Hydroxylapatite Version (OOC/SU)

[a id]jean1[/a id]"How'd you end up in the city?"
The Octillery blushed at the "big tickle" comment; judging that the girl meant it as a compliment, by her tone. He deliberately placed a tentacle under his pronounced mouth and looked upwards - to indicate that he was ruminating on how to properly communicate an answer - and then cradled his sketchbook to begin passionately drawing something. As he got into the finishing details of the image, however, the expression on his face grew quite dim and his pace slowed. He took a minute to reflect on every facet of the picture, and while he didn't seem completely satisfied with the result, he showed his co-worker regardless:


Shaking off his disappointment, he flipped the page over and searched his collection for a specific portrait. Finding what he wanted, he then propped his book up on a nearby table and slithered a few feet away. He proudly straightened his bowtie and confidently reenacted himself marching, shutting his eyes and gracefully bowing when he became within conversation distance of the book. He made a few mechanical gestures towards the page with his two front tentacles - he was somewhat sure that this was how land-dwelling creatures "discussed matters," or at least this was his best exaggeration of how his bosses held themselves when they got into a quarrel - but as he was poking his head to indicate the inception of an idea, Jean-Georges noticed that he had accidentally chose a blank sheet to showcase. Shyly turning to the proper artwork, he did the same scene in double-time to this depiction:


He pointed at the humanoid figure in the image and then at himself, making sure that the Salazzle understood. He tucked his pad underneath one of his arms and directed everyone's attention to the bar, where he promptly assembled a gathering of water glasses on one end and then scaled the counter on the opposite end as if it were some herculean feat. Planting a tentacle on his forehead, he scanned a fake horizon until he recoiled in feigned shock at the discovery of the structure he had made. He pointed enthusiastically - almost accusatory - towards the cups and then plucked his way over.

The octopus beamed, struck with a feeling of cheekiness and pride in his performance, and finished his demonstration by taking out one of his favorite drawings and giving it to his companion.


[a id]jean2[/a id]"Where are your parents?"
Jean-Georges stared blankly at the strange machine, uneased by the aggressive feedback that blasted his hearing in-between bits of actual dialogue. Although he had a hard time deciphering the majority of its speech, he did catch the term "parents;" a word which he came to understand as synonymous with predecessors, or people who drag screaming younglings into the eatery. He tried to mentally align individuals in his life to a similar context, and came up with two specific entities. After a brief minute of doodling he displayed a page littered with hundreds of the same tiny, crude representation, and pointed to one in particular:


He shrugged, not all that invested in this side of his gene pool. He quickly moved onto a separate picture he had come to time-and-time again since obtaining this book - to outline, improve, and add detail to - and gave the parchment a kiss before showing it:


He hugged the pad close and swayed back and forth, giddy at the thought of his forebear and everything she had done for him and his countless siblings. It had been a long time since he left her.

[a id]jean3[/a id]"How'd you get your artistic talent?"
The octopus clapped the tips of his tentacles excitedly. He reached into a pocket affixed to the inside of his sketchpad's cover and presented an aged note to the badger:


While his friend was distracted, Jean-Georges plucked a little rock he kept behind a row of beer mugs from the shelves behind the bar and also offered it as reference. The stone barely had any surface area, but every inch of it was inscribed with similar letters to the note. The Octillery cleared his throat and pointed to a very specific spot on it, as if that was the beginning of its text, and produced very strange variations on its iconic cry that sounded eerily similar to the common language as he rotated it in a suction cup. While he wasn't the best at translating his work into a tongue that he wasn't fully familiar with, he did nail saying "faith," "return," and "bathed" correctly with good diction. It was obviously something he had practiced multiple times before.

When he was finished, he swelled with joy and eagerly awaited any form of appreciation. Not many took much interest in him, let alone his lifeblood! All that time started to feel like less of a waste.

[a id]jean4[/a id]"I wanted to know about your drawing -- your art."
Jean-Georges stood still for a moment, unsure of why the Linoone was asking the same question again. The octopus squinted at his peer to see if he could detect a particular angle they were trying to get at, but didn't find anything in their intention other than a sheer lack of understanding. Backing down, he pondered how to reinterpret his answer in symbolism that the land-dweller could easily connect to; the concept of "art" on land was oddly disjointed from language, and while this dissonance made it so there were no exact words to describe the position that harnessed his skills, he did remember seeing a piece in a museum that depicted a strange creature in a role similar to his own. He tried his best to recreate it and handed the result to his inquisitor, pointing at the picture and then back to himself a few times.


