Spearhead was never the traditional type. It was no wonder he had resigned from the royal guard. It just wasn't for him.
He liked to experiment. Be bold. Be brave. It turned out his style of bravery wasn't suited for the guard life.
No, he was made for the canvas.
He made brash brush strokes across his newest work, his head empty. When he painted, he reached into the depths of his mind, making something not even he had seen before. He could see it forming on the edge of his thoughts. The way the blue and red crossed paths, how the purple seemed to clash almost violently against the orange, the contrast between fierce sweeps and tender dabs. He could see what it was becoming, but he never really knew where his brush decided to take him until the final stroke.
He shook his head, his trance-like state finally slowing to give him a chance to take in his creation. Splotches had formed in the center, giving the impression of a face. It almost looked alive.
It almost looked like it was moving.
Spearhead jumped, but shook his head. He was seeing things. He'd open his eyes and everything would be back to normal.
Everything was not back to normal.
The colors morphed in front of him, but there was something about it that irked him. Its movements were very amateur, like a newborn learning to walk. He noticed a small drip coming from the creature of many hues that landed into his palette. In the yellow. He wasn't an expert on reading a room, but he was certainly an expert on painting.
He dipped his brush into the yellow and held it in front of the covered canvas. For some reason, he instinctively knew what was missing. Offering some light strokes of yellow to the corners, he stepped back and admired the view.
Better.
But not better enough.
When he felt his art was missing something, he tended to just throw random colors around to see if something stuck. Somehow he felt a strange connection with his seemingly alive creation. He looked at it deeply, a question in his eyes.
It answered with a drip. Many, in fact. One in orange, one in blue, and one in black.
Before he hadn't had a clear vision of what he would do, but now he could see every little dab of paint in his mind with vivid clarity. He smiled. It was strange knowing what he was doing. It made him feel powerful; a master of his craft.
Grabbing a brush in one wing and one in the other, he took to his new assignment like a fish to water, letting the blue and black meet in the center before exploding to the rest of the canvas. It enveloped the entire painting in a web, weaving in and out of deep background and light foreground. Quickly getting the orange, he let it enter the canvas, right in the middle of the black and blue. It was like the heart of the whole piece. He could almost see it beating.
He took in the new look, but he still felt that something was missing. He waited patiently, hoping his art would offer its wisdom once more.
It took a while, but a slow rain of paint dropped onto his palette. White and red. Once he saw his task, he didn't think further beyond that and simply got to work. His hooves moved with such precision and speed that, to an onlooker, he would look helplessly possessed.
The white surrounded the edges, letting it fade everything out. The red was dotted around sporadically, but with a level of care in each dab he used that betrayed the planned nature of it all.
His art was finally coming together. Not just off of a whim, but with a foundation laid by the very figments themselves.
It looked perfect.
Or at least, he thought it did. He found himself struggling to trust his own judgment. He needed the advice of his newest friend. It had guided him through its own creation, surely it would tell him if he had gotten it right.
He stared into the painting and found himself lost in it. The desire for an answer was pushed to the back of his mind as the colors almost swirled around his sight. Every time he looked somewhere, the paint moved away, hiding from him. It was hypnotizing.
He realized what he was doing was insane, but weren't all great artists insane to some degree? Maybe it was a learning experience and this was the next step towards honing his craft. Maybe this was intentional on the part of his painting.
He wanted to know if he did well. He wanted to be praised for his efforts.
He asked silently.
He pleaded silently.
He begged silently.
"What do you want from me?" He begged, slamming his head down in front of the easel in desperation. Did it want something more? What could be missing?
He felt a drip on the back of his neck.
He looked up at his painting. It didn't move, but he could swear it looked like it was asking him if he understood.
To his surprise, he did.
Walking up slowly, he touched his hoof to the canvas. Instead of stopping, his hoof sank into the paint. Not a moment passed before his other hoof met the array of colors, and then his whole body quickly followed suit.
His whole body felt like paste. It was wet and dry at the same time, and he couldn't tell red from green anymore. It all blended together. He was floating as the colors barraged his vision one after the other.
He had a small smile on his face, though it was buried in the thickness of the paint. He couldn't move anything, from his legs to his muzzle.
He didn't have any regrets.
He'd do anything for the sake of art.
