Disclaimer: All known characters belong to their respective owner(s); unknown characters belong to me. I am not making any profit from this project. Any questionable and potentially offensive statements are for plot and development purposes only and are not necessarily the thoughts of the author. This story is purely to entertain.
NOTE: This chapter has undergone trough one (1) major edit – spelling, grammar, amendments, etc – on May 23, 2006, since its debut.
ARTISTIC LICENSE
By Ninkira
CHAPTER 1 – Sharpening the Pencils
"I got 'im!" Yelled out a young boy from amidst the bushes. It seemed like the boy's cries were the only sounds that came from the thick evergreen forest already peppered in a light layer of snow; a sign, and warning, of the fiercer winter storms yet to come.
It was a cold September morning and the boy's voice slightly quivered as it rode on a small puff of mist from his mouth. His thick clothing protected him from the worst of the colder breezes – his mother making sure to add layer upon layer before her son left – but he still felt the light nip of frost on his skin where the ends of his clothes did not meet fully, leaving a patch of exposed skin for the cold to harass. The boy pulled his jacket's sleeves further down his arm. The hunting rifle he still gripped tightly, held close to his chest, let out a barely visible wisp of smoke from the end of the barrel.
A large gloved hand fell in the boy's shoulder. "Great job! Couldn't have done it better myself," said the deeper voice of the boy's father in almost a whisper as he kneeled next to his son, his lightly trimmed beard coated with a thin film of frost. "You might want to keep both eyes open next time though; you still tend to close one eye when you shoot."
The young boy, barely into his teen years, but already possessing a healthy amount of personality, scoffed lightly. "Who cares? I shot him anyways didn't I? Look at the way he fell. Bam! Can't wait to take him home! Man, that was a long time to wait…"
"That was quite a buck though, worth the wait."
"How can you tell? I could barely see it with all the trees and bushes in the way and now that it's down I can't see it at all. It could be a young one for all you know, I hope not though, I want an old one as big as a moose."
The man chuckled. "Well when you see a moose we can hunt him down too."
Crows and other birds that replaced the usual spring and summer vultures and scavengers in this frigid weather circled above the thick canopy of the naked trees where the boy's prey had fallen. The boy rushed ahead of his father, eager to see what was the size of the animal he had killed and that maybe if he could pester his mom enough he would be allowed to hang the antlers over his bed like the ones his dad had in his room. His father was a few feet behind him, trying to keep pace with the excited boy, carrying both their rifles over his wide shoulder as they made their way up the small hill to avoid crossing a large, and probably deep, puddle of frozen water. He was content that all this time of waiting his son had been rewarded with his first kill; after the entire morning had passed and still no sign of any animal, he was beginning to fear they would both go empty-handed. Until that point he had always taken his son with him to the mountains, but never actually handed him a weapon until his twelfth birthday. The boy couldn't wait to hunt.
"Hey, where is he?" asked the boy as he looked around the area where his fallen deer should have been. "But I got him!"
The father was also rather confused at the missing carcass. By his calculations there should have been a dead buck right here; it wasn't even that far a shot that they could have accidentally become disoriented on the way to collect their kill. As he looked around, he noticed that some smaller branches were bent and the disturbed layer of snow indicated prints and struggle in the ground, signifying that the animal must have at least been here at one point. "Hmm… I think you did shoot him, but just hurt him, not killed him. See? Now you know why it's important to keep both eyes open? You'll shoot twice as good and better aimed." He looked towards the thicker area of the forest, his hands on his hips. "He's probably still alive somewhere, limping along…"
"We can still get him, can't we? Can we get him?" The boy was eager to bring down his prey.
He smiled, a grin that made his eyes close. "Sure. He's got to be around here somewhere, couldn't have gotten very far."
The man placed the hunting rifles down by the base of a nearby tree to better track the injured animal without the weight of the weapons. He saw something that caught his attention. By the edge of the tree, where the rifles rested, barely touching the ground, was a large splatter of…something. It was moist and hot and trickling down the cracks of the rough bark like sap with a fine mist rising from it, but what really got him was that still strange sap-like liquid was phosphorous green, like the kind found in the glow sticks of his rave-party youth.
He took off the glove from his right hand and carefully brought two of his fingers to touch the liquid and figure out what it was. It felt warm to the touch, hot even. He brought the liquid to his nose; it smelt sweet and oily at the same time, and had to fight the urge to taste it. Odd…
Something splattered on his shoulder and he expected to find that a bird had relieved itself on him again, but found another drop of that odd green liquid on his jacket. He wiped it off as it were acid that was going to eat through his clothes. Another green drop from above forced him to look up amidst the darkened branches.
