A Land Far Away

Pin-tur-as (pEEn tUr As -or- pEEn Ter as) n.
1. Syn. for paintings.
2. A series of artistic works by one specific creator.
3. An elf with a tortured history.

The third definition. Like it? It defines my master. My beloved... sort of. He's my best friend of course... I mean he created me so I kind of owe him that respect right? But... but you just can't get that close to him. No matter what you just can't...

Well I should start from the beginning. My master was born a very long time ago, at least four or five hundred years in the past. He was born to normal elven parents in a normal elven environment, and he had a quiet, happy life... for a while. He was a creative young lad, filled with new ideas and new inspirations. He wanted to see everything, know everything, be everything... for a while. It was good... for a... well you get the picture. Then his parents died. Original right? Considering how dangerous the world is and all you would expect no less. You'd expect something bad to happen. Something awful. And it did. So there!
...But it didn't go the way it always does in other people's stories. He didn't seek revenge. He didn't dedicate himself to some almighty, righteous god to vanquish whatever killed his parents. He didn't go insane... he just walked off. He walked. And he talked... some. Not much though. He's very quiet. He looked too. Looked at everything. Every last thing. He learned more than an elf in distress should learn. His knowledge... his prowess of all known things... it's simply astounding. If you only knew him like I do... I'm sorry... some times I get off-topic... Ahem.
And as he wandered aimlessly and without expression he found a grotto. Under a tree, which was near a boulder, which was across from a stream which shone brightly under midday sun; he found a grotto. He pushed aside the brushes and overhangs and stepped inside.
Now know this: my master is absolutely NOT insanse, by any means. And if anyone would question his sanity I would have severe inclination to injure said person with some of my awesome fairy strength! ... Please don't laugh. This is where the story gets interesting, I swear.
Anyways... the grotto was actually a link to another plane. A moving plane... kind of like a leech that moves from victim to victim, drawing new powers from its host. So was this plane... but it drew not blood or any life force, but color. All the shades and hues and tones in all the planes were gathered in this one bastion of pigmentation. And on the pedestal that was the most brilliant shades of burning white, was the relic of my master. The one instrument that contained within it the powers to do marvelous and terrible things... The Paintbrush.

((to be continued))

...And so he stepped down from the altar, holding the brush. It was brilliant and spotless. The bristles were smoother than the finest elven mithril and melted in his hands. He knew it was powerful. His instincts told him to keep it. To harness the un-harnessable; he would become a master of creativity itself.

He stepped out of the portal and back into the grotto. The plane sputtered and the portal swallowed itself up, never to reveal itself again. What was this brush? What did it do? Did my master actually ask all these questions? Maybe. I wouldn't know. But I do know of some of the things he did do with that brush.

For one, he must have tried something that was too much for a mortal to bear.

He... well he wants to know things. He is fascinated by all sorts of knowledge and seeks it with a passion I've never seen in anyone. He must've.. tried to see something. And failed. He never was the same after that. It destroyed his strength, his stamina. His body grew fail. But his mind... it expanded. Do not underestimate his mind. It is... masterful.

But anyways... I bet you're wondering where I came from? Well before I can get to that I kinda left my master weak and debilitated. To make matters short he clawed his way from the plains of despair and into a small town where he was greeted as a miracle worker of sorts.

You see his paintbrush has the uncanny ability to paint whatever its master desires. The paint magically appears upon the bristles and flows into these marvelous images. And a picture says a thousand words they say... well what if the picture actually speaks? That's right. The paintings come to life. Everyone that's painted by his brush becomes a mystical apparatus to somehow spread his knowledge or his power to others. So you can probably guess where I came from...

Oh by the way... my name is Pallette.

(more to come)

well written, and.. ((Flint in Tervale now has a painted wagon, and only one side still.))

nice work, and very inventive

/tynn