Letter to his father
19 August 1497
I undertook to do a figure for Piero de' Medici and bought marble, and then never began it, because he hasn't done as he promised me. So I'm working on my own and doing a figure for my own pleasure. I bought a piece of marble for five ducats, but it wasn't a good piece and the money was thrown away; then I bought another piece for another five ducats, and this I'm working for my own pleasure. So you must realize that I, too, have expenses and troubles...
|
Letter to his father, never sent
23 August 1497
It happens that the first piece of marble I bought is even stranger than I thought. Just the previous night, I woke up to a strange sound, only to find the piece, which I hadn’t thrown away yet, was expelling a cascade of oily, rainbow-colored, phosphorent liquid. It must have began a long time before I awoke, because the study was drenched in the substance, and I was sure many of my tools and materials were ruined by that point. In my stupor I rushed to move the rock, forgetting how heavy a piece it was. To my surprise, the thing slid through the floor with little effort, leaving behind a trail of the same substance, now colored black.
The piece has been discarded now. A strong sense of paranoia took over me, and I hurriedly took the piece out of the city and buried it in a hole deeper than I thought it was possible to dig. I did the same with most of the items in my study. I only returned home by lunch, which I’m sure will only further fuel the rumors about my person.
So I ask you once again to acknowledge my own expenses, which have now tripled due to this strange incident.
|
Letter to no one, burned afterwards
28 August 1497
I have not known peace and rest over the last days, as my nights are now tormented by nightmares. Strange dreams in which I walk through the ocean floor, surrounded by drowned dolphin corpses swimming upside down. Wherever they swim, they leave slug like trails that distort the sea around me, making colors brighter and raising bizarre pink structures from the ocean floor. For many nights, I seemed to walk a single road while listening to the sound of revelry and song, all twisted beyond recognition. Advancing further each night, approaching the doors of a roman temple.
When I finally reached it, I found my own Bachus sculpture walking out of it, as if alive. It sported all the beauty I had bequeathed it and more; and beckoned me to join its underwater bacchanal. To my surprise, despite being my greatest work yet, I found his visage most repulsive and promptly refused, begging to be returned to the waking world so that I might continue to pursue my art. |
Letter to no one, never written
28 August 1497
All around me, the scenery was positively overwhelming, but it was all thrown together without any care for an artist’s touch. I have no doubt the aesthetics present there could have meaning and life if created by anyone other than █████. He and his accompanying satyr seemed very upset by my choice to refuse their invitation, and just as I moved to apologize, I noticed the two living statues were in fact the eye stalks of a massive slug! It seemed to crawl on all walls of the temple at once — up and back and down and forward — and I realized in horror that the deep ocean I was submerged in was in fact the disgusting secretions left behind by the creature as it crawled endlessly through this cacophony of aesthetics of its own making. Its servant dolphins surrounded me in a frenzy and as the sludge invaded my lungs, their song invaded my ears:
Hv’mgha, ‘sh Ghluun hv’mgha. L’ghow ght’ye vhk’r!
Hv’mgha, ‘sh Ghluun hv’mgha. L’ghow ght’ye vhk’r!
Y’ai, l’ghow ght’ye! Y’ai, l’ghow ght’ye!
The perfection to which I am able to reproduce their horrible language is terrifying, but since I awoke amid their prayers, no other dreams have tormented me. I can only hope that stays true for ever more.
|
All he ever cared about was his art, yet continuous misfortune and the recognition of his talents forced him to sustain his family in place of his parents. Working without passion, he still managed to create impressive sculptures and — once his name became more well known — to dedicate more time and effort to these works of art so that they might reach the idea he set for himself.
That’s all he wanted, to dedicate himself fully to his art.
Of course, even a talented artist like him had his equals and his superiors. Others shared his passion for human anatomy and the male beauty, one of them even embodied the very beauty he admired to such an extent that it could only be called…
Even then, love was a triviality. He didn’t need or desire to experience it. Even when he was with his beloved, he was more interested in talking about their works and ideas than to pursue the feelings that welled up inside both of them. In truth, one might say he was already pursuing it, the pure glee in their artwork was their expression of love.
That’s all he wanted, to dedicate himself fully to his art.
But time is cruel, and the human heart was not built to endure the weight talent. It is particularly ill-suited to endure the realization that only one person in the world in your equal in the fields you so adore… and that they’re now gone.
He had dedicated himself fully to his art, but with his fellow uomo universale gone, was there any meaning in continuing? None could appreciate his works on the same level, none could produce works on the same level, none could capture his passion and love in the same way. It is painful having to continue to work even after being left all alone.
