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The studio was ready; materials, tools, model – all had been prepared for the Master. He, in turn, barely acknowledged the watchers; his work would speak for him. This piece would be called Beauty in Deformity; his model, the blank canvas awaiting his stroke.
With steady hand he carved a perfect scar along the curve of her cheek, a bloody crescent moon that waxed and waned with each dying breath. At last he stood back, satisfied that this still life was his best yet.
He looked at his audience who each bore the same mark. She would fit in perfectly.
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