Ведомый / Follower: Интерлюдия: «Сломанные кисти»

Interlude: "Broken Brushes"

Camrad_RIP 21.04.25 в 11:07

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Camrad_RIP 21.04.25 в 11:07

The place was dark and cold in equal proportions. All the windows and other openings leading outside were either covered with a thick coat of paint or simply draped with a thick cloth. The heating had been switched off long ago, even before the whole street had lost it due to pipes bursting from frost. Almost all the inhabitants of that street were warmed by heaters, stoves, or fires in the yard anyway, if they were still alive. The house was cold and dark, but it was certainly not empty. Here dwelt his master and lord, as well as those of his servants whom he had fleshed out with the delicate strokes of his many brushes. This house was not just a fortress or a workshop, no. It was his abode, the centre of his power, and darkness and cold only adorned the cold walls. For it is not given to the eyes of men of honour to gaze upon these pictures. They are to be seen only when it is the will of the artist.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:19

But not so long ago, there had been light in this place. Тot so long ago, there had been more paintings, and the painter had been healthier and more balanced. The eyes of the man crouched on the floor flashed back to those cursed moments when he had given in to the urge to deliver his message, his mocking promise, to the too fidgety and deadly bitch. To deliver the message, if not drive a wedge between her and another of her painting-toys. The master who painted the post-mortem of the two knuckleheads who had covered up her escape had seen the spider's web in the minds of the now deceased individuals. He wanted, if not to bring about a conflict between the bitch's new victim, the too bright boy, and the very scum that had ruined his last workshop, at least to make the latter nervous. Even though that workshop had been a trap, a slaughterhouse, he didn't like the fact that it had to be abandoned.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:21

Too much notoriety in that battle for his paintings and those who were to become them.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:32

And he scoffed as he waited for a trinket to be thrown through the painted door. He remembered the moment of genuine surprise when the most ordinary shoe-spade, which had just glistened faintly white, fell to the floor in front of him through the frame of the easel. The gleam was replaced by a momentary flash, from which he covered himself with what he could and what he could not: the protective outlines painted over his clothes, the two framed portraits of himself, the gifts of his Maestro that had taken the damage, the three easels that had kept him alive, standing side by side and covering him with their bodies. He even managed to accelerate his Vessels into a spiral fall, thus strengthening his body and essence. All this, it must be said, allowed him to survive, to howl like a wounded beast, writhing on the colourful floor, which looked as if it had been watered with a solid coating of whitewash.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:23

The pain was nightmarish, but even more nightmarish were its after-effects, thoughts more confused, hysterical fits out of nowhere, memory lapses, and, most nightmarish of all, shaking hands unable to hold the brush steady. And, of course, his precious Vessels, which had become something incomparably less. Oh, he had been well gifted! The Maestro was generous to his follower, allowing him to receive Vessels even without a Step increase, just for faithfully painted portraits of those he gave to the other side of the easel. Only four of the six Vessels remained intact, but he could not use any of them. All four were like an ancient porcelain bowl covered with numerous cracks. One wrong move, one attempt to empty these Vessels, and they would burst, pouring the white abomination they contained into the very essence of the humble owner of the art workshop.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:25

Completely killing the victim.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:31

A victim who didn't want to die without painting his greatest canvas, without becoming part of it himself. He lacked the strength to call the Maestro; even in full strength, he did not possess the proper knowledge and will. He could only send a request for an audience. And then one of the Maestro's close disciples would give him a bit of his attention, just one of the streams of consciousness painted with quick strokes, connecting with the shabby world, which he wanted to decorate with a full palette of riotous colours. Now the Master could not even make that request for a meeting, let alone be honoured with an audience with the shadow of one of his named disciples or the shadow of the Maestro's own shadowy presence. The Master could do nothing but crawl with a half-paralysed body, wheezing through a cramped throat, losing consciousness every couple of metres. But he was crawling, moving to the spare workroom, closer to the inconspicuous storeroom where something very important to him was kept. At this particular moment, it was vital.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:34

This gift had been delivered to him at his door, back when the cold of the blizzard had not paralysed the city services, when the streets were still filled with smiling people, unaware of the fact that they were destined to become strokes of paint on the canvas of the Maestro, who would entrust the artist with one of his brushes. It was not a human hand that delivered this thing, but a dog's mouth. An ordinary-looking mutt, small, limp, and battered by ringworm, which had wrenched its fur in wisps. He wouldn't have paid any attention to the dog, busy painting the past occupant of this house, offering her his forgiveness for all she'd dared to do for him. Once upon a time, before the Maestro manifested will, the possibility of getting revenge on her had meant something to him. But then, then he wasn't even taking revenge, but forgiving her, giving her a better life in the form of brushstrokes rather than a hideous fleshy body.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:36

