Asterion || Minotaur (cantfindtheexit) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-04-11 21:48:00 |
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Entry tags: | orpheus, the minotaur |
Who: Asterion and Orpheus
When: Saturday late afternoon/evening.
Where: Orpheus' temple
What: Talking.
It had been a week. A week since Asterion found himself walking through the door of his studio, a week since all that power had been shared with him, since that night where he had stood on the balcony and shook and had been given a gift and a kiss, two things separate and all at once the same. Seven days of nothing but creation. Seven days with the monster pushed far, far away, asleep and quiet and content to allow the artist his relief. Part of him knew that, because of this reprieve, the monster would be happy to take his revenge at some later date...but that didn't matter right now. Wouldn't matter until it happened, really, and even then it was inevitable. He wouldn't be too worried about it, regardless of the outcome.
What was the point? It would only distract from his art, and right now, his art was coming so beautifully. The sculpture inspired by (and really, created for, if he was being honest with himself...which he wasn't) Orpheus had been particularly challenging, requiring hours of soldering and welding. It wouldn't have been nearly as bad if he wore protective gear, but Asterion saw no use for such stuff and was therefore covered in burns. He didn't mind. They hurt, but they healed inevitably and he rather liked the metaphor.
But now...now five sculptures were finished. Five, out of a set of seven, and he felt so close, so close to completion, and yet something was lacking...his art had always reflected his experience and his mindset, his interactions with the world at large. Holing up in a studio, speaking only the once, to Icarus, was very efficient and beautiful...but he had done quite enough of it for now. In order to move forward, he needed inspiration, and for inspiration, he sought a world that he had only known as an immortal, a world full of humanity and stimulation of the senses, a world where he could experience and transform and create and stand amazed at the beauty and the madness and everything in between. Art was an inadequate striving at catching just a bit, just a section, just a moment of everything that was, everything to could be...and every once and awhile, the artist was successful, and in those moments, everything just was and it all made sense. The beauty, the passion of it was almost unbearable.
And so finally, seven days later, he left his studio again and set out into the streets and the alleyways of the City, and he didn't know where he was going and he he didn't care. Destination was irrelevant when the point was just going. The artist walked at first, wearing a faded t-shirt he'd held on to since the seventies and one of his many paint-stained pairs of jeans, a smear of something that looked like blood running down his leg. He wanted to run barefoot through streets and alleys, just like to Minotaur, but thought better of it, slipping into sandals at the last minute. Walking was fine at first, but he was still jittery, still so full and it wasn't long before he let himself break out into a run, let himself just go and fly and feel his way around the city, eyes closed, lungs expanding, taking in enormous amounts of oxygen, and it didn't matter what anyone thought because he was barely a tic in their minds, hardly a flash through their memory. He just needed to move.
And so when he finally slowed, when he finally stopped, the sun was down and the stars were out, and he paused to catch his breath, to let his eyes adjust to the dark, and several minutes passed before he realized just exactly where it was that his feet had taken him.
The temple.
He recognized it immediately, and he grinned because he hadn't meant to go there and yet...it was where he had ended up. He wanted to see his friend again, wanted to speak to him, and still he was safely Artist, the beast exhilarated by the run but not battling for dominance or recognition. He climbed the fence, slipped through the door, and tried to ascertain Orpheus' location. He was here, his power and art like a signature that Asterion was becoming familiar with, could've picked out of a crowd...but unlike a god, he couldn't use that signature to pinpoint his friend's location. Poking about some of the construction supplies, he finally sighed and looked about.
And then he saw it, a light streaming from a doorway that lead to...well, he wasn't sure. But if his friend was there, then he was probably in the one area where there was light. If not, he would resort to the very mortal solution of calling out until he was heard. He slipped his sandals off and made his way down the basement stairs, peering around for his friend. When he finally spotted him, he couldn't help but smile. Orpheus was slumped over the keys asleep, having clearly passed out sometime during the song writing process, and grinning, Asterion made his way over, debating only for a moment before bringing his hand down hard against the keys, a few inches from his friend's face. Slightly cruel, yes, but hilarious nonetheless.