His eyes widened.
It was huge…and not happy, cradling its injured torso with an arm as thick as a tree branch while what appeared to be large silver talons expanded from the base of its hand-like limb with a dry rasping sound.
"What the –? "
(-)
"Fuck! I can't believe you just flipped him off like that!"
The two women in the van laughed insanely as the large van raced past the screaming man standing besides his tiny car with the flat tire situated on the side of the road as they took a sharp turn into a dirt path up the mountain side that had a large "Private Property. Trespassers will be prosecuted," sign.
"Hey, it's not my fault he just stayed there in the middle of the road like an idiot. I almost crashed into him!" Said the driver of the vehicle; a woman with long black hair tied in a low ponytail under a baseball cap. She didn't really like baseball; in fact, she thought the whole concept of hitting a ball with a stick was dumb; now if she really wanted balls to hit she wouldn't use a stick…
The other woman in the passenger seat next to the driver took one last glance back before resting again on her seat. She ran her fingers along her shoulder length chestnut hair and sighed, still laughing a bit under her breath at the small fiasco.
"Yeah, you're lucky you missed Ash. If we would have crashed…"
The driver of the van, Ash – short for Ashley, a name she hated; too girly in her opinion – interrupted her in the mildly sarcastic tone frequently shared with friends. "What? I would have delayed you for your hermit-hood? Honestly Terri, I think you're insane for doing this every year. If you went once, maybe twice, every two or so years, yeah, I would be ok with it, but you go every single year. You do a little studying, some work, a few galleries here and there, collecting paychecks, and then you pack everything you own and move to that little house on the prairie for two months. Two! That's more than most vacation time people get a year."
The passenger named Terri chuckled. "First of all it's not a little house on the prairie; it's a large cabin on the mountains. You should be used to this by now, every time I go you whine –"
"I'm not whining…"
Terri quickly wrapped her arms around Ash's neck and kissed her friend on the cheek then returned to her seat, laughing, before Ashley could swat her away.
"You whine you, big baby, you know you miss me," Terri said, trying not to let the insane shaking of the van dizzy her senseless for the last leg of the trip. "Besides, I'm not there forever, I'll be back, I always do, to the city life again and back to your arms, sexy lady." She wrapped her arms around Ash again, but had more of a seductive tone to it.
Ash brushed her friend off her. "Stop that, people are starting to think we're lesbians or something."
Terri pretended to be pondering the thought. "Hmm, a female artist falling in love with her female subject…What a perfect plot for a book, as weird as it may sound. You think I can somehow put that into one of my paintings? How about for the next gallery in March? I'm doing some fantasy and science fiction crap for a big publishing house and the movie studio, and I need inspiration. Mucho dinero if I get some good pieces sold."
"Isn't that why you're going to your cabin anyways? To find inspiration amidst the bugs and squirrels for two months?"
"Make that amidst the coyotes and mountain lions…and maybe a deer or two."
Ashley shook her head in disgust. "Ugh, how can you stand animals like that?"
"How can you not? You love the zoo; you practically visit it every other month. All the animals love to see you when you visit them: Hi Ashley! We love you! they say."
"Har, har…Yeah, but there's a nice cage or panel of glass separating me from them. Out here any wild creature can come up to you and bite you, or scratch you, or give you ticks, and maybe some rabies to go with that dismembered arm. It seems dangerous."
"I'm not going to live a cave, there's electricity and running water in there you know. It's the same as a normal house, just on the mountains. Telephone, television, toilets, shower, Internet connection, refrigerator, and heater…the whole deal." Terri placed a few strands of hair behind her ear. "Speaking of dismembered arms, that's about how much this place cost."
"You should sell that place. You'll get some nice numbers coming out of that area."
The van slowed a bit as the curves became more closed and was beginning to be harder to keep a steady wheel in the gravel road. More than once Terri checked the back of the van to make sure her equipment was not bobbing about all over the place. She and Ash had taken the entire morning that day wrapping up and tying down all of Terri's gear and tools, from the canvases to sketchbooks and pencils and everything in between, along with a few cases of fresh food to stock the refrigerator and a change of underwear to last a month. There were weather-appropriate clothes in her room at the cabin, but she also brought her share from her city home just in case.
A few minutes and many winding curves later a large wooden structure began to appear behind the thick criss-crossing of the many trees. The van pulled up to the house' front porch and lightly screeched to a halt.
"Your winter palace, madam," joked Ash as she got out of the car and stretched her sore legs for the first time in three hours of nearly non-stop driving; not counting the times they had to stop to go to the bathroom because their bladders wouldn't coincide.
