The Heart of an Artist

Paris. The city of art.
That is at least what humans called it and Vor’Aster couldn’t bring himself to agree. Was there art here? Yes. Just as there had been art back home in Norway, just as there had been art in Madrid.
He wouldn’t deny the talent here, he would be a fool to do so, but he couldn’t find anything that marked this landlocked city as the dandy spotlight he had heard so much about.
He had felt more awe on the canals of Venice, the memories of the splendid architecture causing an ache in his chest. What better place was there to show the beautifully tragic struggle between land and water, between innovation and nature.
Not so here. Besides the serene waters of the Seine, the most interesting thing he had found here was the span of catacombs beneath the city, a dead mirror to the bustle above. It was worth looking into, though that had been about it.
Vor had only come here for the Exposition. The grand event to celebrate new technologies, new ways of thinking, and the sciences of the future. While not entirely interested, he had heard that there would be several grand performances, along with the opening of a grand museum for the arts. This had gained his attention and so he had traveled here to sign himself into one of the performances. He had been able to get himself a spot among one of the smaller theaters, performing outside of the Exposition. Vor figured he could gain some attention to then have some commissions before he left, though the thought of staying here wasn’t the kindest. He hadn’t felt much inspiration since arriving, hardly starting anything outside of some beginning sketches.
Sinking into the deep tub he had been accommodated with, Vor let his harsh view of the city wash away as the water rose over his head. He had to see this from a new stream, recognizing that perhaps this could be a fun challenge. Otherwise being in this place would drive him crazy.