Paint by Adventures | A Seasonal Event Thread

[Bundt]

Paint by Adventures​

​

Within the tapestry of every civilization, be it that of a backwater village or sprawling, cosmopolitan mecca, there lies a hidden tale woven in only black and white. The elusive people these threads belong to are called different names in different tongues, but before all the known languages of the world, when thoughts were still seeking kinship in sound, they knew themselves as Lingi.

Lingi is not so much a species or ethnicity as it is a way of being. It is the state of in between, of looking both forward and back. Neither here nor there, yet ever present.

Some devote their entire lives to uncovering the Lingi’s secrets, only to find themselves lost to the annals of insanity and conspiracies. Others dismiss them as fairytales unworthy of even a child’s imagination. Distracting at best, many elders staunchly insist. A waste of time that is bound to lead even the most promising of minds astray.

And yet, the Lingi leave enough crumbs to suggest they are not made entirely of fairy dust and dreams. Their involvement with mortal affairs may be rare, but the tides of auspiciousness always seem to follow in their wake. They are the heralds of momentous change, be it for good or for worse.

Many Festivals of Light have come and gone, but this time, something is different. Perhaps the symbolism of dark and light this year has proven to be extra potent, drawing the Lingi out of hiding. Or, maybe the traditions of honoring memories while anticipating the future, inspiring people all across the lands to suspend themselves in that fleeting, tenuous limbo within transition, have finally piqued their interest. Whatever the reason, they now choose to make their presence known to a select few.

One might consider it fortuitous to be chosen. But if you are, what tidings will Lingi mischief bring?

Only one way to find out.

As you celebrate the brightness of hope against a dreary backdrop of winter, you must embrace the dichotomy of before and after, between which all life remains temporarily frozen as it awaits transformation…suspended, floating, drifting…dreaming…from a dream within a dream…

---

…you find yourself staring at a scroll hanging from a wall. How this came to be is a wisp of memory in your mind that only grows foggier by the second. Perhaps you were admiring the decor in someone’s home. Or, recalling something you once saw long ago. Whatever the case, you feel the need to linger.

It is a simple landscape painting of black ink on white paper. The brush strokes are careful, minimal. Drier ink swiped to and fro across parchment brings forth the majesty of a jagged mountain. A gentle flick forms each end of a fishing boat. Swaths of diluted ink fade into negative space to suggest distance, mist, and atmosphere, while greyish stippling mimics water.

The more you stare, the more details seem to reveal themselves, and the closer you are drawn to the painting. You lean and lean. Something compels you to take a step forward and…

…white washes away your surroundings, until the only thing you can see is the bottom of a painted mountain. When you crane your head to look up, rough brush strokes of rock rise towards the heavens and, high above it, the soaring emptiness of mist.

To your left is the barest suggestion of a path up and around the mountain. It curves dramatically, cutting off your view of what might be lying in wait just around the corner.

To your right, a humble fisherman’s boat. It’s made up of quick, decisive swaths of black ink, and it bobs like any boat might in water. Inside is one oar and a seemingly dry, sturdy bench.

Which will you choose?

---

How it works: Make your choice, flesh out your characters actions/reactions, and include at least one piece of introspection per post. It could be a reflection on what is happening currently, reminiscing about the past, or some combination of your choosing. The idea is that your characters will explore these paintings like the Chinese Literati of old, except unlike their dynastic counterparts, your characters will have the benefit of magical visuals and divine intervention. There will be meaning, symbolism, allegories, and any other artistic device you can think of. The story they tell, however, will be up to you.

You’re welcome to embellish to your heart’s content, so long as your character stays within the painting until the end. Where ever you leave off, the Lingi will create more mischief.

This will be a journey both fantastical and internal. The more you travel inside of the painting, the deeper your character looks within themselves, and perhaps by the end, you will both come face to face with the very essence of who you are.

