Canvas and Scripting; Battles Living In Infamy

Her brush touches the canvas; soft strokes along the parched, woven lines. There is a load of deductions capable of being made from this painting.
This page. As that pen scrawls across that page, and it flows like old scars in an image of water. There is a long line of tragedies and circumstances that lead to this point.
She held the pen securely to her chest and let the brush takes its place.
Smooth, soft strokes across that page, and a vision is set. It tells tales of epic battles across wild terrain, of heroes and heroines with weapons in their hands and a bloodlust in their eyes, fuelled only by what they loved and lived by. Bonds were made, and a massive army marches toward that war, heroines in the lead.
Battle after battle is won, and ultimately they fought with a vengeance envied by most men.
The brush shows a cruel beauty, while the pen dictates the passion and drive that keeps them there.
Divine is the havoc they wrought, and mercy was given to none.
But, ultimately, battles are won, but the war is lost, leaving behind the lives that are broken, ruined, and struggling for that place to put their feet again.
The pen tells the story of the ground disappearing beneath their shaking frame, while the brush dictates that they stand on air.
Every dawn after is filled with the loss of this, cleverly hidden, behind everything and everyone.
While there are snarls, denial and anger to intimidate even the strongest, underneath thirty-year-old eyes stare back, and they sting with loss, with memory and with a number of other things no one will truly recognize or understand.
The brush shows their faces, beauty and fake smiles, in all the pictures from start to finish.
The pen decides and explains those decisions, those expectations and emotions, each paragraph written.
The canvas stands before its brush now, wanting the next step, needing the next step.
The script is finished and waiting on the table, the broken and used pen in the rubbish.
The canvas is a let down and it centres into what needs to be left behind.
The pen betrays the page and describes what it sees, the emotion, the colour, the sensation.
Those eyes, alone on the canvas, on the page, shine outward, ever onward, and piece that gaze for eternity.