Larion Voskar

The path of an artist is often frought with adversity and is an uphill battle towards recognition. There are few individuals for whom this has been more true than Larion Voskar, an artist who struggled with getting recognized all his adult life before mysteriously vanishing after painting his magnum opus.

Early Life

Larion Voskar was born beneath the shadow of greatness. His father, Orlan Voskar, was a master sculptor, a man whose works adorned the halls of nobles and temples alike. His mother, Elira, was a weaver of intricate tapestries, crafting sprawling depictions of history and legend with delicate threads. The Voskar name carried weight in Glarithia, a lineage of artisans whose craft was meant to endure the ages. And Larion was meant to be their legacy.
From the moment he could walk, he was expected to create. His father placed a chisel in his hands before he could properly grip it. His mother guided his fingers over spools of thread before he could read. He was their only son, their only apprentice, the sole heir to their artistry. But where his father saw flawless marble waiting to be shaped, Larion saw only cold stone. Where his mother traced history in cloth, Larion felt caged by patterns and tradition.

It was the paintbrush that called to him. The way colors bled and blended, the way a simple stroke could suggest light, shadow and depth. It felt free. Alive.
But his parents did not see it that way. They felt painting was the craft of the base and common, something any man or woman could be passable at with the most meager of training. Their chosen crafts, that of sculpting and weaving, took years to even grasp the basics of, or so they claimed.
Still, Larion painted.
He studied technique, seeking out mentors in secret, watching street artists ply their trade. He experimented, tried to capture beauty, emotion, meaning. But no matter how much effort he poured into his work, no matter how refined his brushstrokes became, something was always missing. His paintings were technically strong but lifeless, admired but never remembered.
As the years passed, his parents’ disappointment settled into quiet resignation. They did not disown him, nor did they encourage him. Their expectations that had once been heavy and suffocating had now simply disappeared.
That was worse.

Downfall

In his twenties, Larion took what little savings he had and built his own studio, a modest stone structure tucked away in the lower tiers of Glarithia. He told himself it would be the beginning of his legacy, a place where he could work, teach, and eventually be recognized. But recognition never came.
His commissions were meager; a portrait here, a decorative piece there, nothing of true importance. The city’s elite passed him over, uninterested in yet another artist struggling to be seen. Years went by, and Larion found himself painting not for passion, not for ambition, but simply to survive.
And even that began to slip away.
As his coin dwindled, so did his patrons. His studio fell into disrepair. The fine pigments he once coveted were replaced with whatever he could scavenge. His meals became sparse, his world smaller. He no longer visited galleries, no longer sought out fellow artists. The name Voskar, once meant to be his foundation, became a burden.
His father passed without ever speaking of him again. His mother died not long after, her final tapestry incomplete.
Larion did not attend their funerals.

Obsession

One day, after months of this drought, Larion picked up a blank canvas.
Not for a commission for those had long since dried up. Not for practice for he had no reason to refine a skill that had led him nowhere. He did not know why he reached for it, only that he felt compelled. His hands moved before his mind could catch up, sketching out shapes that had no reference. No inspiration.
At first, it was nothing. The vague suggestion of stone walls. A street paved in uneven cobbles. The glow of a distant moon.
An alleyway. But not one he recognized.
The perspective was strange. The depth unnatural. He had spent years struggling to make his paintings feel alive, and yet here, without effort, the illusion was there. A pull in the darkness between the walls, an unnatural weight to the way the moonlight pooled along the stones. It felt like a real place, even though he had never seen it before.
And yet—hadn’t he?
Something about it was familiar. Not in detail, but in feeling. Like a dream half-remembered, or the nagging sense that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere long ago and simply forgotten the way back.
He didn’t stop to question it.
Days passed. Then weeks. He painted with a focus he had never known before. Not frantic, not desperate, just inevitable. Like his hands were only following a path that had been laid before him long ago.
As he painted, the alley deepened. The shadows stretched into something more than absence, more than pigment on canvas. The light bent in ways that defied his intent. The perspective shifted subtly when he looked away, only to settle into place when he stared long enough, as if pretending to be nothing more than paint.
He barely ate. He barely slept. When he did sleep, he dreamt of walking narrow streets that led nowhere and awoke with the taste of copper in his mouth.
Then, one night, the sobbing began.
It came from inside his studio, in the dead of night. The sound grew louder as the night stretched on; ragged, wretched weeping, swelling into frantic, wordless pleas before suddenly cutting off. A neighbor, uneasy, fetched the city guard.
When they broke down the door, the studio was empty. The only sign that anyone had ever been there was the painting, now set upon an easel resting against the back wall.
It was the same alleyway. The same moonlit stones. And there, at the end of that cobblestone path, stood a figure. No more than a dark silhouette, yet demanding the attention of the viewer. Next to the haunting work, on the chipped wall of the studio, was painted its presumed title in a black ichor that resembled tar.
"A picture of Me"
In the coming days, it would become clear that the name Larion Voskar would be remembered after all, if only for a while.

A sculpture stands for centuries. A tapestry tells a story for generations.

A painting? It fades. It peels. It is forgotten. Painting is a craft for those who cannot shape something real.

– Orlan Voskar

Current Status

Missing

Age

26 at time of disappearance

Pronouns

He/Him

Sex

Male

Gender

Man

Presentation

Masculine

Eyes

Green

Hair

Blonde, messy

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

White

Height

5'6 / 167cm

Weight

132lbs / 60kg

Belief/Deity

Resounding Truth

by Midjourney

_{"Riverside" by Larion Voskar.}

by Midjourney

_{A portrait painted by Larion, commissioned by a S'aue aristocrat.}

by Midjourney

_{"Wapemond" by Larion Voskar. Of note is the fact that Larion never visited Wapemond Harbor and that this work is painted entirely based on descriptions of the harbor town.}