Asterion || Minotaur (cantfindtheexit) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-03-24 12:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | orpheus, the minotaur |
Who: Orpheus and Asterion
Where: Orpheus' temple
When: Tuesday mid-morning
What: Meeting, Asterion is trying to find fodder for sculpting.
Warnings: Language is the only foreseeable sort of warning.
He hadn't slept in days. Not that it bothered him, really, because sleep wasn't really necessary, though somehow, even after all of these centuries, that felt extremely strange. How did one's habits as a man cling to them after centuries of immortality? It was a strange phenomenon, but one that Asterion clung to. After all, his only hope of retaining his true nature was to cling to what he had once been, to fight to retain a personality that had only really belonged to a few short decades of his life. Still, it had some staying power, didn't it? The beast lay quiet within him, and had for quite some time, and he was able to throw himself into his art with as much abandon as he possibly could. It was nice, not worrying about bloodstains and the accoutrement of murder, even if only for awhile.
But he hadn't slept. There had been things to move, people to see, meetings to hold, and best of all, inspiration. Beautiful, lovely inspiration, filling him like some ethereal music, spilling forth from his fingertips, sketches and drawings and best of all....an idea. Born of this city and its mess of inhabitants, its sea of mortals and blossoming cloud of immortals, he held the idea just behind his sternum, and it gave him every bit of the energy needed to traverse the streets on foot. He began in Manhattan, but after a day and a half of wandering, occasionally finding some beautiful object and hailing a cab to help him get it back to the studios and then return him to his starting point, he had found himself among the brownstones of Brooklyn.
He had been running at times, walking at others, and he felt exhilarated and free and caught up in the restless peace of creation, the pile of "found" objects in his studio growing and growing as he traversed those city streets, not entirely unlike the labyrinth he had once called home. His hair was a mess of brownish golden curls, a grin plastered across his lips, a camera hanging around his neck, ratty, paint stained jeans and close fitting, faded shirt tagging him, typecasting him. The artist, it was the archetype he wished to be, and was, in a way, though in the worlds of the immortal he was the bull, Taurus, Minotaur, Asterion. The last identity was the one he cared about. The one he perpetuated. The one he belonged to.
And so in his whirlwind of exhilaration and inspiration, he walked down the street, drawing near to a place that somehow seemed to call to him. Somehow...and of course, when he saw that dilapidated place, that tumbling, abandoned place, he assumed it was the beauty of it that drew his heart like a siren song, and the camera was raised, shots were taken, and he could hardly help it when he stepped over the fence and moved closer and closer, seeing so much beauty in the broken brick, in the shattered glass and the graffiti, in the various remnants of those who had once inhabited it. Phenomenal. Beautiful. He could use this, he could use all of it, and already he was planning his next piece, another "found" piece, but all of the objects from this once-holy site alone. Perfect. Brilliant. He moved through the rooms like a ghost, giving himself away only when his boots would crunch against broken glass, shattered brick. Staring in awe at what appeared to be a stage, his grin was almost painfully enormous, and he lifted his camera again, taking a shot of it.
"Beautiful..." he murmered softly, almost reverently. "Breathtaking..."