Luain

In the quiet, calm days of Luain's art studio, nothing is as it seems. They say it looks happy and cozy, from the timid appearance it gives off from the outside. But those that have ever been inside tell a different story.

Inside, the studio is full of life. The wooden walls are covered with mindless doodles, scraps of parchment tacked on, ideas coming forth from the artist's mind. The wood floorboards are splattered with paint, sometimes intricate patterns and designs, and occasionally a rolling graphite pencil that you might just trip over.

If you wander farther into the art studio, you might see the artist sorting flower petals to make into paint, or using a charcoal pencil to sketch a design, or perhaps crouched behind an easel, painting, while whistling a happy tune. He might even be sculpting a clay statue, or you might rarely find him cleaning a room, cleaning until it's spotless, and until his talons are the opposite.

Luain’s studio is a masterpiece, they say.

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He murmurs under his breath a quiet greeting to the birds as he walks outside. It remains unheard, for he is afraid that his nature for loving the birds and talking to them is not for the public eye.

Even still, sometimes the public, who know him as Luain, the great artist, see him doing things that should not have been seen by them… but nevertheless seen. It’s hard to explain why he does things the way he does them - he has his own way, some just do not understand. They are ignorant of other ways that have not been explored by them… but let them have their way.

As the bright, sunny, Aeos sky warms his stiff neck, after chiseling a stone sculpture for hours, he’s glad to feel the sunshine. The warmth. The calming essence of nature.

The birds that love to perch near his studio chirp pleasantly, and began to sing, under the light of the sun. A gentle breeze lifts the tree they’re perched on, as if hopefully, and it dances a little, pushed by the wind, to the birds’ rhythm.

He smiles.

Then the storm comes.

Dark gray clouds emerge, masking away the sun. The sky dims, as the cheerful blue disappears, and vanishes into a dull, stormy gray. No trace of the former brightness of that day remains.

With an indignant huff, he turns around and hurries back to his studio, just as it begins to rain.

A light hammering on his roof signals that it has begun to hail. He sighs.

Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day.

Lore by TwilightStars