Terri closed the door with a loud bang, knowing Ash cringed every time such abuse was heard from her vehicle, and took in the sight before her. The cabin did not seem to be in the best of shapes, showing its age in the form of cancerous growth of vines and dusty windowpanes, but it was much better than a rackety cottage. Terri took in a good breath of the icy air and was glad that she had worn her jacket before getting out of the warm vehicle. This was a place where Terri knew she would not be disturbed in at least one of the two months she would spend here. There was always the odd hunter or hiker that wandered a bit too far and requested shelter for a few days, and if the guy was handsome and hardy she would make sure he would want to visit again soon. There was a lot of unpacking to do but she didn't want to think about that yet. This was a place to relax, a place to cut herself off from the city and its filthy inhabitants and let her muse run free in a hygienic environment with the deer and the coyotes. Here, she knew, was where some of her best work originated, and with the big fantasy convention in March Terri wanted to create a few pieces that were guaranteed to make her be able to spend another two months here again next year.
The trunk was slammed shut, the last of the pieces of luggage already inside the house, but still to be put in their correct place, and then locked with a light click from the key.
"Finally!" Ash sighed as she moved to the front of the van where Terri was waiting to bid her friend goodbye.
The girls hugged and didn't seem to want to let go.
"You old hermit," said Ash.
Terri chuckled. "You whiny baby… I'll try not to miss you too much. Celebrate our birthdays when I get back at Charlie's with the guys like always, right?"
"You know it. Thirty-seven is a beautiful number! Just remember that you lost the bet at the football game so you're gonna have to pay."
"… Fine, but I still say that was a fumble."
Ash scoffed. "Oh, he so caught it! You're blind, that's your problem."
Terri laughed and picked up a stick, chasing her friend around a bit before Ash threw herself in the van and locked the door, making comical faces through the window and even bending over and mooning Terri for a second.
"Oh, very mature!" Terri yelled with a laugh, then pretended like she whacked the stick across her friend's exposed rear before throwing it behind her to the forest. "Get out of here before I slash your tires and you'll be forced to live with the rabid squirrels! Go on now, get!"
Ashley waved goodbye as she backed the van a bit then turned around and left the house, and her friend, behind her. Terri would have loved it if Ashley could stay and eat a sandwich with a cup of coffee or something, but, unlike her, Ash had a job that required her to stay near the city every day, and it was getting dark soon so the girl couldn't linger around much longer; it would be another three hours back and Ash would have to get up early. What a friend; even though it was a hell to drive all the way here and back, she still managed to find the time to haul her rear end here. They had met each other through the industry – Ashley D. Romagosa being an established editor for a small graphic novel company, and Theresa Rossner working as an amateur concept artist in the movie business – and now wondered what would she have done without her partner in crime.
Night fell quickly in the shortening fall days, the moon beginning to show its silvery glow well before the sun decided to set, and before Terri knew it she had to turn on the lights only to find that at least half of them were either burnt out or broken. Either way, they had to be replaced.
With the majority of the bulbs replaced in the cabin, the place began to look more alive. Many of Terri's unfinished paintings that had been left behind were randomly decorating the hallways and rooms, either to one day be finished or forever remain incomplete. There was still the odd cobweb here and there, but the spiders were hibernating for the upcoming winter and the dusting chore could be left until tomorrow. It had been a long day and all Terri wanted to do at the moment was go up to her room and sleep for the rest of the day and all of the night, but then the unpleasant thought that her bed had yet to be prepared pestered her more than anything as another chore that could be done without, and suddenly the old sofa next to the fireplace was the most inviting thing in the world. She let her body fall to the soft pillows layering the sofa and a large cloud of dust erupted from them, invading her lungs. Terri swatted as much dust as she could away from her face, picking up a few of the dirtier ones, and was taking them to the laundry room when she passed a rather large painting of hers, next to some other smaller ones, that was partially done…
Except that it was completed.
Terri did a sort of double-take at the painting. It was a commission from a computer company, but they had changed their minds at the last minute and were willing, if not a bit desperate, to pay the artist double the original price of the commission to do another painting by the same due date. The painting depicted the frontal view of a large, proud, predatory bird about to snare a trout in its talons, but Terri vividly remembered that only the bird and the background were colored and finished; the trout in the bird's claws had been left incomplete.
But it was completed.
But she left it unfinished.
But it was completed.
Terri let the pillows fall from her hands. She clearly remembered putting this one painting in the "incomplete" pile, next to the other partials, but here it was, out of place and done.
