The Painter
A “Blood Bound” short story
Hundred or so years ago…
Of all the cities on the continent, Mossborough was always my favourite. Sure, there are other grand harbours, bustling with travellers and trade. Cities with grander spiritual temples, and other temples of carnal worship. Shops and taverns, palaces and music halls. Yet, this town is the home to a place no other has. One of a kind in the whole world – the thieves guild.
– Bluebird’s journal
Lead by the infamous leader Bluebird, the thieves guild is a home to many lost souls. Burglars, lock pickers, con-artists, forgers… Those creating fake documents and those more skilled in fine arts. Such as Alberto Maran.
He’s not just another art forger. There is greatness in his original work. No one knew that only 10 years from now, he would become the most famous painter from Mossborough. The nobles would outbid each other to get a portrait painted by him. But, I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, Maran is nothing but a quiet weirdo who ended up in the guild by pure chance.
Or rather, bad luck.
Alberto Maran was a slim man in his mid-twenties, at the time these events took place. With long black hair , and a moustache, dressed in clothes splattered with paint, he was the pure image of an artist. He had a nervous temper, which made him unsuitable for operations in the field. This didn’t trouble him much, as he preferred to spend his days in the atelier, painting his original works or forging other famous paintings.
His skills as a thief were almost none. His nerves made him a horrible actor, he had no physical strength, and he could barely pick a lock. Since its founding, the guild house door was equipped with an enchanted lock that changed on a whim. There was no key, but every member worthy of their mantle could easily break into it. Except Maran. Others would often open the door for him when he was young, until the word got to the upper management.
Bluebird threw him out one rainy night and forbid anyone to let him in – he was going to learn how to enter on his own, one way or another. Several hours later, Maran figured out how to climb to the windows on the upper floors. Bluebird waited for him in his office, expecting a temper tantrum he got from everyone else when these kinds of disciplinary measures were taken. Looking like a wet rat, he passed the office on the way to his room, where he went straight back to painting.
One would think that if you gathered a bunch of castaways – people who lived through horrible ordeals – they would have empathy and understanding. Guard each others back. And one would be wrong. Put people in any kind of group, and there will be someone they’ll deem beneath them. One that doesn’t belong.
Most of the guild members didn’t hate Maran. Most of them simply didn’t care he existed. He could live with this, as someone who spent most of his time in solitude, if it weren’t for a small group that would bully him when things got too dull. The quintet would burst into the atelier, disrupting the work with mockery and insults, play pretend they’re posing for the portraits, sometimes even flinging spare brushes and paint around. All the while, Maran would rush between them, trying to salvage as much of the paintings he could. The more he begged them to stop, the more it egged them on. Eventually, the group would get bored and leave Maran surrounded by a mess he’d have to clean on his own.
Things are not hopeless, though. For you see, Maran has a plan. The plan that involves him sneaking out of his window right at this moment.
Just a few weeks ago, he received a letter from a baroness who has seen the few portraits he did for the Thibault family, and wants to introduce him to her friends tonight, at the party hosted in her house. This could be Maran’s way out. No one in the guild held there against their will, and many have left when better opportunities showed up. Maran would have left years ago if he had the means to live on his own. A rich patron who appreciated his works could afford to host him. Give him space and the means to create, to grow and thrive. In time he might even earn enough to afford his own place. Become independent.
With all the dreams and hopes of a better future in his mind, Maran makes his way through the cobbled streets. He arrives at the grand villa on the edge of the town. Hidden from the view of the street by a tall, well trimmed hedge, the grand yard is filled with carriages. Maran makes his way across it, to the main entrance, where a servant at the door inspects his invitation before steping away to allow him to enter.
Another servant offers to take his coat, before he can climb up a short flight of stairs into the grand salon. Lights bounces from the crystal chandeliers on the gilded walls, here and there covered in crimson drapes. Men and women dressed by the latest fashion mill around with wine glasses. This is where he notices one peculiar thing the invitation didn’t mention – this is a masked ball.
Hawks. Magpies. Crows. Various masks of birds cover the faces of the guests. Before the panic can fully set in, Maran hears a woman’s voice calling him.
“Alberto! You made it.” He turns towards the woman in the finest clothes at this party. She wears a sparkling mask of a magpie, only covering the top half of her face. Her lips are spread in a warm smile as she approaches him with one arm extended. “I am baroness Sylva. It’s a pleasure.”
He bows to place a kiss on her hand. “Madam. The pleasure is all mine.” Straightening up, he nervously continues. “Though I admit. I come unprepared. Clueless this would be a masquerade.”
“Nothing we can’t easily remedy.” She waves her hand, unbothered. A servant rushes to their side, offering a plate with a single mask on it. An uneasy feeling settles in his gut as he looks upon it.
It is a fine mask. Not a single feather out of place. Silk ribbons. Beads carefully placed around the eyes. Very light as he takes it in his hand. A testament to a skilled craftsmen, with a single oddity. It is a mask of a sparrow.
He hesitates in putting it on. Nervously, he looks around as a small crowd has gathered to watch. Hawks. Magpies. Crows.
Something inside him tells him to run.
He doesn’t listen to it. This is his one chance. The baroness has showered him with praise in her letters. She seems genuinely excited to have him here. Even if she won’t take him in as a patron, after the party maybe one of her acquaintances will. No more having to climb the walls to get inside his own home. No more being surrounded by people who don’t want him there. No more splattered paint and ruined canvases.
