PERSONAL

Gender: Male

Kit: Eldritch

Location: Oxford, England

AFFILIATION

Alignment: Villain

Team: The Children of Sayang

VITAL STATS

Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: standard (rank 1)

Mind: standard (rank 1)

Body: standard (rank 1)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )

RECORD

Infamy Points: 388

Personal Wins: 66

Personal Losses: 47

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0

STATUS

Status: Active

M Bison

Art is its' own language. And there are very few who can truly speak it. You see, it’s not enough just to draw a picture. It’s not enough to write a piece of music. It’s not enough to write a book. There needs to be something there. Something deep. Some meaning beyond the obvious. Do you think that, when Vincent Van Gogh created Starry Night, he simply painted what he saw above his head? No, that would be foolish. Any half decent painter could do that. Gogh instead produced something remarkable. What he created was art. And art is what I do. It’s what I've always done.

Even as a child I'd try to create art. Looking back, it's funny really. The images I created weren't art. Not yet. I was just learning the language at that point; I could barely pronounce the vowels. But it was a start. Fortunately, I improved rather quickly. I spent the majority of my adolescence studying the great artists, not only those that painted and sculpted, but the great musicians and writers also. My life was becoming beautifully enriched, and my passion was fuelled by those that came before me. By the time I was eighteen years old, I had been accepted into Oxford University. I would finally be given the opportunity to master that which drove my life forward. But it was not to be. Sometime in the intervening months between my acceptance and the day I was to officially join, I was assaulted. I didn't lose a great deal materially; a few pounds, a wallet. However, my attackers destroyed something far more precious. In the struggle, my hands were crushed under the boot of one of the thugs. The impact didn't hit me immediately; I assumed that a hospital visit and possibly some surgery would be all I needed. But the reality was devastating. I can still pick up a paintbrush, but never again will I have the control and precision to truly communicate my thoughts with it. It teases me as I lift it, mocking me mercilessly as my fingers tremble on the page. Perhaps, I used to think, fate would be merciful. Perhaps I could speak once more. But alas, as soon as I begin to paint, it becomes apparent that I have lost full power over my language. It’s like speaking with a lisp; I can get a point across, but it is forever apparent that there is something wrong. The beauty is gone. The meaning is distorted.

I spent most my time trying to find some new purpose after that day. That was, until he found me. He was a small man, somewhere in his eighties. He found me at the gallery, admiring the work of Claude Monet. He said he knew my name, and that he could help me with my pain. I was unconvinced, until he grasped my hand. "Art", he said, "is the language I speak. And you will again."

We talked. He explained how he had learned of my situation through my mother, a friend of his. We walked together to his home, a small cottage on a farm. Instantly, I was immersed in my surroundings. The green hills in the distance reminded me of the beauty of countless paintings that I had become familiar with. The wind whispered sweet nothings as I looked to the sky. It was as if the very land spoke the language. It wanted, it needed me to paint it. But very quickly, the blissful state I had brought upon myself was shattered. I clenched my fist, as best as I could. I knew I could never truly represent the beauty of my surroundings on paper again. It was then the old man dragged me through his door into the cottage, he could sense my agitation. The cottage was a beautiful old place. Painting adorned the walls, sculptures were atop every surface. I felt at peace once more. He motioned toward a blank canvas, before placing his hand on it. The old man smiled, and as he did so, paint trickled from his fingers. As I watched in stunned silence, shapes began to form. Within a minute, the hills from the surrounding area were now on the canvas. The effect of the wind was perfectly conveyed. This was a masterpiece. A true work of art. The artist looked to me. "This I can give you," he whispered, "all I need is for you to let me in". I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do, this was my last chance. I could finally achieve my goal. I could once again speak the language of the gods. As he placed his palms on my forehead, light turned to darkness.

I awoke several hours later. The old man was nowhere to be seen. All I could hear was The Scream. A terrible sound, like a lion that had learned to speak. "You," it growled "are to be a true pioneer. With my guidance, you shall create a new style of art. You are the Picasso of your generation. You will never need to pick up a brush again". I knew what he meant. A plethora of new ideas flooded into my head, as if The Scream had found a door in my mind and ripped it open. A smile adorned my face as I walked toward the local village.