She shook her head. It was late; maybe she did finish it and the only thing she remembered about it was leaving it to the side as she started on the other painting. There were times when Terri would finish a partial as either practice, someone else decided to buy it, or she felt like it. Perhaps this was one of those odd ones she just completed out of the heck of it and just didn't remember doing so.
Yet the painting next to it…that was definitely not hers.
The almost sketchy feel of the paint strokes were wild and rough, done quickly and without hesitation. Many colors were used, almost in a sequence that didn't make much sense and strained Terri's eyes the more she stared at it. At first she couldn't tell what the hell she was looking at, but as she took a few hesitant paces back the odd lines started to form a figure, then two, until it seemed that an entire group of five was depicted. They seemed to be humanoid and male, with long, wild hair, but no clear features appeared, all was blurry and indistinct with a dark blue and orange background, and they were in full movement, doing something. Were those weapons? Each figure held a toothpick-like object. Sticks; spears maybe? It felt almost child-like, the simplicity of the drawing, but the perfect use of color and tone made it clear that no amateur created this.
But if Terri didn't do this one…who did?
(-)
The many tattoos that decorated his taut body were splattered with droplets of his own hot, pale green blood that steamed into the icy air as he quickly brushed aside the thick foliage of this backwater planet, his black, fleshy dreadlocks smacking rhythmically against his back with every paced step he took on the cold, uneven ground. The illustrations on his smooth, mottled reptilian skin were symbols of this one's might and prowess; any prey that was worthy to be part of his flesh canvas was depicted in their most glorious moment for everyone to see and be aware of his skills. Many of his comrades kept their preys' skulls in their trophy walls, but he took one step further and tattooed the fallen creature on his body as a constant reminder to himself, and everyone else, of the prey he had brought down. Since he couldn't carry around all of his trophies with him, he depicted them on his body. He alone created these illustrations and was quickly gaining a reputation for creating striking images that truly captured a creature's very soul. Even some Leaders had requested his special skill on their own flesh, much to the Elder's disapproval of the act since one so young did not usually indulge in the Arts, preferring for the Hunters to focus on physical competence rather than intellectual or spiritual proficiency; and the application of ink unto another's body was considered a very physical and very intimate deed usually reserved for Elders with this skill. Though by this generation, customs and age-old views did little to discourage those who applied the ink and those who searched for the ink artist.
Guan-da' – Night Knife – Not his real name, but it was used to describe his favorite dark blade that he could dip into the dyes for his tattoos. In the end, the name stuck and no one would call him by any other term. Once, in the times of his Unblooded youth, this same name held a different meaning, a derogatory connotation, one he was glad to have gotten rid of and would rather not remember.
His left arm depicted a large Hard Meat drone, an Alpha, no less, that winded its serpentine body around the length of his limb with both of its jaws opened, talons clawing the air. That one specimen in particular had put up a good fight, and even with nearly all its limbs severed it still continued to retaliate. Guan-da' was more than honored to collect its skull and place the drone's image on his body. By doing so, he believed he would gain the creature's fighting spirit and combine it with his own, increasing his strength, courage, and wisdom. Other areas on his body portrayed various additional creatures that had proven themselves worthy of his flesh; from large, carnivorous animals, to smaller but more intelligent prey. Most of them were simple symbols with little detail, but drowning in color, and represent the creature's valor and might. Zo'rill as this spiritual performance was called. Tattooing one's prey for this reason was becoming more popular amongst the younger generation, while Elders of times past could do nothing but shake their heads at the commercialism of what was once a small but important ritual reserved for the honorable. Guan-da' cared little for the thoughts of the Elders, though he made sure to never utter these thoughts aloud nor boast of his ink skill and whom he had applied ink to. He was on this planet simply so he could add the one prey he wanted to be part of his flesh and soul.
The Pyode Amedha. The Soft Meat.
But apparently what Guan-da' thought would be an easy Hunt proved to be more difficult than he expected. He knew human hunters – ooman in slang and for those with too heavy an accent to pronounce it properly; Guan-da' belonged to the latter – frequented this area and hoped to encounter one of them and seize the trophy without much trouble, but as his rotten luck would have it the only hunters nearby was one adult male and his offspring. His personal Hunting Code dictated that he shouldn't attack until the adult creature assaulted him first. It was only fair his more level-headed Leaders and mentors had said into boredom, the honorable course of action. Guan-da' had been tracking the pair for a while; keeping a healthy distance so he wouldn't have to unnecessarily use his cloaking device…
Then he was shot. At first he didn't pay much attention the loud bang of the weapon until the projectile went clean into his abdomen and brought him down. When he heard the dirty oomans approaching, he quickly retreated to some strong branches located above where he fell, cursing under his mask all the way up: Soji- ed' atupp! Sato-idi! and other such nasty remarks in his native tongue. Blood dripped heavily from his wound, and a few of those droplets fell upon the adult sojih as it was examining the area where a small amount of his pale blood had pooled at the base of the tree he had perched on.