Yet the mutt caught his attention with a single glance of eyes oozing conjunctivitis. That glance pierced the master like a sword thrust, travelling to his heart and stopping at the last moment. The demonstration was more convincing than ever. If the thing that looked through the dog's eyes had wished for his death, he would have dropped dead in his yard, writhing in agony while his heart grew dog fur from the inside. Whatever controlled the man-eating packs of stray dogs on the outskirts and in the industrial district was willing to talk. In another situation, the master would have unleashed the wrath of his brushes on the creature that dared to take away the future strokes of the vast landscape of the entire city that he wanted to paint in the Name of his Maestro. But force was not on the artist's side, and he had to listen, spea,k and accept, let's say, the division of responsibility.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:37

Because they serve different Maestros, but they serve the same Mistress, who is called by the name of the Other Side inscribed on the deepest essence of souls. The artist accepted this division, as well as very clear instructions about where he could and could not go on pain of becoming a dinner for the visiting horde. Try not to agree, if you are so qualitatively pointed out your place, and then sweetened the pill by the fact that they decided to take away not all, but only a part. Since then, the two sworn to the Infinite Mistress through two different Supreme Servants of Her had communicated several times and always as quickly as possible, correctly and obviously not wishing to be in contact longer than necessary. The painter felt extremely bad in the presence of the stench of dog hair and bloody bacchanalia, and the dog scum did not want to come near the workshop, which smelled of paint and blood.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:39

The man was crawling.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:41

Crawling desperately.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:42

He got to the door he needed, opened it, and then took out a small collage from the dark closet. Initially, it was just a big piece of dog hair, left by that very mutt, but the artist didn't want to communicate through such an alien structure. So he made an installation out of that hair, a small picture depicting a small, palm-sized door or even a window. The wool in that clump was multicolored, and he managed to pick up a palette and make something close to it, though not a painting. And now he was pouring his blood from his bitten palm into that door. He couldn't pour power or empty the Vessel to activate it fully, even if he wanted to with all his heart. He had, but his wish had not come true.

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 09:01

His call to the void is quiet and almost inaudible, there is no volume or power in it, but he believes, believes that so strong a creature, a colleague in the ministry, one might say, would be able to smell even so faint and trembling a call as he was now able to do. And he was right, for he was heard. The blood-soaked wool became strong, still a picture, but now alive, as if it were not a collage on a piece of thick cardboard and a wooden frame, but something else. It was as if the wool had come to life, the fabric beneath it had become flesh, the frame had become a real door, against which a shabby fox's side was pressed closely, the color of the wool on which formed the pattern of the door. And then the door opened, with a slimy and tearing sound, the crunch of ribs falling into themselves, creating a window. And from there, from that window, came a quite distinguishable voice - not female, but not male either, absolutely impersonal, extremely literate, with only the lightest accent of an unknown type.

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 09:03

But in this voice, as if it were made by the best rhetoricians, one can hear the whining, barking, and growling of a pack of stray dogs; these sounds make up a seemingly human speech. A speech that sounds only in his head, a speech that is painful to listen to, but no one else will listen to it. And the quietly wheezing artist begins to speak, overcoming the remaining pride, begins to ask, trying to ask in such a way that it does not look like an attempt to beg. Speaking, repeating the words of his interlocutor, that they both serve the same Infinite Mistress, that he needs help or he will die. And that he would do his best, if not to take his companion with him, at least to cause him more trouble.

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 09:06

"The words are said." A canine voice sounds, caressing the inside wall of my skull with a wet tongue. "And heard. Don't move, don't resist, I'll try to help."

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 09:07

And help comes. The frame of the picture cracks, as if the huge dog that became the door continues to press from the other side, blood and saliva flowing from the edges of the huge wound, as if the wound had become partially a mouth. Meanwhile, the body is not so painful, as if the dog's tongue is licking the invisible wounds. The glow of whiteness in one of the Vessels diminished, and it returned to normal, and the same thing happened to the second Vessel, giving the artist back some of his power. And the tongues continue to cover those Vessels from within, making the small cracks disappear and the larger ones smaller. It goes on for hours, but the time is very short. The creature's touches take away his strength and will, and the artist realizes that he will no longer be able to defend himself or at least resist, if the healing tongue is replaced by a hungry, fanged maw.

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 09:10

"That's it." An alien voice yapped and barked. "That's all I can give your subtle essence, but not all of what I can help you with."

