there truly was a quartet or not for there was no presence in the room. Scoring the evening of arts and leisure, idle conversation and the occasional clinks of glass would provide accompaniment with the like music. In sure time, crowds and delegations from neighboring cities came together to view art and talk the history of many artists and what the art depicted of it's time.

"... came from Vel Redynne. Remarkable that the bust only sports a few scrapes and chinks after the building collapsed back in the First War... yes, you see that there? Just beneath the palm reaching for the cheek? You can see the mending done back when restorations were done of the pieces recovered from the rubble." The Anirian accent was strong as they spoke in Common, but the man wore a sash across his navy suit to show that he was an art historian from Vel Anir. One of the honorees of this gala.

Donations would be taken, if one were to fund the arts, and would go towards recovering lost pieces or cleaning artifacts.

"Oh! Hello! Welcome to the gala!" A good few of those wearing sashes went about to greet all they could, ushering bystanders to go view the various art pieces and paintings hung up on the wall. New and old, it would be shown here tonight.

Refreshments and a light grazing table of small foods were provided by stations tucked away from the art, and serviced by elves or dwarves, even the occasional human.

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A FEW THINGS I MUST POINT OUT!

- This is open to all, and please do not try to derail from the main topic. This is meant to be light hearted and social, no conflicts please.

- Be mindful that, yes, this will end up with many other groupings, but please ensure other people have a chance to get their replies in before doing back to backs. We do not want other posts to be washed away!

- Feel free to descrive any of the artwork! Remember to keep it friendly, nothing too graphic in description (no gore or sexually explicit, keep it tasteful!)

- Any queries, ask them on Discord!

Art Credit goes to Night Town by Florian Herold

 

[Lysander Docatto Valestri]

Lysander stood before the canvas, posture straight, gloved hands tucked neatly behind his back. His white coat, lined in black and gold, caught the gallery light with each slow breath. The painting loomed tall—an ominous fortress, wrought in deep blues and blacks. The battlements looked jagged, like cooled obsidian pulled from the bones of some ancient volcano.

He leaned in, just enough to catch the thick drag of oil paint layered over stonework and sky. The texture tempted touch—but he resisted. Barely.

“Hm…” he hummed, eyes narrowing.

He tilted his head. No familiar crest. No tower shape that matched any estate near Elbion. The silhouette was wrong. Too sharp. Too stark. Too grim to be a home.

“Looks like something out of a lich’s wet dream,” he muttered. “I bet the owner keeps wolves in the dining hall. Probably throws houseguests into snake pits for dessert.”


His fingers twitched toward the canvas. He stilled them. The oil-paint lay heavy, tempting to touch, textured like cooled slag. He stepped half a pace back, eyes tracking the angled battlements, trying to read what kind of mind would build a home that hated light.

Whatever lord lived here—if any had—clearly valued fear over comfort. As art, it was masterful. As architecture, it was a prison. A beautiful one, maybe. But still a prison.

 

[Pomrick Bloomsfield]

"Oh! Hello! Welcome to the gala!" A good few of those wearing sashes went about to greet all they could, ushering bystanders to go view the various art pieces and paintings hung up on the wall. New and old, it would be shown here tonight.

Pomrick filed in with a gaggle of other students. He was swathed in an awkward-looking, ill-fitting navy robe like a hand tucked into a oversized glove, unable to reach the fingers. The sleeves swallowed his arms. The collar devoured his chin. The ends dragged after him on the floor, causing more than one bystander to have to skip over it and shoot him incensed looks.

This was the best he'd been able to find in his master's wardrobe, but it had to do. It also carried a handy hood to pull down over one's face - for craftiness! Just in case. Should Krellos be here. He tested it, pulling it over his head - and it fell down well beyond his nose, drowning him in fabric and nearly causing him to walk into a ruffled Anirian.

When he pushed it back, he spotted Lysander across the room, carefully studying a piece of art rendered in even darker colours than Pomrick's borrowed clothes.

A glance around him confirmed that, indeed, a group of older students were in attendance as well, including an ash-haired girl brushing past in an elegant dress of mauve silk, neatly fitted. Pomrick blinked, then glanced down at the folds of excess cloth dangling about him like curtains. He almost pulled the hood back over his head.

At least the senior students might mistake him for someone else. Feeling a need to blend in, he desperately sought someone he knew. Anyone! Even vaguely.

His uncertain path took him to Lysander. Lifting the ends of the robe around him like a skirt, Pomrick dodged a delegation of Anirian diplomats, briefly turning their heads in his direction like he had been a buzzing wasp. But this did not deter him. Anyone could appreciate art - his ma had said as much.