 

[Kiriko Hanshu]

"You are sure you need nothing else, my priestess?" ​

"No, Buru, it is quiet alright," Kiriko replies. Slipping embroidered slippers from her feet. Careful in placing them near to the raised wooden platform her bed mat rests upon. "I simply wish to be left to meditations, and rest,"

A bow from her attendant. "Understood, my priestess, please, if anything-" ​

"Yes, thank you Buru, as always, your faithful diligence is most appreciated," a bow of the head, let down with the finality of a knife come chop down a sea bass' head.

Buru bowed deeper still. Shut the sliding door of ornate wooden slats. His silhoutte moved away behind the glow of the silk screens.
​

Kiriko let out a sigh. And pulled her legs up to her chest as the oil lamp burned its golden orange glow. Rest her temple against her knees. Wild hair, like raven down, spilled over one side of her neck, a cascade of ink. The faint smell of jasmine flower and lemongrass on her nose. Face still caked with the paint of her station. The pale ash of a priestess' duty. Eyes streaked with the red stain of the blood she carried.

That's when she saw it. The painting across the way of her humble room.

She sits, no long upon the wooden platform that raised her above the floor. But upon the steady rock of fisherman's shallow hulled craft. Its wood, a swirl of black ink beneath her, and the pale color of finest paper there in its heft.

"What is this," she wonders aloud. Eyes ever wide, and ever seeing. She glances up, and sees that wide brim of a reed hat. A figure, with a black ink bird there upon their shoulder. She blinks but once. "Hello..." she ventures. Amidst the world of ink and paper.

 

[Kuuga]

It was Aembi's turn to be defiled, and she couldn't do it. Wasn't even the first time. Last month she heard footsteps in the hallway before the shrinework was done. The one before that, the weather had been ugly. Couldn't even remember what stayed her hand the one before that. Because she'd been here before. She'd failed here before. Easy as it was to desecrate shrines of lethargic Uden or the ohsoclever Ichizu... she could never do it to the Toad. And how did you even subvert one who gave willingly when all you did was take? Scriptures could be altered and inks spilled. Walls effaced and indigos stained...but...

Surely she could take more elsewhere. Another of the divine, one who hadn't provided fish midwinter. And perhaps that was the trap of Aembi, but she found herself caught all the same. Her faith wasn't yet strong enough to forget who she'd been. Future was just another thing to devour, but there were some things past and gone that she'd never dine on. And she knew she'd do it if the Lord asked. Because every sacrifice would be made. Whatever it took to loosen the chains and let it fully slip into material – because the Hungers had limited lifespans, and she would not see her favorite one reduced to a personsized reminder that no one was there. Not any more.

Her crisscrossed fingers shuffled in thought. Honzui was due an offering and the next suitable shrine was too far. But how do you respect both that which gave and that which took? And then she had it. Of course!

Hand reached out to the nearest thing. A scroll hanging wallside hummed with what she almost heard as warning. But almost wasn't a thing you could consume. Wasn't good enough.

So she stared at it. An offering devoid of color. And the more she looked, more the emptiness showed her. An old style of ink and lack, but the more you blinked, the more you saw. Didn't look so much as a moment captured as it did one remembered. Greywash suggesting things that weren't present seconds ago. Reminded her of the peabroth she sometimes watched being prepared and how the little green guys floated up as they got ready for supper. She really should've been better at cooking after this many years, but at least she was a great eater.

They snuck up on her between blinks. Sky and water just offwhite enough not to be the same thing, mist minding the gap. Trees that clung up the sheer sides like spiders that forgot themselves. So she blinked into mountains. Into the boat. And before she knew it, she blinked the shrineroom away. One moment, she was Kuuga thingtaker, shrinebreaker, and the next she was eaten.

„Uuuh...“ All those words she was good at failed her. It was normally she who took. But what did you do when you got taken in turn?

The mountain rose dangerously close, and when she looked back, Kuuga could no longer see the scene end. Was this a consequence of her failure? She always knew she was allowed to be weak. But she could never be certain if she was allowed to be wrong.

