The spirit of art itself, if it was capable of thought, would have despaired. It had manifested like a moth to the flame, those who were willing to wield magic to change reality, but what had been found were,
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"Can you give me the power to swap people's bodies?"
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"Can you give me the power to swap body parts?"
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"Can you give me the power to make animal into intelligent animal people with 100% modern human morality?"
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And the one that kept coming up,
"Can you make me a werewolf?"
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So called Modern art, that no effort and no imagination, relying purely on pure chance, be that where the slaps of paint landed, or what happened to be nearby when all of it was glued together... and that was not counting the material like a half-eaten sandwich, or unmade bed, or a tape recorder replaying a man moaning about life on a chair, or a random rock found somewhere. There was literally no souls in these works of art.
If art as a spirit could have felt despair, it would have. But there were none less to express anything, it was all a glorified Rorschach test, they'd mistaken a pair of glasses as a modern art exhibit.
And when a few had been found, one had his head crushed in by a overmuscled titan that had appeared out of nowhere, and vanished just as quickly. The next had been brownbeaten by a man with a five o'clock shadow in a trenchcoat, who had also appeared from nothing and returned to nothing, after convincing their target to give up art forever and get a day job.
This was the last... a man whose art had been rejected for being 'too conventional' and humiliated and disgraced by his peers... Art came to him, and gave unto him the power in the shape of an object ... and with his object, given only one condition. Chose human beings, and make them the works of art they already were on the inside.