Art: 048/100 Themes - Childhood

"Enfantea." Childhood. - 48/100 Themes.

Rivek's mother, step-father, and step-brother all die in a yet-to-be-determined accident. So Rivek does what any person who wants to save his own hide does - assumes his dead brother's identity. Because he is clearly too young to govern Cordelain, the lands are put under a steward, and he is sent to live with his step-father's cousin - who happens to be Bohren's father. Bohren, a spoiled only child, resents this at first, but the incident above warms him towards the intruder. When he finds out Rivek is illiterate, he teaches him to read. Thus, an epic bromance was formed.

 

Summer was the best. Bohren stood at the foot of an immense apple tree. He knew they were still unripe and very sour, but at eleven years old, the climbing itself was fun enough.

He grabbed the lowest branch and lifted his legs into the air for a little swing. He planted his feet against the sturdy trunk. Gingerly, he walked his hands to the base of the branch until he could wrap his entire body around the width of the tree. Using the knots in the bark as footholds, he stretched himself upwards. The first place the trunk split was low enough that he could reach it with his hands. With a small kick, he hoisted himself up into the forked limbs. 

He sat for a second in this great tree-seat, surrounded by green leaves. "Hello," he said to the nearest branch. "Nice to meet you."

He took a twig and shook it like an extended arm. "I'm sure you've heard of me. I am Sir Bohren from Tabir, and my father is the High Grand Super Lord of Tabir. And one day, I'm going to be like my dad, and I'm going to be a knight with armor covered in so many diamonds, you'll look at it, and you'll go blind. And I'm going to slay a dragon and rescue a beautiful princess with lots of yellow hair who will fall in love with me."

He stood, carefully balancing each of his legs on a branch, and bowed. It threw him off, and he quickly shrank back to seated position. Once he thought he was safe from his own teetering, he looked up. The apples had started to grow. This one right above him looked a little kind of red. 

He stood again and reached his arm up. He plucked the only apple within his grasp. His mouth watered, imagining the delicious sugar and juice. Without hesitation, he bit into it, and his mouth was flooded with a sour taste so strong it made him suck in his cheeks. He spat out the wood-hard piece he had bit off and threw the rest to the ground. Gross. 

What now? He looked down from his mighty perch and saw something a few rows of trees away: a skinny boy with messy, black hair. He wore peasant's clothes that were far too big for him. The shirt he had fell to his knees. He held his arms extended towards the sky. A dozen brown sparrows sat on his outstretched limbs, tittering and flapping their wings like excited schoolgirls. 

"Hey. Hey! You! You're the new kid, right? Better move. They're going to poop on you." 

The black-haired boy looked up, right at Bohren. He dropped his arms, and the sparrows flew away in a chirping flurry. Even from this height and distance, Bohren could make out a strange shape on the boy's right cheek.

"Yeah, you! Come here." The strange boy stepped over slowly. 

"Come on." Why did he take so long just to walk over? Bohren flattened his stomach against a branch. They were deep, crossed, purple scars - one vertically down his right eye, and one horizontally across his cheekbone. So weird. Bohren leaned over to get a better look.

"What's wrong with your face?"

And Bohren fell.

He hit the ground on his left arm. Something cracked. He tried to get up, but the pain was unbearable. It was as if his entire arm were a pulsing, muscular fire. He cried.

Silently, the other boy turned and took a step away.

"You're can't leave me here!" 

The scarred boy took a knife from his pocket and snapped a twig from the low branch Bohren had been climbing on. Then, he made a spiraling cut into the edge of his shirt, turning the bottom hem into a long ribbon.

Then, he came back. He grabbed Bohren's arm, making him scream again and causing tears to roll down his face. Bohren rubbed his sniffling nose with his good arm. He put his arm back down, and a trail of clear mucous extended between his upper lip and sleeve.

"Hey!" he muttered. "That hurts." 

The boy set the branch against Bohren's arm and began wrapping it there with the ripped piece of shirt.

"Can you talk?" 

The boy narrowed his strangely bright, blue eyes and shrugged, but he continued to tie the makeshift splint around Bohren's arm. Bohren watched, tears almost lost in wonder at the bandaging process. Much to Bohren's pained chagrin, the boy finished by bending and tying the fractured arm to Bohren's chest. Bohren yelped as he tied the last knot, very, very tight. The boy gave him a small smirk. 

