⸺  Biography

Brassius had always been a man of edges — stone, steel, silence. Before he was known as the Verdant Virtuoso, he was simply a sculptor with a chisel and a vision no one understood. In his youth, he carved until his fingers bled, channeling his turmoil into warped metal and fractured marble, desperate to bring shape to the things he could not name aloud. His sculptures weren’t beautiful. They were truthful. And that made them unbearable for many.Fame — if it could be called that — came eventually. The art world labeled him a tortured genius. A soul who carved pain like poets wrote sonnets. But even recognition felt hollow. Applause could never touch the ache he carried. He needed more. Not more praise — just new soil. Paldea had become too familiar, too soft. He wanted challenge. Contrast. The colors of Hoenn — the sharp, tropical palette of a region brimming with ancient stories and coastal chaos — promised renewal.He created his finest works and submitted them to the Lilycove Museum. Jagged Roserade arms cast in wrought iron. A Gyarados writhing in broken glass. An ode to silence: a stone Loudred with no mouth. And, more recognizably, the abstractions of the Meditative Seat and Heterarchical Loop, both of which can be found in Artazon today. He believed the people there would understand. That they would feel what he felt. But they didn’t.Week after week he would attempt to make a profit off of his sculptures. Tourists visited the museum only to cast their gazes elsewhere. Locals admired paintings of Wingull and pastel Wailmer, not the reflections of a grim reality. His art, so heavy with grief and unspoken wounds, became an eyesore in a city that celebrated the sun. What few critics passed by offered polite, meaningless words. One called his sculptures "aggressively sad." Another suggested he try watercolors.He shipped his sculptures back home, unpaid freight. With a scowl and a bottle tucked under his arm, he returned to Artazon like a wilted petal — brown at the edges, curled, defeated. The world continued to bloom around him, uncaring. He could not bear it. The town was alive. He was not. The studio became a tomb. Once a sanctuary, now it felt like a mausoleum. Statues stared at him, unfinished. His tools lay rusted from neglect and wine-soaked nights. Canvases stayed blank, as if mocking him. Unfinished works littered the floor like fallen corpses. Canvases remained blank, and the walls began to close in. He sought the bottle of red vintage wine. At first, to quiet the noise. Then, to chase the echo of the artist he once was. Each night blurred into the next. He stopped counting the days. Stopped answering the door. Unresponsive to the texts he was receiving. The wine mixed with paint until even he couldn’t tell which stained his hands more. His world was empty. Quiet. 'Twas a dark, cloudy crestfallen sky bereft of hints of starlight. Autumn winds licking through the open shutters. Brassius lay on the cold tile floor, one leg tangled in a splattered canvas, his fingers streaked with violet and ochre. Empty bottles stood like sentries around him. And then, Hassel came. An old friend. A fellow artist. A man of color, of music, of brushstrokes that still danced. A man who found inspiration elsewhere at the renowned university, whereas Brassius remained in his own stagnant grave, rotting. Wilting.Hassel arrived uninvited, concerned, and found Brassius on the floor, amidst the wreckage of his own brilliance. The scent of turpentine and cheap red hung heavy in the air. Bottles littered the space between half-finished canvases and rusted tools. Brassius lay crumpled like a forgotten draft — un-moving, smeared in oil and shame. Hassel did what any friend would do. He tried to reach him. To lift him. But something in Brassius twisted. Jealousy. Bitterness. Fury at his own stagnation. He watched Hassel — always able to rise, to create, to feel joy — and it burned. Why had the well dried only for him? Why did his muse flee when others danced with theirs in the sun? The argument flared fast and brutal — a wildfire of unspoken resentments. No words were needed to name the ugliness: the envy, the fear, the self-hate.Then, motion. A hand reaching for the drawer. The gleam of a kitchen knife. It was not premeditated. It was not performative. It was a gesture born of collapse. Hassel moved quickly. Tried to stop him. A struggle, sudden and clumsy. The knife jerked. A hiss of pain. Blood was unintentionally drawn from Hassel's palm midst the scuffle, but enough to freeze time. The blade clattered to the tile. Brassius stared. Not in guilt. Not in horror. In nothing.He stood still, shoulders slack, as if the air had been pulled from his lungs. It was Hassel who acted. Who placed the knife aside. Who cradled his bleeding hand. Who, with no judgment, offered something small, something kind. Something to renew and refresh the stained, anguishing soul of his beloved friend. A bath. To cleanse the paint. The wine. The ruin. Brassius did not speak. He let Hassel guide him to the tub, like a marionette with its strings worn thin. The water was warm. The cloth gentle. The hands — even wounded — steady.And in that quiet, surrounded by steam and the scent of soap, Brassius remained still, slumped in defeat. This was not his first pit. But it was the deepest. The darkest. And if Hassel had not come — had not pulled him from that silence — he would not have found the bottom. He would have kept falling. Through the end of the bottle. Through the end of himself. But Hassel had arrived. And the fall had stopped. If only for now.

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