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The Painter’s mural on the Great Gymnasium is one of the wonders of the planes.
Seeing the Painter’s mural is in fact one of the requirements for any Sensate namer to achieve factotum status. The majority of beings who see it for the first time find themselves awestruck, losing all sense of the passing minutes and even hours. Others may see it every day for months and years, and yet find new images and nuances within it every time. It runs the entire length of that side of the Gymnasium along Astoria Road, which is even more amazing for it was supposedly painted in a single night without any witnesses.
It takes several viewings before the average person actually notices the activity on the opposite side of the street. A permanent linear faire of artists, entertainers, and craftsmen has sprung up along Astoria Road, for the mural serves as a muse and inspiration for artistic types throughout the planes, which may have been one of the Painter’s intentions all along.
In typical Sigilan fashion, ‘Astoria Row’ is an ever-changing mosaic of styles and artistic traditions. Elvin jewelry makers from Arboria set up next to kaasta craftsmen selling bone and abyssal steel implements, chitine spinning pottery from hardened webs, and orcish tattoo and branding artists. The facades of the buildings along Astoria Row are plastered with artwork and fliers advertising services, craftsmen, entertainments, and taverns from throughout the city. There is heavy competition for space, and the posters are usually several layers thick as fliers are plastered over one another, before the whole affair is torn down for free cook-fire fuel by the poor.
The row actually extends down cross-streets and alleyways for several doors, and fills the squares at either ends where Cipher Lane and Cadence-of-the-Planes Boulevard meet Astoria, respectively. It is an unwritten rule that unlike other markets in the city, the pace here is decidedly un-hurried. The artists don’t shout out their wares like in the Grand Bazaar. Someone standing appreciating the Mural or another piece of art will remain unmolested and not bumped-into for as long as they need stand there. Still, it is not like there is no activity. The square at Cadence-of-the-Planes is especially prone to be host to entertainers, as it is closer to the Festhall.
********
It was a fine day in Sigil. Well, as fine as what passes for ‘day’ in Sigil can be expected to be. The sulfurous fumes of the air were by-and-large pushed up above the rooftops by the winds of open portals. The grey light of peak flooded the streets, making it just bright enough that the goblinoids and other light-sensitive beings pulled up their cowls.
On the Cadence end of Astoria Row, a Xaositect jester was giving a performance. Most of it was the rank foolishness most Sigilans expect from Xaositects in general, but succeeding at poking fun at itself. A few pieces were more original, though. Like the juggling act where he threw a dagger, a burning torch, and a healing potion (which he ended up needing as he purposefully only caught the other two at the dangerous ends).
“Hello hello newcomers! Goodbye goodbye gentleman who is leaving without tipping the hat,” he indicates an old shoe on the ground where he’d been encouraging people to donate their jink, “Stay stay people who are enjoying this fine peak in Sigil with me!” He bows and takes off his multicolored jester’s hat, then puts away the props he’d been using (two rapiers, a wand of telekinesis, and a suit of armor that fenced him then fell apart at the lightest touch of his rapier) inside the hat.
“Now kind wanderers in this City of Doors, I need some volunteers from the audience. We will reinact a scene called ‘How I Got This Torn Robe of an Evil Priest of Evil’, by Stitch.” He pulls a six-foot coffin out of his hat and stands it up against the wall. He then pulls out a black robe with a yellow flaming eye motif. There is a big gash in the side of the robe and a bloodstain that never quite washed out. The robe is on a wooden hanger, and there is a small hook inside the coffin, so Stitch hangs it up inside the coffin. He then reaches in the hat and pulls out a small round shield and a chainmail shirt. “Who wants to play the brash young warrior? Anyone? Anyone? Yes, you with the face!”
“Marvellous!”
A pale delicate hand flies up from the center of the crowd, waving about with enthusiasm – far and well away from where the jester pointed. It sets in motion for the scene, seemingly in a beeline as if unhindered by the increasingly unsettled crowd and clearly outpacing the real chosen recipient.
Where the still-waving hand passes there are stirred remarks, then murmurs, a scream of surprise, and more than a few mumbled prayers. The crowd parts in its wake instead of ahead of it, the reason soon becoming clear as the owner of the hand emerges – stepping partially through an obscenely obese craftsman at the front.
The hand is connected to what likely was a bright colored sleeve, emerging from what seems to have been a stylishly hued set of coat, waistcoat, and breeches, matching what once was the latest Sigilian fashion in dress shirt and cravat. Though the lining, rings, and cufflinks all appear to be polished noble metals they do not sparkle, nor does much other light reflect on his person.
He ascends, keen-eyed observers noting that his feet somehow drift slightly through the steps. An eager smiling man that looks as if his skin should have had a very dark complexion, and his curly hair as if it should have been black as ebony. But then, understandably, it is hard to make out fine details with the wispy ethereal protomatter that drifts around him.
The last thing he looks like is the warrior the jester requested for. What he does look like is a colorless, avant-garde artist that might have been considered a nobleman far and away from Sigil standards.
***
“Splendid! A dashing lad of daring do, I shall be!”
He steps up to the jester with a silent pace, feet still occasionally missing the level the ground is supposed to be at. Casually, he leans forward and inspects the shield and chain shirt closely.
“Ah, but what a dull hero I would be were the tools not of properly heroic display. Respectfully, your Pranksteriness.”
The pale man nods apologetically to the jester, a set of hammer and chisel suddenly in his hands. There are a rapid set of sculpting movements as he works on the shield with his back to the crowd, before stepping back to survey the work just a few moments later.
The shield now appears to have a grandiose knightly emblem displayed.