A realization quickly trailed in the wake of remembering his day trip, and he paused his explanation to pluck out a pad of graph paper from a little nook underneath the bar where he kept a trove of his material possessions. It was new and clearly so - judging by the cleanliness of the paper and the amount of sheets left to be used - and Jean-Georges indicated to a small doodle on its first page.


After a bit of silence fondly appreciating the portrayed, he flipped the page over, spat some ink on his tentacle, and made a sloppy copy of it. He mocked a tutting sound and waved his appendage back-and-forth, as if disapproving his last action, and picked up a pen. He then redrew the image with incredibly accuracy while guiding his - what one could refer to as a hand, perhaps - with another. Once he was finished, he laid the pen across the arms of the creature depicted on top of the pile.

[a id]jean5[/a id]"What the hell is that?"
It seemed that the excitable Kirlia had taken deep interest in his drawing of the abyss! The Octillery seated himself besides her and skimmed through various entries that concerned it in his sketchbook; of which there were plenty, as it was one of his favorite subjects.


[a id]jean6[/a id]"Did you have an art teacher, or did you learn by yourself?"
Jean-Georges perked up at "scribe" and nodded; that was exactly what the lady at the museum had called him, too! The octopus had been struggling to remember the term since he had enlightened her, and he couldn't very well ask her again once she was gone. Though, he seemed a bit disconcerted when Cadbury had called writing different to art once more, because he - personally - couldn't discern any distinction between the process in creating what his peers called "traditional art" and "words." Perhaps that was because of his method; he wasn't so much a "duplicator" - as his furry companion had commented - as he was a tracer, or whatever Mister PJ had titled him that seemed to suit well.

The Octillery thought about what the phrase "teacher" meant to him ... certainly, there was one overwhelmingly obvious answer in accordance with both his spiritual and practical life, but up on land it meant someone who actively aided another to harness skills so that the latter could functionally perform said act without the educator's further guidance. He gestured to the picture of Spindas once more and waved a pen around, giving credit where it was due when it came to matters such as using more socially appropriate writing utensils - as he had explained - but the relationship he had with his mother hit the nail more on the head: but whether or not she could be considered a "teacher" per se or simply a taskmaster that requires and reinforces artistic skill in her children to convey her own knowledge, was up for debate. In any case, he flashed one of his favorite renditions of her:


Suddenly, the octopus remembered that an old flip book of his kept an illustrated copy of his technique, and pulled it out for the badger to peruse.


When Cadbury had finished, Jean-Georges' eyes had gone noticeably glossy and he was sketching a small, gothic-styled portrait of the Linoone. Once he had finished, his cheerful gaze returned, and he presented the sketch to his friend with a joy that was almost palpable.

[a id]jean7[/a id]"Do you have any friends?"
He wiggled all his tentacles around in elation, letting out the highest pitched gurgle his course voice could produce. He grasped the hand of the Kirlia and patted it warmly, incredibly excited at the prospect of procuring another friend. He had persuaded many friends to join him since his permanent surfacing on land and more were always welcome! Jean-Georges snagged up the picture he was gifted and slipped it right behind the front cover of his sketchbook.

Considering that she had asked, and that soon she would be joining them, the Octillery took a nearby framed standing chalkboard and detailed a picture of his other friends for the Kirlia:


These two were his favorite subjects; he had met them long, long ago on the beach when he was just a drone of a Remoraid, before the current age - when their peculiar species dominated the earth - and there were thousands just like them in the sea that he had befriended since, but there was something more artistic about this duo that pleased him. They were very young and eager, and loved the water, so their descent was very poetic and fitting, he thought. Which reminded him; he had a related picture in his repertoire about their baptism!


Though, he was a bit biased. It was his first time out meeting anyone or working for his mother, and granted he was in a swarm of his brothers and sisters so the couple most likely didn't take any particular notice in him, but the specialness of the encounter never left him.​