text: Two figures walked among the ruins of a town, the rubble still smoking and, in some cases, burning. The air was hazy and gray, thick with a wide assortment of highly unpleasant smells. The figure at the front had an odd lightness to her step, the short-haired blonde meandering down the ruined streets almost as if a tourist. She was dressed in the bright red of an Arturian officer’s dress uniform, a decorated saber at one hip and a polished revolver at the other - though, her chest was conspicuously absent of any medals despite her markings on her collar and cuffs denoting her position as Knight-General. Behind her walked a much more sensibly dressed lieutenant, clad in a professionally-maintained gray field uniform. He seemed far less comfortable than the woman in front of him, having trouble navigating the debris that his superior traversed so effortlessly. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” the woman sighed, a smile on her face. “All these buildings, once standing proud and tall, now collapsed around us, no two buildings fallen the same way... The neat and still aftermath of utter chaos.” “It certainly is a... unique sight,” her aide replied diplomatically. “Oh, no need to hide it if it’s not to your taste,” the woman replied, tucking some hair behind her ear as she bent over to examine a picture frame, the glass front shattered and the picture behind smoke-stained beyond recognition. “Not everyone appreciates every form of art, that’s just the way it goes. Personally, I don’t like reliefs. It’s like someone couldn’t decide if they wanted to make a painting or a statue and made some sort of awful compromise.” “Well, I didn’t want to insult your work,” the aide replied, carefully stepping over a charred arm sticking out from under what seems to have been a tavern. “It’s as much the gunnery teams’ work as mine,” the woman said, standing back up. “All theirs, really. Telling someone to make art is a far cry from making it yourself.” “I suppose that’s very true-” the aide began, before a crumbling and shifting of rubble caught both of their attention. Some dozen feet away, someone coughed, and started clawing their way out from under the rubble. “A survivor?” the woman gasped, her eyebrows rising... before they scrunched back down in annoyance and she started stalking over towards him. “Ugh, it’s like sneezing on a Pordeaux.” The aide watched awkwardly as Knight-General Violet McLochlan pulled out her pistol. He winced a little as the gunshot rang out, and the man fell limp. She sighed, and put her revolver back into its holster. “And it was looking so well, too.” “You know, my father kept a Pordeaux in his study,” the aide offered. “Really?” Violet replied, turning back towards him with slightly-lifted spirits. “Which one?” “Untitled Number Sixteen, I believe.” “Ah, I’ve always been fond of that one,” Violet replied, running a hand through her hair as she contemplated the rest of the destruction around her. “Wonderful interplay of colors.” “Me, too. It always reminded me of summers, for some reason.” “Really?” Violet mused on that, her head lilting to the side as she placed a hand on her hip. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I can see it. That’s a beautiful interpretation.” “It wasn’t the original, sadly. Just a reproduction,” the aide shrugged. “Oh, pffft,” Violet dismissed, waving a hand. “Art is art, copied or not. You don’t need to see every individual line from each brush hair to appreciate it. Not everyone can travel around the world to see the originals in museums or in the halls of whatever rich jerk decided to keep it to themselves, so reproductions are a necessary thing! Art that isn’t shared is a tragic loss to society. Partly why I brought you along on this little inspection, if I’m honest.” “Ah,” the aide said awkwardly. “It’s no matter than it’s not to your taste, or even if you don’t consider it art,” Violet shrugged. “I told you before, every person’s interpretations and tastes are different and valid. I think art would profoundly boring if everyone agreed on what art is. Pordeaux himself was criticized for painting abstractions instead of nature scenes, you know.” “Really?” the aide replied, carefully stepping through the rubble to close the distance between himself and the knight-general. “I didn’t know that.” “It happens more often than you think. Art is like fashion, in a way. Tastes change with the times, and sometimes something that people initially hate becomes the next big style. Personally, though, I think certain kinds of art never go out of style. Nature scenes, for example. Not a lot of people make them anymore, but there are a few who make truly beautiful ones. Have you seen Franleist’s work?” “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” “I’ll show you some next time we’re back at the capital, then. There’s a few galleries in Arturia with some of his work. I’m especially fond of the paintings he does of old pre-godwar ruins. There’s something... nostalgic about them,” Violet mused, staring upwards in thought. “I think I’d like that, ma’am,” the aide nodded, re-evaluating what he initially thought would be an awful assignment, destruction tours notwithstanding. “That said, I think we’ve seen enough here. Let’s head back to the transport, and I’ll file my report." “Yes, ma’am." The two turned, walking back the way they came. Behind them, the survivor’s blood trickled down the rubble and soaked into the ash-covered dirt.