It was symbolic. That's why I had to do it like that. "The Fall of the Holy" is one of my finest works; it just wouldn't have the same meaning otherwise. I could have killed her first I suppose, but you see the message had much more depth if she was screaming. The nun's tears added that extra texture to what I was saying. As her cries of despair and pain fell into tearful acceptance, I knew I was creating a masterpiece. Forsaken by her god as she was desecrated in His church. Sexual? Of course it wasn’t sexual. I did it for my art.

I do everything for my art.

The Scream

     Telepathy: standard (rank 1)

There was very little the police could do really. The first man to gaze upon my work at the church was one of these officers; someone had reported a disturbance, or something of that nature. Of course he tried to stop me - I could never have expected a lowly policeman like that to understand art when he saw it. But it was of no consequence. It seems I'm not the only one that hears The Scream. I don’t know what it said to him, but it wasn't long before he ran away in tears. I suppose he could have said anything, lowly village folk from rural England really aren't used to hearing monsters. It must be a rather terrifying experience for the uneducated. My first masterpiece was complete now anyway, it was time to move on.

Hands Are Weak

     Telekinesis: standard (rank 1)

Of course, I couldn't just leave if my piece was in danger of moving without being seen again. I had to ensure that she remained where she was, her femininity exposed under the lustful gaze of the wooden messiah. She'd never have stayed under her own power. She couldn't speak the language, she'd never have understood. As I battered her head repeatedly into the stone floor, I smiled. I didn't even need to use my hands anymore. My weak, useless hands were nothing but a hindrance now. Her pretty face was being torn away by the ground beneath her as she smashed into it, again and again and again. Her God had even allowed her to die there, terrified and alone. The significance of this was astounding. The woman was now part of something more beautiful than she could ever have been without me.

The stories in the national newspapers the next morning filled my heart with pride. Finally, people were becoming aware of my work. They didn't appreciate it yet of course, but I wasn't going to allow that to phase me. Van Gogh sold one painting in his entire life, yet now he's recognised as a true pioneer. My name will one day be mentioned amongst his. I just need to give it time.

The Scream II

     Mental Defense: standard (rank 1)

The Scream loves me. As my art is my expression, so too am I his. The man I now grow to become is his very own masterpiece. I am truly blessed, not only to be a creator of art, but to be a piece of art myself. I am his prize possession, so it is understandable that he is highly protective of me. Those prying eyes that attempt to view his work before it is complete are met with a voice of rage and power. I would assume it takes a will of iron to continue to pry despite his mighty protests.

Art is Born of Pain

     Decay: superior (rank 2)

He was thirteen years old. I'd chosen the number specifically, it's significance well documented throughout the ages. His rosy red cheeks and cheeky smile had endeared him to the local community. It was why he was selected, and it was why that smile was the first to go.

The child's eyes and face rotted away as I grasped it. It took longer than I had anticipated, but the old man's cottage offered me enough seclusion that I could work at it for a good number of hours. The weakness of my hands made it a little difficult, but "Thirteen", my next project, was slowly being completed. The howls of pain had subsided after the first hour, and I was able to finish in peace. However, I felt there was still something missing. After a few minutes of pondering, The Scream offered inspiration. He directed me to the old man's collection of firewood, and I knew exactly what to do.

I built the crucifix the next day.

The Great Cleanser

     Fire: superior (rank 2)

I placed Thirteen in front of a barn belonging to a neighbouring farm. It was remarkable. The exposed muscle and bone on the child’s face, and the cross he had been strapped to; it was wonderful. But it wasn’t a masterpiece yet. That’s why I’d placed it near the barn.

There's something incredibly important about fire. The heat, the destruction. Often personified as a raging beast, I view it as more of a cleanser. Where fire burns, new things can then grow. The wood and straw in the barn created the environment I needed. I placed my arm into the hay, and almost immediately it set alight. I then let my creation complete itself.

As I left my work, I turned. The inferno was the perfect backdrop to the scene in front of it. I'd created something I could be truly proud of.