The ground beneath felt solid even when her feet gave to liquid and she slumped to a kneel. Soil stained the robe even as they both remained colorless. She could see the path winding up the stone, edging out of reach, out of sight. The boat was familiar and it swayed like the waves of her home. She'd been a fishgirl once, but that was no longer her path. And yet, hers was the Lord that dwelt in shallow waters and deep wounds...

Whether she was meant to help them ascend the mists or tide over both depths known and otherwise... it wasn't a choice she could make easily. If this was all a test, she did not yearn to know the look of another failure.

So her fingers grabbed at the many symbols at her throat. Praying for guidance. It was an old fishprayer, because that's where comfort was, even if the meaning was no longer the same.

„Lord, please, let me catch a fish I can talk about for the rest of my life without lying“​

 

[Juusha Khuam]

To your left is the barest suggestion of a path up and around the mountain. It curves dramatically, cutting off your view of what might be lying in wait just around the corner.

---

Juusha Khuam let out a long-toothed yawn as she ambled up the mountain path.

The walk back to the Iron clan was always such a hike. Somewhere in the middle, when the sun was highest and her waterskin empty, her mind began to dull. She told herself she could stop and rest after she reached a certain spot, always pushing the target a few steps down the path whenever she got close.

Just a bit further, to the next bend in the road, and then she could take off her pack and pull out a strip of dried meat to chew on. When the bend turned and the rocks opened up to a dip in the mountain valley, she saw a proud red pine with a perfect sitting rock perched beneath its roots. Surely she could make it just a bit further, to the next-next bend, so that she could rest under the spotted shade of the tree.

She blinked away the speckles of light that still clung to her vision after that weird white flash from earlier. The raakgui were playing with her again -- changing the landscape and trying to steer her off the path. The prospect off mischevious mountain spirits did not worry Juusha. She would keep picking her way through the mist. Even if her senses deceived her, with these rough-hew strokes of black around everything and the flat smell of parchment clinging inside her nose...

Even so, her feet still knew the way back home.

 

[Momoshiro Komori]

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

The words lingered in the air as Momoshiro stared at the black-and-white scroll now hanging ominously on the wall. Just moments ago, the surface had been bare. His cherry-red eyes narrowed as he studied the inked figures and sharp calligraphy, his large white tail swaying slowly behind him in idle motion. He had been in the middle of an exorcism; the work unfinished. The spirit he’d been dealing with still lingered nearby—he could feel it, faint but present, like a weight just beyond his awareness.

He clicked his tongue softly and stepped closer despite himself, curiosity nudging past caution. A slender hand lifted toward the scroll, fingers hovering inches away before he stopped. Only then did he realize he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled, drew his hand back, and ran his fingers through his chalk-white hair, deliberately scritching at his fox ears before settling both hands on his hips.

“This is most assuredly a trap,” he muttered, addressing no one in particular—though perhaps the unseen spirit was still listening.

He lingered there for another moment, weighing his options. Then he huffed, shrugged one shoulder, and reached out to touch the parchment.

---

The world shifted in a single breath.

When his senses caught up, Momo found himself standing somewhere entirely different—yet eerily familiar. The surroundings mirrored the image on the scroll so precisely that it felt as though the world itself had been painted into existence. Thick strokes of black ink formed trees and hills, while untouched spaces gleamed like egg-white parchment beneath his feet. He turned slowly, taking it all in, then let out a low whistle.

“Well,” he mused, “if this is a trap, it’s certainly an elaborate one.”

At least, he reasoned, if he was going to be ambushed, he could appreciate the scenery.

To his left, a narrow path stretched forward, its edges bleeding softly into nothingness. To his right waited a small boat, bobbing gently in a pool of dark, glassy ink. Momo raised a brow, a grin tugging at his lips as one fang peeked free.

Whatever this was, he’d already decided to enjoy it.

With an easy confidence, he stepped into the boat and pushed off from the shore using the inky oar resting inside. The black water rippled as he dipped it in, and with a steady pull, he urged the vessel forward—eyes bright with curiosity as he let it carry him toward whatever awaited beyond the painted horizon.

