Now there was an Artist whose name is forgotten to time.
He came before the Preacher, melodically waxing poetic about his quandary.
All throughout Arcadia, his art sold for thousands and thousands of credits. Every elite on the top levels had something he’d painted on their wall.
That’s how well known he was for his work.
But every time he finished a piece, he felt a profound sense of sadness. It was as if finishing this treasured masterpiece was no more enjoyable to him than a final thrust of climax.
The highest of highs.
Followed by emptiness.
Yet he persisted, painting canvas after canvas. Highs and lows turned into mountains and valleys, some so deep he thought he was lost forever.
“Help me, Preacher!” He cried. “Let me enjoy my art again!”
“Nay.” The Preacher replied. “For you never enjoyed the art to begin with. Once you return from your journey, you will find no peace until you set out on another.”
Confounded by his words, the Artist fell into despair and would create art no longer.
Verily, verily, I say unto you: All that begins does not need to end.
The artist missed the point.
The art, the completed art, did not satiate his desires.
Only the making would make him whole.
My foes are obsessed with death. Whether through music, murder, or medicine, they consider themselves artists.
All over Arcadia, people whisper of the yellow monster with the sword.
Of the song one does not awaken from.
Of the doctor who does not save life.
Because their art is snuffing the life out of those they ensnare into their vice grip. But once the life has left their quarry, what do they do?
They seek out another blank canvas to create something with, each time more elaborate and intense than the last, as if they were emptied by the very art they are most known for.
Again and again, they do this.
Because they find no power in death, only the act of dealing it.
That is the difference between them and the Grimskull.
Death is so final, isn’t it?
But pain can be forever.
My foes begin with a blank canvas, intending to walk away from their creation once it has been finished. Once they have died.
But I will never walk away from those who wish to enter the embrace of pain.
Instead of draining their bodies of blood, I take but a slow drip so that they constantly feel as if their life is running out.
Yet their bodies replenish the fluids.
Life over death.
Instead of singing songs of doom, I weave a melody of agony that will play in their ears for eternity.
Life over death.
Instead of betraying those that come to me for care, I give them the one thing they felt they’d lost.
Being an Artist does not have to be mountains and valleys.
Nay, it can be the steady stream of a river.
The river of life.
Because life is pain.
So it is written, so shall it come to pass.
Thus saith the Grimskull.