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 09:10

"I... not yet recovered." The pain came back again, back again, the intolerable agony of the Vessel bursting in the spiral, its shards scratching not the spiral but what was around and near it, scratching it, leaving wounds even after the shards themselves had been licked away by a dog's tongue. "I need more, at least three... you can help, I know you can. We, uh... we serve..."

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 12:24

"That's right, we both serve Her." The same cheerful, deceptively good-natured, and carefree barking interrupts him. "But we serve through the will of different leaders. The Bitch's Mother will not love the Maestro of Brushes, even though she considers him neither an enemy nor worthy prey. I let you stand, but you must limp on your own from here. Or stumble again, forever."

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:50

The fact that this abomination dares to even think of imagining Maestro in the place of prey for the ravenous dog that has become her mistress ... he almost breaks down. It's not even the power of the creature he's talking to that stops him, but his own weakness, the sense that the healing tenderness of the dog's tongue is still on him, that it's within the power of his colleague to take that healing back with a single will. And he also really needs help, and the creature can help not only with healing, but with good advice. It had helped twice already, and the artist had to admit that that help had been surprisingly appropriate. And that's why, just because of that, he keeps silent, swallows the insult, knowing for sure that the creature behind the other side of the collage sees his swallowed pride and anger, sees it and barks with self-righteousness.

Camrad_RIP 28.04.25 в 12:25

"They will come for you, painter." It took a while for the words to reach his mind, which was once again bubbling in a cauldron of agony, and it took a while for him to force himself to dismiss the insulting nickname and realise the truth. "The thing that damaged you. I have a rough idea of how the Tablets that interacts with such a sacrament works. They tracked you like you tracked your victim. And they'll come to you, because who wouldn't? They wish to secure a new lair wherever their kennel hides, wish not to fear for their uncovered backs or shiver as they stare at the painted walls of city houses."

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:48

"Will you help?" That's all he asks, aware of the new danger, not doubting someone else's rightness, because it seems too logical. "I can't do it alone, not if they throw what they've already thrown at me again. Those vile whitewashes... they're-- they're abrading my paints."

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:47

"I'll help, of course." A slightly soothing reply, making him hate both the creature and himself for not being able to hide his relief in that moment. "Open the door, accept my help, painter."

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:43

One lump after another spits out of what has finally become a mouth-like rift in the dog's flesh, as a seemingly ordinary collage has become. No, not lumps. They are ligatures of dog teeth or tails, strung on strings of dog hair. Six pieces, one for each supporting figure of his workshop house. To let such a thing into his abode, to let it watch and even influence him when needed, was something he was desperately reluctant to do, but he was even more reluctant to face those who came after him alone. He needed the creature's help, he needed it badly, he needed to recover, to summon the Maestro and get the will, if not of his shadow-from-shadow, then of someone anointed, too many things he could not handle on his own. And again, he swallows his pride under the mocking silence of his interlocutor and ally, with whom he needs no enemies.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:44

"Hold on for at least a three or four hundred heartbeats, painter." That sounds like advice that can't be called anything but an order. "Hold on, and I'll make holes. Through them, my dogs will support your pictures as they come through. Well, or at least hold out a hundred beats to let me see your killers, and then your end will be avenged. Unless you don't care, of course."

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:28

Laughter sounds in his ears and head, laughter and dog barking, howling and growling, with which the connection is cut off. But the snarling howl does not subside. It is he who growls, growls in rage, in anger, in hatred, in despair. He growls and stands up, empties the first and second vessel, helping himself to the half-dead abrasion drawn directly over his clothes, getting to his feet and following to the workshop hall. There's still a lot of work to be done there, many creations damaged but not ruined. He will prepare them all. All will be raised to battle. And when they come for him, they will be greeted by an indestructible door, which is just a drawing of a door on the surface of indestructible stone. And a carefully trodden path, on which no snow falls, will also greet them.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:30

However, a little snow can be returned there, let it cover the painted path, which is ready to turn into sharp spikes and stakes. Also drawn, but no less real than the path itself. He will also prepare a trap right outside the door, if the wall, which is both the entrance and the wall, can be penetrated through, damaging the space twisted by the will of the strokes of colours. Yes, he will be able to turn the place into an impassable labyrinth, arrange the sketches and the remaining easels properly, and also, yes, he will use the remaining gifts of one of the anointed ones. Almost finished portraits, portraits without faces or pasts, will be a good trump card in the coming carnage.

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:30

Let these scum try to look into the eyes of themselves depicted in the colours, let them try!

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:26

Let them pay in full for the barbarously broken brushes of a great artist who longed for recognition!

Camrad_RIP 27.04.25 в 20:25