What a nuisance his genius turned out to be. What a nuisance his love turned out to be. What a nuisance his fame turned out to be. He never even had the chance of exploring whether or not his talents would survive this loss, forced into works he felt no passion towards for most of his remaining time.
Time is cruel and one cannot do what he loves forever. Stuck to a bed in his elderly years, he can do nothing but stew in his regrets, his desires, his memories. No peace would be afforded to him, worse than the nightmares he once had, these feelings would surely follow him to his death. No peace to the talented.
And so they did, and he was not afforded the reward of a seat among the greatest of humanity, too busy wallowing in his own feelings to ascend beyond them, wandering without thought or purpose.
Perhaps in a different world, miraculous circumstances would allow him to meet his beloved once again, to be released from this eternal haunting by them and finally be in peace.
But such a world is surely a rare miracle.
No, he just wandered.
There was no passion left for his own art. No passion left for art itself.
What use was it? Please his costumers he cared nothing for? Impress future generations he knew nothing about? The one they were made for had left this world long ago.
What a nuisance his love turned out to be. Twisting the pure pursuit of art into a practice meant for his one and only. Leonardo would surely laugh at what he had become.
There was no passion left for his own art. No passion left for art itself.
No, he just wandered.
Randomly.
Over an empty plain.
Over a certain rock, buried deep beneath.
Over the monolith of Gloon, who awaited to pose his question again.
To join his Bacchanal of aesthetics. It doesn’t matter what is in, as long as it comes from him.
For that is what the Dark Youth Image is, a sludge that drenches everything. A being that manifests from aesthetic.
Nostalgia. Strangeness. Beauty. Rebellion.
One may think those are being depicted, but to him those are like bodyparts. Biological processes. Uncounscious reflexes. A creature that sequesters other’s art to live, to corrupt. And yet…
Nostalgia. Strangeness. Beauty. Rebellion.
That he could bring it all into the world once again, is that not what he so wanted? There was no meaning — no passion — in it, but would there ever be, with Leonardo gone?
“I see I’m your chisel, with which to shape the world.”
The creature doesn’t understand. It doesn’t know — cannot know — of anything material or purposeful in art.
It only hears the answer he so awaited. He asked if Michelangelo would bring about his bacchanal.
And the artist said yes.


Aliases: Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni.
Class: Foreigner.
Height: 170cm
Likes: ——
Dislikes: ——
Attribute: Earth.
Alignment: Chaotic Evil.
Origin: Italy.
Natural Enemy: Leonardo da Vinci, Camille Monet.
Sources: Mineo, NIRA. |
|
 |
|
 |
|
Aesthetic Appreciation (Lost) A
An infatuation with works of art that allows one to recognize the Noble Phantasms related to artistic anecdotes.
Michelangelo lost this skill twice, in life and in death, and now only appreciates the superficial aesthetic brought about by the Slug of the Ivory Image. It has purpose: the existence of a being, the doorway between the temple of his master and the world of the living, the birth of a creature that cannot be called living. It manifests as the ivory head of false Bacchus, encasing his head so that he might experience everything through the filter of the dark youth even before he brings it about in reality. |
|
Obsolete Star-Seeker EX
A unique skill granted to heroes that failed to become turning points in human history. All simple voyages and challenges which are considered “likely to be overcome” turn into “events that are nearly impossible”.
Having abandoned the values and passion that he had in life and having failed to be recorded as a Heroic Spirit, he was awarded this skill at an exceptional rank. He didn’t fail, he became a turning point, and yet it was all for naught. Drowning in his own grief and lack of purpose, he now works for an evil god that should be an enemy to all artists. |
 |
Uomo Annegato: The Drowned Man. The leftover feelings of Michelangelo given shape, unable to reach the surface, drowned in meaningless sludge mistaken as purpose. It instantly analyzes any three-dimensional structure and reproduces it at will. No longer willing to create his own art, Michelangelo has inadvertently returned to his young apprentice days when he was forced to recreate other’s work. The only difference is that now, he has no desire to change them.
Under another name, it’d be the ultimate projection ability, capable of reproducing even Divine Constructs and conceptual weapons as long as Michelangelo considered them beautiful, and receiving any changes that would bring them closer to his ideal aesthetics. As it is, the objects are superficial copies that don’t carry any conceptual weight, and simply replicate function before being thrown into the junk pit of imagery that is the body of the Slug of the Ivory Image. The true danger of this Noble Phantasm comes from another unique feature: as a rule, this lesser copy always lasts longer than the superior original. Be it by being broken, dematerialized, or else; the original will be gone long before the copy disappears.
How regretful. |