The human looked up, its eyes wide in surprise.
Guan-da' growled, insults still fresh in his mind, as he extended his wrist blades.
It had shot him first…
The skull was not worthy; the adult barely fought back. In fact, it didn't fight at all. The adult simply stood there, motionless, almost paralyzed in fear, as Guan-da' brought his knifes across its throat. The ooman's hot, crimson blood sprayed across its offspring's face, and the young one in turn screamed and ran away. He didn't bother to chase it down and only hoped that it would grow to be a much better hunter than its sire; this one had been a disappointment to say the least. There were a pair of long projectile burners nearby that belonged to the pair, but neither of them had the brains to pick one up against him. Foolish, but it may have been for the better seeing how he was injured.
Wounded and without a trophy, his luck was turning sour fast. Guan-da' knew that some other Hunter comrades went to the military complexes and boasted of how incredibly aggressive some of those specially trained humans could get under attack, but Guan-da' believed that he didn't need many trophies for his first Soft Meat Hunt and that a lone adult skull would prove to be enough. Quality versus quantity, as in almost every aspect of a Hunter's life; best have one good victory than a score of small wins. Now, as he made his way to a more sheltered area of the frigid forest, he started to have second thoughts about his decisions. Maybe he should have gone Hunting on military humans, at least they were a bit more predictable…Maybe when it was warmer.
His small ship was farther away than he had expected and knew he needed to find a secure shelter before nightfall or risk that the planet's native beasts decide to figure out whether or not yautja meat could be added to their menus. He had to find refuge and heal his wounds as soon as possible. There had been an abandoned wooden dwelling not too far west that would provide a nice haven for the time being. The wary-footed Hunter made direction towards the odd complex.
It was not hard to get into the old wooden compound; a quick tinkering with one of his elongated nails and the ridiculously weak lock gave way. The interior stank of trapped dust and aged humidity, and by the derelict look of the place there hadn't been a sentient being living in here for what he guessed could be years; their sour scent was long gone from the air. Many of what had to be furnitures or at least large decorative pieces were covered in an odd white cloth as either ceremonial or to protect them, and standing erect almost in a true random pattern were different types of flat, square objects that stood upon wooden or metal holders as if for display, but many of them were, too, covered with the cloth. These were merely minor, back-seat thoughts as the Hunter cautiously made his way inside the complex. Never mind the oddities, oomans were not exactly known for their common sense – or lack thereof – when it came to their dwelling preferences; the important thing was that this place was empty and the most secure area he could find in such short notice. Guan-da' placed his hunting equipment on a nearby table and quickly pulled his small medical kit from his side bag, setting the metal utensils and healing elixirs near him to work on his wounds. The Hunter's metal mask was removed from his bony, tusked face with a wet hissing sound; he would need a clear view of what he was doing and the mask's many different visions, though invaluable for stalking, had little use for this kind of task. He was neither a healer nor medic, but he knew enough tricks on the subject to survive all the way to this age.
The pain was not much – the dislocated knee incident of his puphood serving him as a reminder, and a relative point, that any grief could be much more severe –, but he had to be dexterous with the needle-thin grabbing tool to pull the bullet out, and more than once muffle a growl of anguish. The damage was not as grave as he initially believed; there was more blood than physical harm, but knew it would not be long before he started to feel the sting of the raw wound and the aching tenderness of the sore muscles. All for the better; it mean that he will live. Once his injury was cleaned and bandaged, Guan-da' took a good look at the bloody projectile, wondering how such a small metal object could bring so much pain, before placing it in one his gear pockets, a little trinket to keep as an odd souvenir of sorts and a reminder of how unpredictable the Soft Meat could be.
With most of his strength returned, Guan-da' began examining the other areas of the dwelling, trying to find any useful item or a curiosity to take with him. Humans were infamous to be having the oddest weapons and items that they never used, but could serve useful for a resourceful yautja. Suddenly, as Guan-da' passed an oddly structured door, a winged beast attacked him; the creature's talons ready to rip flesh and limb, its large, black wings thrown behind in defiance. Guan-da' bolted back, his blades extended in defense, adding a loud guttural roar to intimidate the beast foolish enough to challenge him in closed quarters. Whatever creature that dared to assault his person would pay dearly with its life! The creature stood in mid-air, but remained motionless. Mouth open wide, but silent. Guan-da' blinked twice, perplexed. His body and breaths relaxed when he realized that his opponent was not an actual animal, merely an illustration of a bird-like creature. The Hunter retreated his knives, feeling heated blood rise to his face; a sign of embarrassment at his own gullibility. The illustration had fooled him though, perfectly caught him off guard. So this was human art. Guan-da' cocked his head to the side, and became amazed at the level of detail on the creature depicted in the square structure it stood on. It was as if he could reach out and touch the soft feathers themselves.
