there's no sign of the morning coming—

[immortalized]

𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰, 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔤𝔬?
𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡, 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢, 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔭𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢
𝔚𝔢'𝔯𝔢 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ
𝔚𝔢'𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔞 𝔯𝔥𝔶𝔪𝔢

Comments

[immortalized]

Out of somewhere unknown, some aether of intuition, Rohan loosens a striking arrow right at Ambrose and punctures the heart of truth — 'you must be an actor.' Standing here, Ambrose looks all at once genuinely shocked.What did he demonstrate that gave his new acquaintance such a cutting, adamant realization? It's nearly a worry; people have a particular idea about actors, speaking much beyond the pre-Victorian aged connection that likened them to sex workers. Liars, deceivers...even in the kindest of intentions, most assume they, and Ambrose, must be good at faking everything they display for others to observe. It's a natural connection, albeit cruel on the molecular level. What drew Rohan to this precisely-accurate conclusion?

Ambrose's expression wants to sink down with a thoughtful sharpness...but he isn't given much time. Rohan flares with a confident stance in return for his almost-rude admission that he carry himself apologetically, and more pleasantly, made in Ambrose's justification. It's...protective, encouraging, with all of the qualities and all of the kindness of a cliff face. Fortunately, Ambrose is not losing his balance at the edge. They have only just met, yet something has been woven between them, some sort of cable linking them instantaneously, threaded with each other's intrigue for one another...and inherent understanding, unexpected as it is.

Even with the grand gesture made to him by a near stranger, Rohan folds back inward as soon as it's given out, like some feral animal retreating back into where he knows it is safe away from possible threats. The sketch book, large as a canvas and pulled halfway open from what Ambrose can gather, suggesting there must be a myriad of raw images and likenesses layered within, is pulled tighter to Rohan's chest. What lies on the pages that he feels momentarily secretive about?

Did he have any questions? Ambrose thinks he could list a hundred, if that sketch pad were in his own hands, pages filled with every fascinated thought Ambrose can currently feel dragging across his ankles about the young, living man.

"I suppose I could ask about the person in real life, as you suggested...

"But I think I want to hear you speak about your creation for a moment. What is the genre of this story you write?" An on-going, constantly developed story — Ambrose can't help but exude respect for this newly-met artist. That sort of work isn't to be taken lightly, especially if the references to awards and notoriety is worth taking into account.

[mangakant]

Ambrose, for all his earlier nosiness, doesn't latch on and rattle Rohan like a dog at a bone. Even prompted with a question, it's hungry but open-ended; not entirely unlike how Rohan asks. Everything. Give me everything, from your perspective.

He could be offended. Perhaps he would be, if there had been no other connection. But then again, perhaps not — it says so much about this man that he's curious, and it spurs on the curiosity in Rohan. The urge to talk about his passion bubbles up and then, struck by the reminder that they seem to be on the same wavelength, he straightens up out of pride instead of defensiveness. "Psychological thriller. It has elements of other genres in it, of course — you need that to flesh out any story. Horror, suspense...but also realistic characters. You can't have realism if you only show one type of emotion, one type of plot."

Rohan unwinds, just a little. Enough to take a step forward, closer to Ambrose...and closer to the wall of his own artwork. He looks at one particular colored spread of Pink Dark Boy leaping desperately over a ledge. "I'm inspired most to write about what moves me in real life, and tense moments seem to stick around the longest...and be the most worth sharing in fiction."

Which is not to say that Rohan Kishibe's life was particularly thrilling, suspenseful, or horrifying...before he got shot with an arrow, anyway. Maybe it's a little ironic that his life started to reflect his fictitious world even more closely than he could have imagined.

[immortalized]

Psychological thriller. Ambrose's eyebrows lift with intrigue; such a genre is not an easy instrument to wield. One must be meticulous and clever, able to line up a mystery without fully obscuring it and ultimately remove it from its purpose. One also must know where to lance the audience exactly where their deepest nerves lie, they must be able to choose what to portray, how to frame it, and make their story compelling. It's a vague and intense direction to write into, possible to make confusing and therefore, uninteresting.

Rohan must have mastered the genre; there are small anecdotal placards remarking on the success and the focus of the serial story, how long it has been running for, how many issues it has been printed in. When Ambrose looks back at this artist, listening with absolute focus, his smile is...proud. The flourishing of celebration and acknowledgement is a pleasure to see for such a young man, seeing the combination of creativity and knife-edged precision. Rohan reminds him of the men who penned the scripts Ambrose was given to memorize, and the men that barked their adamant directions for they who stood elevated on the stage framed in blood-red velvet curtains. He has all the makings of a success. Rohan is as intelligent as he is passionate — it's glaringly obvious as a fact — and seems quite cerebral in the choice of his iconic artistry here.

"Perhaps all terror really happens in the mind — perception is the key. Threats, in all truth, are relative." What threatens one person may not be considered dangerous to the next. Even common, over-arching dangers are not thrilling to all living beings as an exclusive rule. It makes Ambrose curious to know what he portrays as thrilling; he imagines the imagery must be fantastic.

"Is this Pink Dark Boy inspired by someone in particular? Or is he only a vehicle for the audience to navigate your thrilling stories within?" Striding now towards something personal, and how can Ambrose not, when Rohan insists again that his works are rooted in a foundation of realism? Where, from him, is this character born from?

[mangakant]

"Yes. Yes, exactly. It happens in the mind. And if you know what to show it to trigger certain emotions...then you can tell a meaningful story." Rohan's voice grows a little more passionate, almost heated. He looks at his art, because he is, at least in flushed moments, proud of it. But he doesn't tend to linger over what he's already created; he doesn't feverishly revisit it except to keep storylines consistent but varied, to ensure pacing and style are recognizable.

Rohan doesn't bask in what he's already done, because he's too busy obsessively figuring out the next part. And it's that laser focus on what's next that has him paying more attention to Ambrose than to what they're talking about, what's right next to them.

As he speaks, he lets the sketch pad fall further from his chest, no longer clinging to it protectively. A half-feral energy spurs him past self-consciousness.

At the edge of the page, a familiar man dressed and decorated like a woman can be just glimpsed...

"The answer is yes, of course. You need a vehicle for the audience, but I've— pulled from a variety of sources to craft him." Some of which Rohan barely remembered until the events of this summer, just barely passed. Autumn's begun, Kira is dead. Reimi's been dead for fifteen years.

Rohan hadn't realized how much he had just-barely remembered of her until he'd gone back to writing his manga after speaking with her and the cemetery keeper. "The answer of who he comes from isn't nearly as interesting as what's done with him, though. The source isn't as important as the output." Spoken with no small degree of dismissiveness.

At his core...Rohan just doesn't know how to express any of the emotions he feels about his own work. He'd rather talk technique or drive or maybe even admit his feverish need to create, but not the softer core of what happens between those pages.