With a slight tremor in his hands, he puts the mask on. He was a sparrow his whole life, what’s one more night?
“Thank you. Though I feel slight trepidation. Wearing this among all these birds of pray.” The clumsy joke is met with warm laugh from other guests. They go back to their own conversations, as the baroness loops her arm with Maran’s.
“Oh, Alberto, you amuse me. Come. Let me introduce you to my friends.”
It takes so little kindness to make us lower our defences. Oh, how dangerous at times that can be.
They talk. They laugh. They drink. The masks begin to blur as the night progresses, and at times he wonders if he’s being introduced to the same people over and over again. At one point a flash of blue catches his eye on the upper balcony and he can swear he sees a simple mask of blue feathers, worn by a man in a copper coloured shirt. Watching him. He blinks and the figure is no longer there.
Before he can think about it more, the baroness pulls him to the centre of the grand salon.
“Dear friends! Gather round.” The conversation around them hushes down as she clinks her glass to draw their attention. “I have invited you all here tonight, to introduce you to one of the rising stars of our wonderful city. And show you his wonderful work.”
Suddenly, Maran finds it hard to breathe. Surrounded by all of these people, staring right at him. Hawks. Magpies. Crows. Intently listening, with serious faces. Waiting with bathed breath to see his work. Which work? Did the Baroness bring in the portraits from Thibault? The old family wouldn’t part with them, surely. That would be an odd request, and even odder thing to bring in paintings several meters wide and high just to display them for one night. But who would know with these extravagant nobles. The long crimson drapes hanging all over the salon walls be large enough to conceal them.
He looks around nervously, but nothing happens. The silence feels heavy as all eyes remain on Maran. Even the baroness stands still, regarding him.
“I-I must apologise,” he begins to stutter. “I brought no paintings. The invitation didn’t say…”
“Oh, but darling, worry not,” the baroness says, and her smile turns from warm to wicked. “I already had them brought here.”
With a clap of her hands, the large crimson drapes fall to the ground. The laughter fills the room.
His best paintings and portraits, that he left secure in the guild atelier, hang right there, on the gilded walls. Every single one of them – ruined. Splashes of paints. Slashes of canvas. Doodles of mens private parts. Moustaches on faces of ladies – some he sketched from his imagination, and some inspired by the noble sisters of the Neptulions temple.
Maran stands in the middle of the all, knees wobbling in shock.
“Did you really thing you would get a opportunity like this? You,” the voice filled with venom questions him. The baroness now stands unmasked. One of his five worst tormentors. The rest of the masks fall to the ground, revealing more members of the guild. “You’re nothing but common trash like the rest of us, Maran,” she continues. “Get that through your thick skull and learn you place.”
“No. No.” Tears well in his eyes as he backs away from them.
“Yes. Yes. There will be no one saving you. You’re stuck with us.”
Shaking his head, whispering ‘no’ over and over again, Maran runs out of the room. He stumbles into the only remaining masked man, with the blue feathered mask. The stranger reaches for him, tentatively, but Maran slips away. Through the yard, into the streets. Back to the town that spit him out into this world.
Poor Maran. I wish I knew sooner. I would have gotten you out. 113 years ago, the guild was established as a place for all the footpads and urchins that wanted more from life. A safe place for all the delinquents. But I guess this is what you get, when you put so many of them together. I’m starting to wonder, if it was all a mistake.
Unaware how he got there, he finds himself standing at the end of the Neptulion’s bridge. The murky river splashes into the wide stone pillars as the autumn rain falls all around him. There’s no one out there. Just like his whole life, he is alone.
Maran walks over to the ledge of the bridge, convinced this is the only path left for him to take. A dive into the dark stirring water. A short fall into oblivion, for both himself and his work.
He climbs onto the stone ledge. Leans over it to pear into the darkness. And as his foot hovers over the edge, a voice rings out through the rain.
“Don’t!” Two priestesses run up the bridge. “Please, child. Come down and let’s talk.” Maran looks at their worried faces, their hands reaching for him from a safe distance.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure we can find a way out,” the older one says. Dressed in all white robes with blue sashes, they’re like two spots of light in the darkness.
A hooded figure hidden in the shadows watches as Maran wavers. Blocked by the rain, the voices the words exchanged don’t reach this man. He sees them all yell. Sees the fire rise in his protégé for the first time. Then comes the calm. Finally, Maran takes the priestess’ hand and steps down onto the bridge.
Bluebird breathes out in relief, as the two priestesses lead the painter away with them towards the temple. Over the years, he will grow into one of the most famous painters on the continent. Paint the frescoes on the ceiling that will make this temple famous. Create a legacy of works that only a few will rival with. Alberto Maran will find friends, a family, and most importantly, happiness.
The guild was supposed to be a home. But to some, home is elsewhere...
The portrait of a nobleman
Painted by Alberto Maran a century ago, the painting depicts a wealthy nobleman. Used in several different schemes, the painting suffered paint overs executed by different art forgers. No record remains why and for whom it was initially created.
The painting recently resurfaced at an auction held in Mossborough. After fierce bidding, it was sold to Count Thibault, who managed to outbid Duchess of Almir with an exuberant amount of money.
Rumours from the Dubois estate claim the Count burnt the painting as soon as he brought it home.