Yautja art, though not generally studied by of his own people, focused more on symbolism and movement rather than detail. For creatures that could live a couple of centuries, iconic detail in trivial matters such as art, architecture, and music were seen as – ironically enough – a waste of time. The only kind of art that was tolerated, even revered at points, were the adornments of armor, weapons, dreadlocks, and tusks with intricate ornaments of wood, jewels, metal, and bone. Fine art – illustrating and creating embellishments for the mere sake of it – was looked down upon, even prohibited in the more conservative districts. For Guan-da', respecting the modest, cultural style of his species, to be suddenly presented an illustration that must have required a great deal of time, skill, and patience was seen as both an imprudent expense by the artistic creator, and at the same time a piece to envy. Though he had never seen this specific avian with his own eyes, the bird's poise and posture seemed realistically flawless – it had to be the way this animal moved in the wild – and found himself becoming entranced with the image before him.
He was told by his peers that humans were allowed to recreate in the Arts, music even, if they so wished, unlike the yautja kin, – there were little if any restrictions to what a human could do, thus the reason for such an unfocused lifestyle, they said – but Guan-da' now believed that if one could create such a convincing image, create the illusion of life on a dead cloth, then it must be a highly respected person amongst its people. The again, this place was located in an area that may hint at a possibility that the artist did not wish for many eyes to fall on its creations and work. It was a thought that old Night-Knife could relate to. If the narrow-minded masses had no proof of one's petty hobby, then they had little motive to trouble you. Ison'yahh- anel, son'yahh-oguef. No wood, no fire. His eyes wandered the painting and grew disappointed when he saw that the animal's fishy prey was left white and naked, unfinished. A shame; he would have prized the piece more should the entire painting be done. Not that it would have been too hard for Guan-da' to recreate an ichthyoid's scaly body in this style. It would have been a challenge, yes, but not impossible. If only he could…
Guan-da' shook his head at the thought, looking away with his gaze turned towards his side and his arms outstretched in front of him, palms facing outwards, as if trying to make a physical barrier between himself and the painting. No. It would be downright ridiculous to even touch this alien illustration. This piece was not his to begin with, therefore had no right to claim it as so to give himself permission to amend it. Worst of all, the single thought that made him take a step back from the painting, it belonged to a dirty ooman. No yautja, Hunter or philosopher, would dare to take anything so problematic onboard their ship unless they wanted to create trouble for the examiners and themselves when it came to inspect the returning ship's trophies and other foreign objects within it. That is, unless they had a really convincing reason for such. Yautja art was barely tolerated. Human art? The mere thought was ridiculous. There would have not been any way to convince the examiners to allow such a taboo item to be kept freely.
There had been a mild but amusing incident a while back when a Leader tried to smuggle into their home planet a wild animal hidden in one of his adjutant's sleeping chambers in hopes of giving it to his favored female, the only Priestess that had consented to bore his child, as a gift. No amount of pleading could convince the examiners to approve the beast, so the Leader was thrown in the holding cell for smuggling…alongside the beast itself. And the female?
"He usually offered his trophies dead."
Guan-da' thoughts returned to the here and now, not wanting to think of what could happen should be bring this piece with him. Dealing with examiners had never been something he enjoyed; nor that anyone enjoyed, for that matter. Yet, who was forcing him to carry off the painting? The Elders grating this Hunt gave him no time limit for his return, most likely not caring if he returned at all, and the circumstances hinted that no human will interfere in this place. The dwelling was abandoned, after all, and guessed that the rest of the clothed structures were more rare paintings that were doomed to remain forgotten, maybe even unfinished, forever. He grew impatient at the thought. Leaving such a piece incomplete when it deserved to be fulfilled, it seemed positively criminal; if not at least a crazed chance to do what he wanted to do behind the Elders' back. A mild form of rebellion. Healthy for any young Hunter, of course. One had to yank the chain without breaking it every now and then.