 

[Bundt]

A black shadow dances just past your peripheral, almost indistinguishable from the scenery. As it darts by, it giggles and whispers something so faint you may as well have imagined it. But something happens when it does. A fracture forms, web thin, and though you cannot readily perceive it, you feel a strange tug, like a moment of deja vu coming and going.

You think you heard…

“Clean One.”​

And then the boat rocks. A gentle wave has washed underneath you, and though the world is made up of brush strokes and ink, it feels real. Real enough to force you to grab onto something if you wish not to topple forward into the stranger seated before you.

Whatever you choose to do, they seem unbothered. You cannot see their face under the hat no matter what you try. If you try to touch their hat, the bird on their shoulder pecks violently at your flesh, the pain from which would feel very real. Only when the boat stills again do they finally give their version of an answer. They do not turn around, only raise their hand in silent greeting. The black crow upon their shoulder stares at you with one baleful eye. It does not trust you, beak open slightly in disapproval, ready to squawk at the slightest sign of danger.

The stranger curls all their fingers but the index, then points ahead. Through the white mist and grey stippling of water, you can just make out the smudgey outline of a shore. It is flanked by tall reeds that sway in the wind.

On this shore, you see someone you recognize. Someone you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite time and effort.

“Eater.”​

And then something leaps out of the water, sending grey droplets flying everywhere. They disappear into white nothingness within moments, but not before the distinct feeling—and smell—of a fish’s slick body slaps you in the face.

Should you catch the fish, it will start to grow rapidly in your hands, not stopping until its impossible weight drags you straight into the water.

Should you fail to catch it, it will drop into the water first and balloon into an impossible size. It only stops when it is about as big as a fishing boat. And then it explodes from the stippled surface and drags you into the water anyway.

You are pulled under with frightening speed. Too soon, you no longer are able to distinguish between up, down, left, or right, only the feeling of being yanked through water with what feels like wrathful strength.

This only stops when you suddenly find your shoulders gripped by firm hands. You are pulled out of the water as roughly as you were dragged in, but at least you can breathe now.

When you finally manage to regain your bearings, you realize your rescuer is someone you recognize. Someone you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite your best efforts.

“Itchy Fingers.”​

And then laughter echoes all around you. The mist, despite being so thick you can no longer see behind you, seems to clear up ahead as the path leads higher up into the mountain.

Stranger still is the creature sitting calmly some few feet away from you. From the neck down, it appears human. Small and rather thin. Perhaps a child? But from the neck up, its head bears the unmistakable silhouette of a horse. The head is turned to one side as it stares at you judgingly. The whites of its eyes are stark against the pinprick dot of its pupil.

It does not speak, and as soon as you move toward it, it begins to move higher up the path. If you stop, it stops. If you run, it runs. No matter what you do, you cannot reach it, the distance between you both forever unchanged. And all the while, it continues to side eye you.

If you choose not to pursue it and remain still for even a handful of seconds, a terrible burning sensation lights up your backside.

This experience strikes a particular feeling in you. Perhaps several feelings, even. And with those feelings, you are reminded of something from your past. A moment you’ve had a hard time forgetting, despite time and effort.

“Ghost boy.”​

And then a ghostly laugh drifts past your ears. It sounds…familiar.

As you row, you find that, for some inexplicable reason, the task becomes harder. The water is somehow becoming thicker. Viscous, like syrup. Eventually, it grows so congealed that you can no longer move the oar. You cannot even pull it out from the inky depths, no matter how much strength you use.

Though you can no longer row the boat, you’ve traveled far enough that you can see something along the horizon. The details seem fuzzy, but you feel like you recognize the figure waiting at what must be the shoreline. Tall grass sways under a gentle breeze as the figure waves in a friendly gesture. Or are they worried and warning of danger? It’s too hard to say for certain at this distance.

However, also to one side of your boat, the oar has been swallowed up into a large, man sized hole. Strangely enough, there seem to be steps leading down into this hole, and a warm, amber light glows from within. You can see the oar lying innocuously a few steps in, but beyond that, the pathway curves and obscures what lays beyond.

