art // fire

That nearly made them laugh - the conflicting advice they’d gotten in their many years of living in this city, between feed your inner flame and your inner flame burns too bright had always been amusing to them. But, again, they weren’t the sort to insult someone’s religion to their face; she had given them no reason to do so, even if they believe otherwise. “Aymeric Duchamp,” they replied, slightly bowing their head in greeting, their name and accent clearly marking them an outsider, even after fifteen years in Kærholt. “But I am glad that your inner soul was fed, even if mine went without.”

A part of Aymeric felt like that was an insult - calling him out of touch with the people whose class they’d been born into. They can remember every single one of their family’s harvests - successful and poor alike. They can remember starving through the winter, not having two coins to rub together. The only reason things are different now is because they’ve caught the eye of the Lovelowes. If they lose their affection, though... Aymeric knows better than anyone that they aren’t permanently safe from a life of poverty. “I understand,” they comment simply, rubbing at the back of their neck. “But, sometimes, it is nice to have something pretty to look at when you are surrounded by nothing but sadness.”

It was curious, to Aymeric, that this man was born in the city, but wouldn’t want the flame in his portrait - ignoring the fact that he could not afford a portrait altogether; most people in the city wouldn’t be able to afford one -- Aymeric themself, before the Lovelowes took them under their wing, wouldn’t have been able to afford to commission any artist worth their coin. “Ah, yes, because art is laughable,” they comment blankly, looking at him. “I do not see what is funny about having a portrait painted.”

They consider him - not many people in this city would admit that they didn’t want the flame present in their portrait, from their experience. “Are you originally from here?” They ask, unable to distinguish his accent. “I would require more payment for a deer, but ale and meat could be done at the regular cost. A deer is a... unique, distinguishable creature. Much like a person, if you do not paint it perfectly, everyone who looks at the portrait will be able to see that the artist is not worth their coin.” They give him a little smile - only speaking out of fondness of their art. 

“I am,” Aymeric confirms. They can tell that they think it’s strange, but conformation has never been Aymeric’s priority. Plus, they’re certain that they aren’t the strangest person at this festival. There are surely others doing stranger things than sketching. The question, though, feels a bit out of their league. Despite them living in Kærholt for almost fifteen years, they don’t align with the religion of the city, and, therefore, with the festival. “It is religious,” they start, acting as if they know everything there is to know, when, truly, they probably should have asked anyone but Aymeric. “A worship of the eternal flame, of... the warmth it provides, during the cold season. So... hot food, hot drinks, hot... everything.”

“The Lovelowes do not sponsor the ones in the middle,” they point out, tilting their head to the side slightly. “After all, do I look like I starve?” When they first moved here, they were starving nightly. Using charcoals to sketch passersby in hopes of enough coin for a meal. Somehow, that got them attention, and attention got them sponsors. “Background details,” they answer, looking down to their papers. “This... is that pillar there. And this is the flame...” So many worshippers desired the fire to be behind them in their portraits. Aymeric would not admit that they’re growing tired of painting the flame. At least they could make it look different every time, ever moving.

They can tell that he is suspicious of them, which is fair. He can remember days of his younger years, when every little thing that earned them money was precious, where losing even a single copper meant the difference between eating and starving. But Aymeric meant this stranger no harm. A little smile rose to their face at the question, knowing, but not sharing. “They are...” they replied, happy to be complimented - for they were a pretty thing, and they knew it. “I would say I am one of their best.”

Aymeric hadn’t been planning on going back to the Lovelowe estate any time soon, but they could make up an excuse for why this so-called rush order was late. “I can take it there, if you’d like,” they offer, reaching for it, amused by this stranger calling their patrons the art bitches. “Nothing in particular,” they replied, tilting their head and the paper to show him. “Just shapes that I would not want to forget before I can get my hands on paint.”

At the sound of a voice addressing them, Aymeric’s eyes move from the shapes of the nearest pillar to the person speaking. They obviously aren’t looking at him, but the paper instead, so they figure that they’re less referring to the fact that Aymeric is lingering, and more referring to the work that he’s doing. “What does it look like I am doing?” they reply with a teasing little grin, their light accent still touching their words despite how long it had been since they’d left their home country. “Sketching,” they finally provide them with an answer, turning the paper to show them a little bit better. “The shapes and colors of this festival are beautiful, meaning behind it all aside.”

Aymeric is startled when someone runs into him, but, luckily, their grip on the lead and the notes remains strong. It doesn’t seem like the other had quite a good grip, though, so they bend down to try to help him with whatever it was he’d been holding. “I’m fine,” they reply in their lightly accented voice, looking at him. “Are you? Were you running from...?” The something, someone is left unspoken, glancing over the man’s shoulder to try to see where he was coming from.

They’d seen this festival every year for a decade and a half at this point. Flames this, flames that -- it seemed to Aymeric that this was the time of year that eldens pointedly ignored their own advice, letting their own flames burn too bright, as Aymeric had heard more times than they could keep track of at this point. Nevertheless, the celebration was good to look at, filled with colors that they’d only dreamt of in their childhood. So, they’d been going around, plucking flowers and staring at flames, trying to find colors to ask their patrons to provide for an upcoming painting, a piece of lead between their fingers, scratching over a piece of paper in their other palm. There were shapes as unique as the colors, and they wanted to get them down before they were forgotten to time.