Did he think this was funny? "Your name. Give me your name." 

"Rivek."

Art: 047/100 Themes - Creation

"Kreonum." Creation. - 47/100 Themes.
Sorian's secret weapon - war beasts driven by magic.

Sorian walked through the warehouse with the Historian trailing a few respectful steps behind him. The building used to be a manor house, but the stables were now barracks, and the spitfires were now forges. He glanced around, looking for idle bodies. When they caught his eyes, they hurried back to work, shoveling coal and shaping sheets of steel. He marked their numbers off in the journal he carried, so he could remember whose salary might need adjustment.

They reached the back door. A priest, dressed in white, stood next to it, waiting for them. He bowed, "Your highness."

"You reported that you have something to show me?"

"Yes, my liege," the priest said, bowing again to open the door. "I hope you will be pleased."

He stood in front of his creation, eyes darting between the design drawing in his journal and his living, breathing prototype. Here was his beast of flesh and metal. Merely days before, this creature had been a simple, dumb, war horse who had been too stubborn to ride. Now, it was an armored, deadly, force. Its blood vessels and muscle sinew were replaced by and intertwined with wire. Its skin had been plated over with much harder iron. The little spaces between the mechanical joints crackled with the magic that kept it alive. Sorian knew that somewhere, underneath, there would be a beating heart. It lowered its head to him, releasing a jet of warm condenstation through two flickering nostril vents. Sorian stared into where its eyes would have been. They had been replaced by two, unblinking, glass lenses with steel shutters. A stream of saliva dripped from its sharpened teeth and froze when it hit the ground.

It stood sturdy as he mounted it with ease. Part machine and part animal, its spirit had long been completely shattered. He ran his hands along the smooth, metal laid across its spine. He played with the tubes in its neck, magically-reinforced replacements for arteries. He willed it forward, and it responded to his touch on its wired body. He placed his hand against its thick neck, and as his internal command, it reared backward. He clung to the mass of tubes, holding tightly as it set its forelegs back on the ground. They came down with enough weight and force that they pierced through the layers of soft snow, cracked the permanent layer of tundra ice, and exposed the solid, red, rock underneath.

Sorian grinned and opened to another page in his book. "How much steel remains?"

"Not much, sire."

"Then, get more."

He snapped the book shut. "Take it, if you have to. We need hundreds of these."

Art: 046/100 Themes - Family

"Sangnomion." Family. - 46/100 Themes.

The word for "family" in Alisian translates directly to "the name of the blood".

 

"Trust me," Verendiel said as closed the door to Willow's room. "You will like this man. He is wealthy, well-educated, well-bred from the most noble Tyrisi lineage, and most importantly, one of us." 

"A doctor?" 

"Not just a doctor. A white-magic healer. With generations of documented white-magic healers before him." Willow hoped he wasn't some distant cousin she had just not yet heard of. 

Verendiel brought forth a dress made of green velvet, hemmed with gold embroidery. It looked thick and heavy. Just from looking at it, Willow could tell the skirt would be too long, with too many layers that would balloon up around her as she walked. 

She climbed into the dress as if she were climbing into a great mushroom made of fabric. Great, she thought. Ninety percent chance I'll trip on something. Ninety-nine percent chance I'll trip over myself. 

Verendiel hiked the skirt up around Willow's waist and pulled her arms through the sleeves. "You never say anything good about the boys I pick for you. I do not know why." 

She tightened Willow's corset, forcing a wheeze from her unprepared chest. "I know you love me, but you certainly have a very funny of way of showing it. You should not be so ungrateful. Every time, I go through so much trouble of finding you a worthwhile suitor." 

She stepped around to Willow's front and began powdering her face. Willow tried not to sneeze. "You were such a tom boy when you were little. You worried me so much, following your brother around. I thought sending you away for school would fix that. The prospects became far better when you came home. But they dwindle every time you turn another one away." 

"You are making this very hard on me." She painted Willow's eyes and lips with brown and pink creams. "I do all this searching because I love you. So you don't even have to lift a finger." 

Verendiel stepped back, admiring her work. Willow thought she must look like a clown, or a doll that some small child with no concept of color drew on. "I know what it is. You must really stop letting that black-blood follow you. Queens do not have time to keep pets. It's frivolous and reflects poorly on our court." 