 

[Kiriko Hanshu]

She tumbled toward the ink wrapped boatman. Body thumped against their mass. Felt like a cold smudge. Not quite cold water. Too thick. The sharp cry of the crow stung her ears. She gathered herself. Flinched back. Eyes saw the sharp beak, go for her. Hands raised. Fingers snatched at. Scraped and jabbed by ebon beak.

Step back, and back. Hit the railing of the boat. Felt it rock. Her heart thumping hard. Her eyes wide as they watched the crow. Its inkdrop feathers drift through the air like canvas.

The figure raises their hand.

Not a word from them. Only the going on of their oar. Dip. Pull. Push.

The crow's warning hissed. Cawed.

Kiriko breaths. Fingers red. Swollen. Beating with red angry pain that nails down to her bones.

The stranger points to the shore. Where a familiar face awaits her.

"Yuan," the name falls from her painted lips. "How-" the boat slides against the shore.

Ever smiling, ebon haired Yuan. Eyes as gleeful as a fox's. His nose, just as fine. Round cheeks, she always thought looked good enough to eat. Like ripe peaches. She steps off the boat, robe trails and sandals splashed against the water.

"Oh, Kiriko," he answers nervously. Face already dusted with rouge. "I didn't know you were due back already,"

"Due, back?" she asks as hand clasped about the hem of her priestess' sash. But it is gone. Instead, the hem of her apprentice's robes.

"Weren't you and Buru to visit the Rain Whale's shrine out beyond the Emerald gate?"

She blinks. "But," shakes her head. She looks around, and sees the sprawl of her home. Ginkgo Village. "That was years ago,"

 

[Kuuga]

Water and scale prayers always did have a sense of humor. And whether it was the water that responded or her own, proper Lord, one had to laugh. The slap of slime and scale across her cheek was familiar. It had been ages since they tried to net the arrowfish. But any good fisherman knew that all you needed was buckets...and a helmet.

Her arms shot out, more memory than skill. Because where nets failed, hands could not. Those who weren't quick didn't eat. And she couldn't remember the last time she wasn't hungry. But the fish wasn't tame and quickly tried to drown her. Vicious little...not so little...what...HOW WAS IT THAT BIG? A smarter person would've let go. But she saw it for her prayer answered – not just the biggest fish of her own life...biggest of anyone who's ever fished. But creatures that answered prayers were rarely kind. Her own weakness pulled her down into the liquid. Even as it was all white and colorless, it felt like diving at night. One spin, two...a tug, a pull...and before you knew it, there was no up or down – there was just the monotone all around, wanting to drown you.

It was no longer a choice of path, because sometimes the path chose you. And she'd asked for it, in a way. She just didn't expect it to listen. But those who prayed for fish learned to either find it or measure everything by its absence.

The anchor at her hands was replaced by two hooks at her shoulders. Grip and Grab. Yank and pull. She wondered what the bruises would look like in this bleak world. She could almost imagine small poolings of ink making the shadow of her shoulderblades just a tad too long, just a tad too dark.

Fear was an animal of its own. And she found her nails digging into the hands that offered salvation. Because to the drowning, even the helping hand was fearsome. And Kuuga may not have been ready to die, but she was always ready to be afraid.

„Bluurgh!“ she wasn't sure if she was coughed of vomited the fakewater as it left her.

„What was that, Kuuga?“ A distinct tsk she hadn't heard in years. „I taught you to swim.“

„We...“ It wasn't the cold that ran the shiver down her spine. „Learned together.“ And shameful as it was, she felt at her released shoulders, making sure they were still there.

„I don't remember you wanting to be a stone.“ And it even talked...talked like him.

The hand extended and she bundled tighter, away from the help offered. Because the real one wouldn't have allowed touch. The real one would've let her drown. Because not all deaths were equally bad.

„Who...who are you?“ Kuuga asked the boy she knew.