What is it like to describe color to a blind man? What is the color of red? Of blue? Green? These vibrant rays of light are intermingling in the darkness. The phantasmagoria brings the purest emotions of a time unheard.
For Varen, a blind elf, the stimulation is simply too overwhelming to his senses. Being able to see for the first time is a very strange experience completely alien to what is within his perception. As to why he is seeing this, he doesn't know.
Does he need to know?
Similar to that question, and again, he simply just doesn't know. Maybe learning of the secrets in the mysterious mural within the dark world is wrong in itself.
While the feeling of seeing for the first time is strange, the ability to smell, hear, and taste color is entirely a different matter. If a common person experiences this, they will feel the sense of desolation of being incapable of understanding, however, Varen understands just fine.
He can smell it as the crimson stretches out like rivers of blood, clusters of flame, and the bleeding of the sky. The burning of trees, and grilled 'meat' in effects of war. The red flames dance in the murals like the swaying tail of the devil. The rusty smell in the air from the same redness similarly pervades his nose reminding him of blood and hate.
Resonating with the emotions from the mural, Varen can feel this heart-wrenching pain.
The elf king sits on his throne with 'angels' hovering around him, while his subjects below him pray reverently for his mercy. However, this is not where the contents of the mural ends. Outside the elf king's realm of influence are humans carrying their iron weapons, and tools of war. From them, fire proliferates like starving locusts.
Information seeps into Varen's mind like the nagging irritation of being on the verge of remembering something. Words come to him in short intervals… Most are meaningless rambles, and few while many hold substance, remain unverifiable.
Birth of the first elves.
Fall of the Elf dynasty.
Hundred million years.
All too incomprehensible for Varen's mind, yet he persists in remembering them. The picture. The little elven runes are too far gone from the current runes that the elves know. The emotions. The bubbling volatile desire for survival.
Closing his eyes from the dark world, Varen wakes up to Gaia, the Ratatoskr's current base of operations. With little to offer from his sense of touch, he grabs a paintbrush and starts painting.
Only recently is he learning the art of painting. He is blind, but his sense of touch is borderline supernatural he can now judge color by his touch alone. So desperately he paints, the manic movements from his wrist mechanically move in gentle strokes trying his best to replicate the murals from the dark world.
The Gaia Ruins are no longer merely just ruins but are now akin to a luxurious manor all thanks to the refurbishing of its new inhabitants. Inside the Gaia castle, Varen dedicatedly paints the images in his mind to the best of his abilities. The final product is still far from the real thing, but Varen is making progress.
"How is it?"
"Not bad, young master… You are making improvements."
Addressing Varen so respectfully is an elf with dark blonde hair and on his middle-aged. He is Saul, an addicted gambler elf who serves as Varen's literacy teacher and also his painting instructor. Saul grabs the parchment full of messy ink yet has defined strokes resembling the broken mural embedded in the wall just in front of them.
Varen lately remarks, criticizing Saul's way of addressing him.
"Don't address me as a young master, it is annoying…"
"Why? You are a young master, aren't you? If it displeases you, I will stop. Just take it that old habits die hard. I don't mean to boast, but my time in the human realms has influenced me in a way that I have become more like them than an elf."
So slimy and frivolous, that is how Saul generally is…
"Young master, your sense of touch is superb. At first, for you to learn how to write while blind is shocking enough. But now, you can even paint!?"
Saul flatters him, while consistently calling Varen a young master.
Varen shakes his head clearly in disapproval of his temporary assistant's behavior. Currently, Opina is together with Lameya conducting a 'job' on the Dark Lands from securing resources and maintaining their businesses.
Orders from the top strictly instruct the Ratatoskr to centralize their power in Gaia, and not bother exerting troublesome efforts in trying to conquer the Dark Lands.
For this, Varen has to stay in Gaia and focus on his more urgent task of investigating the ruins. With the assistance of more literate and knowledgeable elves courtesy of the Pilgrims, Varen is making steady progress. Old books, paintings, and parchment from the ruins are carefully under scrutiny.
The experts available to Varen are not enough, but it is not entirely without use. At least, with their numbers, they are able to clean up the ruins and make them more presentable elevating the ruin's status from an abandoned house to a minor stronghold.
Hopefully, one day, it will return to its prior glory as a castle. This must be Gaia's true nature evident in the structure of the place.
There are utensils, a large dining area, a throne room, and even a suitable bed chamber. The semi-circular dome area with the murals looks like a prayer area, and there is even a garden.
Varen will even go as far as to suggest that this place become the center of the royal capital of the elves.
For obvious reasons, Gaia cannot for the time being.
"I need to rest," Varen walks off from the mural and lies on a patch of comfortable linen and leather to properly sleep. "Do not wake me up until eight hours."
The need to rest comes from the mental exhaustion of visiting the dark world and trying to peer at the secrets of the mural. Dedicating himself to learning the secrets of the mural, Varen falls into contemplation as he lulls himself to sleep.
Everything so far has been so confusing.
Birth of the first elves.
The origin of their race from where they come from. The beginning of the long-living race who call themselves elves. From what Varen knows going by his intuition alone, they must share the same source as the humans of this world. Their resemblance is just too strikingly similar. However, as Varen grows to learn more about the mural, the more suspicious Varen becomes of what he knows… like the Ezelea Continent, the known history itself, and even how the discriminatory relationship of the humans has come to be with the demi-human races.
Fall of the Elf dynasty.
This leaves a bitter taste in Varen's mouth. It feels like it is mocking him. The very phrase 'Elf Dynasty' is a bitter pill to swallow. Does it mean the elves have once prospered? In a world lacking oppression, how lovely, would it be if the current elves also have a dynasty? Cruel thoughts seep into his mind, reluctant to admit it as his own. Learning of old glory, Varen realizes how wrong they are living now.
Hundred million years.
Among the meaningless rambling of words that connects in his head, this is the most baffling, yet has the heaviest impact. To learn that it has been a hundred million years since the beginning of time, Varen feels this inferiority to the 'eternity' of time.
Waking up from his nap, Varen returns to studying the mural in the dark world. In a twisted sense, Varen grows to like the experience of watching the mural. It is so beautiful. To see is a gift, and now, Varen knows that.
Wandering in the dark world, Varen throws himself into the mural submerging himself in the world of colors. The act itself is crazy as Varen is unsure of what might happen. The only thing Varen can tell is that the results ought to be unpredictable.
The mural as if it has a mind of its own rejects Varen spitting him out from the dancing colors. Returning to the dark patches untouched by the rainbows of the mural, Varen stands up with resolve and determination and throws himself to the mural once more.
And again, he fails.
Varen repeats the attempt several more times until he is on the brink of exhaustion. That is when a change finally occurs. Coming from the mural is the silhouette of another elf. White hair, beautiful green eyes, and a charming smile.
"Y-your majesty?" With fear in his eyes, Varen gazes upon the sudden arrival. "No, you are not him. You are different…" Getting a closer look at the white-haired elf, Varen concludes that it cannot be Art, the elf king he knows.
"I am the last high elf of the Haerith Elven Dynasty," The white-haired elf introduces himself with a not-so-subtle smile. "This is a recording, so we cannot talk, my lucky descendant who manages to read the murals. Hmmm… Well, just consider this a message from the past. Please be forewarned, let the Haerith Elven Dynasty's mistake be a reminder to the elves. Abandon immortality, so that the elves may survive…"
Revealing the events as old as a hundred million years ago, Varen trembles in astonishment.