Guan-da's eyes peered to the painting, then to a small wooden shelf nearby that held a collection of different colored dyes in glass containers with long, thin brushes set down next to them. It was not hard to identify the substance in the glass containers as the dyes used for this illustration. He looked at the painting, then towards the dyes, then back at the painting again. Guan-da' brought his longer lower tusks together in thought. Finding the painting may have not been mere coincidence; maybe he was supposed to have come across this and finish it. Though he was even less of a philosopher than a healer, the deities' will was not something any yautja would take likely, no matter how trivial the task. The more reasonable view would be that if not for the painting's sake, then at least for his own peace of mind. After all, a predator was nothing without its prey.
The paints he found in that dusty shelf were odd and unnatural. The top of the glass containers had to be removed with a forceful twist, making an audible pop, and stank very much like the cleaning agents used to wash off dried meat and tissue off trophy skulls. Unlike the ink used for tattooing, a watery fluid with a mild acidic base added in it to dissolve the chalk-like dye, these paints were thick and heavy. There was a thin film of liquid on top, signifying that these dyes were water soluble. Curious, Guan-da' dipped the tip of his finger into the paint, testing the texture, then brought the paint to the top of his lip, where the smelling pits were located right underneath each upper tusk within the mouth, but as soon as the strong chemicals in the dye harassed the sensitive flesh, he removed it, curling his upper lip in a disgusted snarl. The smell was definitely going to be a feature to get used to.
His thoughts wandered to the painting and the dyes in his hands; dyes that he was beginning to understand how they behaved by the way they mixed and smeared as he rubbed them between his fingers. If these dyes were anything similar to nod' – a special paint used to design on skin and dreadlocks as temporary tattoos in times of celebration or rituals – then half of his work was already done. With his sharp frontal teeth on his upper jaw, Guan-da' nipped the end of his nails on his left hand until it created a small slit that would hold the paint. Guan-da' dipped the nails into different colored paints, choosing the ones that would harmonize with the painting's original method, and, after a few hesitant moments in which he was sure his beating heart was going to leap out of his mouth, began to work on the bird's hunting portrait; careful to make his style as equal to the original's as possible. It was important that the fish was part of the painting; truly worthy of the talons it was about to be impaled in.
His fingers danced upon the canvas with a confidence and expertise yet to be matched amongst his kind. Not that it was much of a statement to be proud of, seeing as how there were not many of his kind he could compare to that dwelled in this sort of pastime. Even though his culture did not allow the acknowledgement of honor in matters that were considered insignificant and trivial, it did little to stop Guan-da' from pursuing his interest on the subject. There were no actual laws against artists, singers, entertainers, musicians, dancers, and all other kind of individuals that decided to step away from the Hunters' Path to pursue a more creative lifestyle, but they ran the risk of becoming outcasts of their own culture. That's why most that decided to pursue their imagination instead of pursuing prey had at least one foot on the Hunter's Path itself. As long as one had trophies on their wall, the rest cared little about what these would-be Hunters decided to do in their spare time.
The painting's original style was even harder to get accustomed to than the paints' stench. There was no black outline, as it was customary for tattoos; merely a light color base then darkening as each new coat of paint was applied. It was a similar technique when actually coloring tattoos whenever the opportunity presented itself; it was unfortunate that color tattoos weren't as popular as bold lines or else he would have had some more practice in the subject. Light pastel colors first, then darker hues, and finally the detailing. Soon enough, he managed to grasp the technique. Light pastel colors first, then darker hues, and finally the detailing. A sense of relief forced a content sigh out of his lips; it had been a long time since he had ever illustrated with such recklessness. Though that statement would have been incorrect since it was not true recklessness, but it was still a feeling of suppressed satisfaction. No one but Elders were allowed to dwell in the canvas painting field of the Arts, and yet here he was, Guan-da', poor student Night-Knife, with a painting cloth in front of him finishing an illustration that was not even his to begin with. An ooman painting. And he, he alone, was doing this without the Elder's knowledge, much less their consent. It was wonderful, exhilarating; a miniscule sense of mischief that felt as strong as an otag beast clawing his insides. It was as if he was truly centered – zazin – and all of his concentration was focused on the large ichthyoid and capturing the animal's very soul on this piece of cloth; as all of the ink artists aspired to do. The artists' reputation and honor depended on not only a satisfied customer, but that zo'rill was properly completed for the beast's soul to correctly bond with the Hunter's.
