Cultivating Ink 2

When Alaric left the abandoned building two hours later, he had been transformed completely. Gone was the street urchin on the awkward gateway between childhood and adulthood, replaced by a young scholar in his early twenties.

Including carefully applied dirt to his chin that looked like he had shaved several hours ago.

But, he knew that the greatest difference came from his posture. He stopped walking with the constant slouch that any slum rat learned at an early age, and straightened his back, walking confidently, like he was better from the people that was around him.

He needed to be convincing. Technically, wearing the robe of a scholar robe without any rank sigil was not illegal. It only marked him as a learner, unlike carrying any of the sigils that they earned through national exams, which was punished by execution.

However, Alaric was sure that, if the guards realized his true identity, they wouldn’t care about that detail. Magister wouldn’t either, assuming guards just didn’t beat him to death.

It was risky, but he didn’t have any other options. None of the reputable businesses, be it merchants or escort companies, would accept an orphan from the slums as apprentice. Joining a hunter team would have been dangerous even if he had been stronger, and herb collecting was even more dangerous. Half of the herb collectors were either died to monsters, or captured by bandits to force working for them.

No. Alaric knew that he only had one realistic path. He needed to work on his painting, his only real talent, until he could actually eke out a living that kept him inside the city walls. No matter how hard and meager such a life would be, it was better than betting whether the gangs or an errant monster attack would kill him first.

He sighed once he stepped in the marketplace, the warm light of the sun bringing the marketplace to life. Market stalls were lined over the cobblestone streets, their owners arranging goods ranging from fresh produce to intricate trinkets. The air was filled with the mingled scents of baked bread, ripe fruits, and the distant hint of sea salt carried by a gentle breeze that sent his stomach grumbling.

He caressed the modest but clean scholar's robe he had painstakingly mended to look pristine, the deep blue fabric lending him an air of quiet dignity.

It also marked him as a potential rich customer. Merchants called out to him, advertising the finest silks, the freshest fish, or the most exotic spices to the young scholar they saw in front of them. Even after repeating it many times, Alaric was still wasn’t sure whether to be amused or depressed at the reaction.

If they knew his true identity, the only thing he would receive was a stone.

One good thing about the scholar disguise, the merchants didn’t take his disdainful glare at them personally. They just accepted that he was another highborn, walking alone to experience life before the imperial exams.

He moved toward an empty corner, one that he used before. It had a nice rock he could sit and set up his workspace, but it wasn’t why Alaric preferred it. It had a beautiful vantage point, allowing him to see three paths the patrolling guards used, and had a low wall he could jump over easily if they ever approached here.

He wouldn’t survive their attention.

Then, he sat on the rock and placed the small wooden sheet he had brought along. Just as he was unrolling his canvas, the stall owner that was next to him spoke. “Oh, you’re here again, young master,” he said. “I thought you finally left. You were absent for a week.”

“The trip to the forests took longer than I expected,” Alaric replied, keeping his answers short. He was good at doing the highborn accent, but the more he talked, the more he would reveal.

Luckily, a scholar-in-training expected to speak less and listen more, learning from the wisdom of their elders. Before his neighbor could ask for another question, he lowered his head and pulled his cherished brush before he started preparing the ink.

He preferred to work with color, but that was a luxury he could only do when he was not disguised. Because, unlike ink, the quality of the colored paints was immediately apparent. None of the ones he could afford was fit for a young scholar from a rich family. To maintain his identity, he had to limit himself using only ink, acting like he was trying to hone his mastery on classical styles.

It wasn’t that he disliked working with ink. He loved painting, regardless of the style or medium. Looking at the world, understanding how it flowed, and capturing that fleeting moment on the paper was a beautiful feeling.

Too bad no one would ever buy anything that was drawn by a slum rat, while many were willing to pay premium for even the bad paintings that was drawn by a scholar.

He shook his head as he worked with his ink stick, mixing with just enough water to create a beautiful, viscous liquid. Then, he picked his brush, and danced. It was soft, hesitant touches, and soon, a copy of the marketplace appeared on his canvas.

For others, it might be just a pastime, but for Alaric, it felt nothing less than a miracle. It was an act of creation, weaving a tale out of discrete elements, all connected by the golden light of the sun, elevated from being just another marketplace to a moment locked in eternity. Light and shadow both had their places, creating a dance of movement.

Alaric loved painting, because, unlike life, it wasn’t punishing. Even if he made a mistake, he could easily cover it up with an added touch, or create a new balance if he preferred. It didn’t always follow what he envisioned, but that didn’t mean mistakes created an inferior product.

He dipped his brush into the ink again, watching as the rich black clung to the bristles. With each application, he transferred not just color but emotion, intention. It wasn’t just a marketplace, but a living, breathing entity.

One time in life that he felt in control, yet paradoxically felt like the slave to his brush.

He took a deep breath as he put the finishing touches,, only to realize he already had multiple curious onlookers watching him. "That's quite the talent you have there," remarked an older man with a kindly face, his gray beard neatly trimmed.

Alaric put a smile on his face even as he cursed inside. He shouldn’t have lost himself while painting. What if the guards arrived. “Thank you, elder. I’m just a mere student, trying to develop a small touch of skill,” he said, doing his best to echo a barely concealed arrogance, as if he deserved every possible praise.

His disguise deserved it.

“What an inspiring young man. All my children are busy wasting their time instead of practicing.” Alaric nodded. “Would you mind painting a portrait of me,” he asked after chatting a little more.

“It would be my pleasure to create a facsimile such an exalted elder,” Alaric replied even as he dipped his brush before it danced. This time, he pushed his brush dance as fast as possible, knowing that an old merchant would be more entertained by the show than an actual quality painting.

Nor did he try to stay true to what he saw. He didn’t highlight the viciousness he could see behind his kind face, nor did he highlight the calculative and arrogant expression whenever he looked at the other merchants. Instead, he created a portrait of wisdom and generosity, no doubt the way he saw himself.

He even smoothed the age lines.

“Impressive,” the merchant said. “Though I look younger.”

“I can only paint what my eyes see,” Alaric lied. “It’s my gift to such an exalted elder.”

He paused, clearly tempted to actually follow that. Unfortunately for him, Alaric could see that, so he spoke just a touch louder than necessarily, making sure the other stall owners heard it.

He had long learned that ‘gifts’ could be more expensive than actually selling things, especially since being a young scholar meant that he was supposed to be modest and eschew materialism and not sell what he produced.

Which was just nonsense, of course. It was easier to eschew worldly riches when one belonged to a rich merchant family or an old aristocratic one.

Alaric smiled as the old man did his best to glance around, trying to see who was around him. In the end, his gaze fell on one of his neighbours, his gaze giving a tale of hostility. “Nonsense, young scholar. I can’t expect you to waste your precious ink and paper on a worthless merchant like me,” he said even as he reached his pouch, and put several coins on his palm.

All but the top one copper in an attempt to look even more generous, not that Alaric was complaining. A silver coin was what he would make if he joined a hunting team and risk his life in the wilderness.

“I wish you success on your affairs, young scholar,” he said as he beat a hasty retreat.

Alaric hoped that it would be the case. He started painting another canvas, this time capturing a beautiful bird that had just landed on a vegetable stall. He could already see several merchants eyeing him, particularly the one with the hostile relationship with his previous client.

He hoped that it would be a good day.