REWRITE

the luzz origin 1771

There were few quite like Lisa, few quite driven, devoted to their craft. She wrote stories, and songs, and plays. Poems, and paintings, and statues. Everything she made was art, it was one of few things she truly cared about.

Her passions however, came at a price. Her creations did not come cheap to her, and a mere bard couldn’t pay off such expenses on her own. She was lucky to have people who believed in her craft, people who would pay her debts out, only hoping she could one day she could pay them back. few however, were overtaken with greed. When her shows couldn’t pay the loans, the sharks grew impatient, angry.

They would argue day and night, threats were made, none empty. One in particular cut their funding, and waited for their returns. Lisa tried to pay her debts, but she had dug herself a hole too deep to crawl out of. Eventually, the sharks grew hungry.

The town went quiet. They knew not of what happened in Lisa’s personal life, she kept to herself, but nobody expected anything quite like this. In honor of her and her art, the town erected a small statue for her gravestone, made from an ornate white stone.

Days came and went, and so did people passing through the little town. Only one ever stayed. A lady in a long, red dress. People had no idea who she was, where she came from, or why she was in their town. She never talked to anybody, never stopped to make conversation, barely even stopped for food. She just explored the forest and the graveyards, waiting for something. On a rainy night, she stumbled upon the statue of Lisa.

She whispered something to the statue, and simply ran into the forest, and never came back. In the coming hours, the statue began to move, twitching and bending, the stone around it's joints hindering it, began to break down, and where a rigid limb once was, there were joints, moving parts. Lisa was given a second chance.

Her new form was strong, fast, it never got tired, never felt exhaustion. Lisa saw herself in the reflections of puddles, a white, ivory caricature of who she once was. She hated what she saw. She hated who she was. She hated where she was.

She ran in the night, far away from her past life. She went underground, as far as she could, when should was as far as the cave went. When the cave ended, she began to dig, she dug deeper. Deeper, yet deeper, she dug for days, her fingertips were grinding away, turning into dust as she desperately clawed further.

My goal in life was to create.

To push the boundaries of art.

I failed myself when I died.

Now that I am reborn, nothing has changed.

I was meant to die with my stories.

But you can’t let me die, to you my work was not finished.

I had to keep writing.