In the right here, in the right now, it was merely him and the painting. There were no worries of an upcoming Hunt and its preparations, nor unnecessary pride to cloud his thoughts. Maybe, Guan-da' thought, I will be able to take this piece on my ship when it is finished and dry. His thoughts, as well as his heart, halted for a second at that notion. This was a human art craft. After docking on the Mother Ship that brought him here, the Haba, Guan-da' could visualize his comrades with knifes unsheathed and claws bared, rasping outside his chamber door, waiting, waiting, waiting for the miserable ink artist to let his guard down, to turn his back on his collected item for one moment, the moment they needed to rip the painting to shreds. Or worse, vandalize it and leave it where it stood as a physical form of mocking. See, Guan-da'? he could hear them say in contemptuous sing-song voices, we are artists too, just like you.
The miserable ink artist sighed. At least when it was done he would have peace of mind and a clear conscious, even if he had to leave it behind…
The night thinned away.
Guan-da' had returned. He returned because he was a spineless being who was incapable of controlling his creative urges, he told himself. The night before had been incredibly productive, to say the least, claimed with a personal victory by completing the human painting. It was as close to the original style as his experience allowed him to recreate, but it was the most beautiful thing he had created, or finished. He had left the painting in an area of the complex where the planet's sun would be able to dry the paint quicker, and then returned to his ship, as satisfied as a hungry newborn pup being offered his first teat. Yet as he warmed the engines, ready to lift into the atmosphere and find another place with more suitable prey, he began to make excuses to himself to delay the departure. If it wasn't that he thought the engines were making odd noises and had to be checked, then his armor needed more polishing, or he had to rearrange the skulls on his wall for the umpteenth time.
As soon as the sun peered over the mountains, Guan-da' set off back to the wooden human dwelling, where the painting – his painting – was located. He felt compelled to check on it, to admire his handiwork one more time. The fact that he had finished this piece of artwork, a true artist's effort, gave him a sense of satisfaction that no Hunt could equal and very rarely could experience.
As Guan-da' stared into the illustration, admiring its fine qualities with a satisfied click of his tusks, he felt his fingers itching to touch the paint again; a light tingly feeling. He tried to compose himself, to not fall so easily to his wants. He was a serene Hunter, Guan-da' told himself, unruffled by fear or pleasure. Before his mind was aware what his body was doing, the great yautja Hunter Guan-da' had grabbed another odd square object with that same white fabric stretched over the perimeter of the wooden edges, one completely naked of color, and placed the paints next to him again.
The next excruciatingly long moments were spent staring empty-eyed at the most intimidating piece of cloth he had ever lay eyes on.
Guan-da' left a frustrated sigh escape from his mouth, shaking his head slowly. Never did he have much trouble illustrating before; either it was a tattoo that he could do in his sleep, or someone else already had something in mind. The endless white before him was daunting, more terrible than any sharp-toothed maw of the largest beast he had ever encountered. The possibilities, all of them, were endless. What could he illustrate? Everything. What to choose? All. Guan-da' dipped his split-nailed fingers in the retching paint and began to create, but what, in particular, was another matter. As in many aspects of his life, he will leave that up to luck. Whatever was to appear on the canvas let it be so by the will of the gods.
The movements were quick and fluid, no hesitation was present. His eyes became deep and focused, eyelids narrowing over his golden orbs in an alert scowl.
Guan-da' became so immersed into his painting that more than once he had to remember to breathe. This feeling was unequaled to anything; limited and liberating at the same time. If only he could be allowed to do this more often…
Warriors danced at the success of a bountiful Hunt, or were celebrating the annual etreum It'ed sacrifice for Paya, or readying for an upcoming Hunt with the Kiss of Midnight ritual made popular recently by the broad-shouldered northern yautja…It could be anyone of those and more, or none at all. It did not matter. All those emotions and that raw passion were placed in the canvas; the very essences of the Hunters were captured in a piece of human cloth. Human canvas containing yautja artwork. An odd combination, but it was one of the few pieces of work Guan-da' could stand back, admire it, and say he was proud. It was customary that a yautja would have to wait until age made his or her bones brittle – unsuitable for any labor or caretaking, but still respected as a person – to be allowed to freely dwell in the Elders' Arts, but Guan-da' felt that it was too long a wait, life too unpredictable, with Cetanu eagerly waiting behind every tree and boulder, to suppress his talents until grew old. He wanted to paint now.
Leaving his work next to the area where the falconoid's hunting portrait stood so this one could dry in the sun as well, Guan-da' set off and returned to his ship for the night. Tomorrow he had to bring down a few pieces of this planet's game animals in order to sustain himself for a few days longer before returning to his artwork again. Just because he could not take it with him did not mean it would be left isolated. The Hunter was certain he would not return until late nightfall, or even early morning, but didn't worry about it much; it wasn't as if any creature, animal or sentient, was going to find it anytime soon.