"Another day...another night of nothing but art block...godsdammit," the artist grumbled while staring at the blank canvas before him, the palette of paints to his side looking untouched.
In the poorest district of Pearl Tusk Harbor, closest to the hustle and bustle of the warehouse district, many a starving artist or would-be artisan would set up shop here in order to save as much money as possible while practicing their crafts. Additionally, due to how close it was to the warehouse district, many an artist could pick up part time job in physical labor when necessary. It wasn't an easy life, but it was theirs.
One such artist living this life was a man by the name of Hubert Faulkner, and he was miserable.
"Fuck...I need a smoke," Hubert told himself as he set his palette down, got up from his seat and grabbed his pipe with a bit of smokleaf already in it.
