Re: The Grand Battle II! [Round 3: Escheresque!]
01-20-2010, 05:25 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Sruixan.
This scene could do with a lovely little sunset, though Maxwell as he once more laid eyes upon the aftermath of his confrontation with Samuel. The resultant fractal of fractured glass and whatever motley miscellany of objects Gestalt had been hording took up a remarkably large patch of the gallery corridor, but then things had gotten quite violent, hadn't they?
Yes, a nice picturesque sunset, peeking in through broken windows, reflecting, refracting, twinkling light in that glass there - it could be quite beautiful, actually. Why would that be? Would it be art? It could well be the sort of thing one might exhibit on these walls and for once it might actually have a tangible point. After all, it would have a "deeper meaning" alright. It is certainly the sort of thing Xavier might spend hours slaving over, organising each petty fragment, trying fruitlessly to compose the perfect picture. But of course, it is much better spontaneous, although I suppose spontaneity has the fatal disadvantage of being potentially lethal...
Speaking... well, actually, thinking of lethality, it occured to Maxwell somewhat suddenly that the plan he had hatched and indeed intended to carry out had the slightest potential of causing his demise. Only the slightest, though. The tiniest, most negilible chance, so infinitesimally insignificant that it hardly deserved the time he was devoting to it. The least of his worries at that moment in time, the tiniest of trifles to deal with, the lowest of low priorities...
...and then he thought again, and concluded that he wasn't fooling anyone. He had to be honest with himself. He had yet to be entirely truthful with anyone so far, so it seemed reasonable to practise on himself and then work his way up, to bigger, possibly more painful fish. If he caught a bad, bad moment...
There was, a short distance down the corridor, a fairly ancient-looking door that, after being opened with the epitome of caution, revealed itself to be guarding a reasonably barren room. Once, perhaps, assuming that this stretch was an exhibition of some ramshackle description, it held pictures, or sculptures, of mind-boggling dimensions and intentions. Now its main feature was a window and its newest occupant, a man currently exploiting the first feature as a means of getting his bearings. The room's view was not overly awe-inspiring, which was odd considering the vast amount of stuff that warranted awe in this environ, but then, once more assuming that this room was part of the exhibition, it seemed reasonable to assume that the designer, intelligent or not, did not want to draw away from the room's contents; to keep the conciousness of the occupant firmly locked inside with whatever monstrosity insulted it, just for kicks.
Of course, this was mere supposition, done by Maxwell as he hung himself out of the window, clutching desperately on to his hat, in case gravity took a shining to it and decided to make it its plaything. With some considerable craning, the genius could see the window through which Galus had most likely fallen at his own request and could pinpoint the destination the pilot had been steering towards - the most remarkable watermill that appeared to flow, from what he suspected would be his point of view were he there, uphill. But to Maxwell the complex was perpendicular to the wall, and so no fundamental rules were being broken - the water quite happily flowed along the channel to its inevitable end as a waterfall. That waterfall was the defiant here, flatly refusing to be toyed with by gravity and plotting its own course. But were he to stand on the correct plane, Maxwell mused, the waterfall would no longer be so provocative and the water channel would take the spotlight. Perspective was the key here. Either you could take umbrage at the irrespectable behaviour displayed, or you could tilt your head slightly and proclaim there to be no problem at all - your pick.
The view was lovely, when viewed correctly, but it was not what Maxwell had sought solitidue to peruse. With a sobered sigh, he set himself to work.
This scene could do with a lovely little sunset, though Maxwell as he once more laid eyes upon the aftermath of his confrontation with Samuel. The resultant fractal of fractured glass and whatever motley miscellany of objects Gestalt had been hording took up a remarkably large patch of the gallery corridor, but then things had gotten quite violent, hadn't they?
Yes, a nice picturesque sunset, peeking in through broken windows, reflecting, refracting, twinkling light in that glass there - it could be quite beautiful, actually. Why would that be? Would it be art? It could well be the sort of thing one might exhibit on these walls and for once it might actually have a tangible point. After all, it would have a "deeper meaning" alright. It is certainly the sort of thing Xavier might spend hours slaving over, organising each petty fragment, trying fruitlessly to compose the perfect picture. But of course, it is much better spontaneous, although I suppose spontaneity has the fatal disadvantage of being potentially lethal...
Speaking... well, actually, thinking of lethality, it occured to Maxwell somewhat suddenly that the plan he had hatched and indeed intended to carry out had the slightest potential of causing his demise. Only the slightest, though. The tiniest, most negilible chance, so infinitesimally insignificant that it hardly deserved the time he was devoting to it. The least of his worries at that moment in time, the tiniest of trifles to deal with, the lowest of low priorities...
...and then he thought again, and concluded that he wasn't fooling anyone. He had to be honest with himself. He had yet to be entirely truthful with anyone so far, so it seemed reasonable to practise on himself and then work his way up, to bigger, possibly more painful fish. If he caught a bad, bad moment...
There was, a short distance down the corridor, a fairly ancient-looking door that, after being opened with the epitome of caution, revealed itself to be guarding a reasonably barren room. Once, perhaps, assuming that this stretch was an exhibition of some ramshackle description, it held pictures, or sculptures, of mind-boggling dimensions and intentions. Now its main feature was a window and its newest occupant, a man currently exploiting the first feature as a means of getting his bearings. The room's view was not overly awe-inspiring, which was odd considering the vast amount of stuff that warranted awe in this environ, but then, once more assuming that this room was part of the exhibition, it seemed reasonable to assume that the designer, intelligent or not, did not want to draw away from the room's contents; to keep the conciousness of the occupant firmly locked inside with whatever monstrosity insulted it, just for kicks.
Of course, this was mere supposition, done by Maxwell as he hung himself out of the window, clutching desperately on to his hat, in case gravity took a shining to it and decided to make it its plaything. With some considerable craning, the genius could see the window through which Galus had most likely fallen at his own request and could pinpoint the destination the pilot had been steering towards - the most remarkable watermill that appeared to flow, from what he suspected would be his point of view were he there, uphill. But to Maxwell the complex was perpendicular to the wall, and so no fundamental rules were being broken - the water quite happily flowed along the channel to its inevitable end as a waterfall. That waterfall was the defiant here, flatly refusing to be toyed with by gravity and plotting its own course. But were he to stand on the correct plane, Maxwell mused, the waterfall would no longer be so provocative and the water channel would take the spotlight. Perspective was the key here. Either you could take umbrage at the irrespectable behaviour displayed, or you could tilt your head slightly and proclaim there to be no problem at all - your pick.
The view was lovely, when viewed correctly, but it was not what Maxwell had sought solitidue to peruse. With a sobered sigh, he set himself to work.