Birds: The Tale of the Artisan's Brush

Ysavvryl, April 20th, 2009


“Hey, calm down,” Polaris said, standing up. “What’s this about?”

“I was gonna see if anyone got hurt in that explosion,” the strange kid said. “And then that Eevee was attacking the Misdrevious.”

Carmen stuck her tongue out at Eevee, who did his best to ignore it.

“That explosion was nothing,” Max said.

“And the Pokemon were just concerned about their Trainers,” Polaris added. “So, what’re you doing?”


“I suppose you guys can battle if you want, just don’t misunderstand what’s going on.”

“Oookay... hey, do you guys know Daemon?”

Polaris nodded. “Yeah, we’re traveling with her and some others. You know her?”

He grinned. “Dude, I just met her and Roy and they are the most awesomest people ever!”

“Another one?” Hari asked quietly.

Polaris sat back down to answer while Max had the new guy’s attention, “Looks like it.”

“Hey, um, this might be out of the blue, but I was wondering why Picasso’s missing his left ear.”

The Smeargle got a smug look on his face. “<It proves my absolute and undying devotion to art.>”

Eevee gave him a skeptical look.

“That’s the wrong artist!” Fujitsu said.

“We know,” Polaris answered. “That was from his tormented artist period. It happened right before I got him.”

“Tormented artist?”

“Yeah. It was pretty strange.”

Three years ago...

Polaris didn’t take up painting a lot, mostly because he never had the time nor the space for it. But the Edmunds family was paying a lot of money for a family portrait, so he gave it his best effort. “What do you think, m’am?”

She smiled at the painting. “It’s marvelous, simply marvelous. You captured us exactly as we are in life. Thank you.”

He smiled a bit awkwardly. Actually, he hadn’t. If he had, then Mrs. Edmunds here would have a mole on her chin, Mr. Edmunds would be heading towards obesity, and their four children would be done up exactly like the spoiled brats they were. But with this kind of client, an artist didn’t want to be completely realistic. He had done quite a bit of touching up. “You’re welcome.”

“About your payment, I was thinking... I noticed that you don’t have a Pokemon of your own.”

“Well I can usually find a Trainer to travel with if I’m patient,” he replied. “And a lot of Pokemon are really so active that they wouldn’t like how I stay in one spot to draw something.”

“What about a Smeargle?”

Polaris felt a little awed. She was actually offering him a Smeargle? Trying to hide his obvious interest, he said, “Well they are real artists, as I hear, and some of them can be simply amazing. But they’re so rare and expensive that I wouldn’t have a chance unless I stumbled upon one in the wild.”

“My son caught one a few months back and gave him to me as a birthday present. But I’m afraid that dear little Picasso isn’t too happy being inside all of the time. He is definitely an interesting artist, so I think he should be with a Trainer like himself. How would it be if I paid you a thousand for the portrait and gave you my Smeargle?”

“Sure, I’ll accept that.”

“Wonderful. Here’s his Pokeball.” She handed over a red and white sphere. “I’m not sure where he is right now. Picasso?”

Polaris looked around and quickly spotted a green tipped tail from behind a potted plant. “Over there on the left, I think that’s him.”

Mrs. Edmunds walked over to the plant. “Picasso dear, I’m trading you over to this young artist. I’m sure you’ll do fine with him.”

The Smeargle made a some soft noises. “<Is that so?>” He came out and handed something to his former owner. “<I’m afraid I’m not meant to be in this world much longer. Here, take my ear in remembrance of me.>”

Once she realized what he had given her, the lady of the house shrieked. “Oh my gosh, where did you get that knife?!”

“<It was... just there... calling.>” He fainted from blood loss.

Feeling faint himself, Polaris recalled Picasso and took him down to the Pokecenter.

The staff was able to heal and revive him by the end of the day. Mrs. Edmunds got into an argument with the nurse about who was responsible for paying for the surgery (she wound up paying in full as she was his official owner at the time of injury). In the meantime, Polaris sat by Picasso’s hospital bed, wondering if it was all a bad omen.

When he revived, the Smeargle looked over him thoughtfully. “<So, I get you instead?>”

“You know,” he scratched his head. “It was Vincent Van Gogh who cut off his ear for his girlfriend. Pablo Picasso was a Cubist.”

His eyes widened. Then he smacked himself in the head. “<Oh thank the heavens! Finally, someone who speaks my language.>”

The End

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