He found Lysander still scrutinising the painting, finger nearly touching it. Was that how one was supposed to look at a painting? Noted for later. He announced himself with a shuffle of cloth and gentle clearing of his throat.

"Evening, Lysander. Oh," he interjected himself, spotting the brooding details of the painting. A gloomy fortress in midnight black and blue. But also a chance for a witty witticism. "Damn me. That could almost look - that could almost look like . . . Maester Kikwi's home. It looks right owl-ful." In place of crickets, gentle glass-clinks and distant laughter trickled over them. Pomrick's voice and manner shrunk, peering around them. ". . . Eh? . . . You . . . you get it. . ?"

Lysander Docatto Valestri

 

[Alistair Krixus]

A few confused yet curious eyes glanced towards the young gentleman standing with a serene smile before a complex painting of the ancient wizard Xhazier the Grey in his battle with the demon Balanor. It was an old story from Elbion that was more common as a children's story, more so than any real piece of history. What made the painting truly unique was the intricate spell patterns woven into the art, signalling the artist's skill in both the brush and a magic circle...And what made this all the more peculiar was that the young man was enthralled with this image, was clearly and absolutely blind.

Alistair Krixus stood before the art in a richly embroidered black suit with a silver lining and stylizations rounded out with a dark blue half cape draped across his right shoulder. A simple ebony cane rested lazily in his left hand as he analyzed the artwork.

The young Anirian aristocrat had seemingly disappeared from the public eye for a few months, a fact that had garnered much attention and gossip while he was away. The patron of House Krixus had ballooned his family's wealth seemingly overnight after his graduation from the Academy, only to go missing just as the family business was at the height of its influence. This event was his first attempt to wet his feet back into the public realm.

"If only our people were so openly creative with our use of magic in other creative fields."

 

[Lysander Docatto Valestri]

Pomrick filed in with a gaggle of other students. He was swathed in an awkward-looking, ill-fitting navy robe like a hand tucked into a oversized glove, unable to reach the fingers. The sleeves swallowed his arms. The collar devoured his chin. The ends dragged after him on the floor, causing more than one bystander to have to skip over it and shoot him incensed looks.

This was the best he'd been able to find in his master's wardrobe, but it had to do. It also carried a handy hood to pull down over one's face - for craftiness! Just in case. Should Krellos be here. He tested it, pulling it over his head - and it fell down well beyond his nose, drowning him in fabric and nearly causing him to walk into a ruffled Anirian.

When he pushed it back, he spotted Lysander across the room, carefully studying a piece of art rendered in even darker colours than Pomrick's borrowed clothes.

A glance around him confirmed that, indeed, a group of older students were in attendance as well, including an ash-haired girl brushing past in an elegant dress of mauve silk, neatly fitted. Pomrick blinked, then glanced down at the folds of excess cloth dangling about him like curtains. He almost pulled the hood back over his head.

At least the senior students might mistake him for someone else. Feeling a need to blend in, he desperately sought someone he knew. Anyone! Even vaguely.

His uncertain path took him to Lysander. Lifting the ends of the robe around him like a skirt, Pomrick dodged a delegation of Anirian diplomats, briefly turning their heads in his direction like he had been a buzzing wasp. But this did not deter him. Anyone could appreciate art - his ma had said as much.

He found Lysander still scrutinising the painting, finger nearly touching it. Was that how one was supposed to look at a painting? Noted for later. He announced himself with a shuffle of cloth and gentle clearing of his throat.

"Evening, Lysander. Oh," he interjected himself, spotting the brooding details of the painting. A gloomy fortress in midnight black and blue. But also a chance for a witty witticism. "Damn me. That could almost look - that could almost look like . . . Maester Kikwi's home. It looks right owl-ful." In place of crickets, gentle glass-clinks and distant laughter trickled over them. Pomrick's voice and manner shrunk, peering around them. ". . . Eh? . . . You . . . you get it. . ?"

Lysander Docatto Valestri

Lysander turned only partway, as if not to break the small spell that paint and canvas had cast. His gaze went from the colors to Pomrick, the tangle of hair, the eyes too awake for this hour, and he let his mouth take on a crooked line that was almost a smile.

“Your jokes are so thoroughly bad they come back around to good,” he said. “There’s a kind of charm in the full circle of it.”

He considered his words, fingertips to his chin, as though the thought had a rough edge that wanted smoothing.

“I always pictured Maester Kikwi in an oversized bird house,” he went on. “He’s, what, two feet tall? What would he do with a real house? He could sleep in a shoebox, if he chose, and likely wake well-rested, having left room for dreams.”