Sacred artists are those who have honed their aesthetic senses to the brim.
The color is the same as the paint dripping from the little girl's brush. A knight had materialized seemingly out of the air in cobalt armor. With a flick of her brush, several orcs fall back, with gashes littering their bodies. They edge closer to the little halfling girl, who merely smiles. The woman stows away her brush and catches her breath before continuing on her excursion. When the beasts follow, an eruption of stone slams into their faces as a sudden wall appears where there had not been one before. Her archaeological dive has come to a screeching halt as rabid great apes come to chase her. The shadow of a woman dashes through the temple ruin. Where his brush touched, the remnants of memory before destruction bubble forth and wash away the horrific scene, bringing back the life that was.
He does this until the ruined field has been restored. Taking out a large brush, he draws a small sapling from a point in the ground. But his eyes can spot the glimmer of life that once was.
All around are the signs of strife and ruination, bought needlessly upon innocents. It is what we, as artists, are meant to unveil.Ī great grandmaster stands alone among the ruins of a ransacked village. Once one sees meaning in all, their brush can draw upon the true and sacred nature inherent in all. The brush we carry within all of us is proof that this is true. That which has meaning can be enshrined to be sacred.
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