She set a golden circlet upon her daughter's head. "I love you, but it's time that you grow up and consider what is good for our family. With your brother gone, you are our only investment. If that black dog continues to hang around you like that, real, more-suitable men will never see you as a potential wife."

"Mother, he's my friend." 

"You can find better friends."

Art: 045/100 Themes - Illusion

"Ilujia." Illusion. - 45/100 Themes.

I suck at writing flirting, but I admit, Rivek is a bit of a pervy dick.

Rosmyne is a re-work of an old character who used to be Willow's room-mate (and Rivek's ex) in high school. Now, she is a former servant girl with a penchant for money. She is the kind of woman who hops from man to man to achieve her goals.

As a teenager, she slept with Rivek because she thought he would marry her and give her noble title (no one else was troubled or rebellious enough to sleep with servants). When his title is stripped away, she is coincidentally ruined. As an already "lesser" person who is no longer a virgin, she has lost her social value.

She continues to work at the castle behind the scenes, hidden in shame, until she serves dinner to a handsome prince from the north. Empathetic to her drive for self-worth, Sorian sees value in her still. He tells her he can give her back everything she lost. He buys her, and she willingly undergoes his experimentation. It gives her magic ability to manipulate others' thoughts and dreams through touch.

Slowly, she falls in love with him and the possible royal title he could provide, but he is too wrapped-up in his own quest for power. Both Sorian and Rosmyne are people who define their internal value by rewards from external sources.

At first, I was iffy on re-purposing Rosmyne due to possible "sexploitation," but I think her addition actually rounds out my female cast. Each balances power and gender differently: Willowren has tons of power, but her culture's expectations of women restrict the ways she can express it to traditionally feminine paths. Mirab expresses her inherent power through masculine means. Perrin is born with very little, so she joins the male-dominated military to achieve status. Rosmyne exploits her feminine nature to climb the social ladder.

Specifically, I want Perrin and Rosmyne to serve as contrasts to one another. Perrin is forward - to the point of bullheadedness - in achieving her dreams. Rosmyne is manipulative and uses others to get what she wants.

Also - Rivek verbally denies it, but he highly values his relationship with Willow. So, since Alisian culture treats men and women as military equals, Rivek has no qualms about beating the crap out of a girl who threatens it.

 

Rivek wandered through the dark corridor. The mage-lights had been extinguished much earlier, so only moonlight guided his passage. He ran his hand along the wall to avoid walking into potentially painful objects. Most of the castle's inhabitants would be asleep by now. He thought he would be as well. He did not understand what kept him awake.

The warm, night air blew in through the marble archways and licked at his bare skin. Given the late hour and lingering summer swelter, he had not bothered to find a shirt. He paused as his hand slid over a familiar carved handle, the door to the great hall. The vaulted ceilings seemed like a much better alternative to the confined corridor.  He had to throw most of his weight into it, but he managed to create enough of a opening to slide sideways in.

Blue light streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting hues that turned the white ground into an ocean floor. As he looked up from the patterns on the tile, his eye caught the glimmering, gold, hem of a piece of cloth. In light, it would have been rich crimson, but the night transformed its shadows into a deep violet. A woman sat in the throne at the front of the room, swathed by this mass of red silk, gazing at the moon. Noticing his entrance, she stood. The cloth fell from her shoulders, revealing her pale skin. She wore nothing.

He laughed. "Willow. I'm not going to lie, but this is pretty odd."

She smiled. "Come here."

He obeyed, stopping at the foot of the throne's platform. "I thought you'd be in bed. As in, I expected you to be in bed until noon tomorrow."

She laughed, and it echoed like bells off the stone walls. She moved closer, leaving only a few inches between their bodies. "Same as you, I couldn't sleep."

"Maybe you should try again." He smirked, doing a poor job of keeping his eyes and hands off her exposed breasts. "Not that you'd get lost in your own house, but if you need someone to take you back to your quarters - well, 'escort' is in my job description."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and left a quick peck where the two scars crossed on his cheek. "Not to dismiss your acts of chivalry, but, no, I'm going to stay here, thank you. It's a nice enough night, isn't it?"

He wrapped one hand around her waist and used the other to brush her long hair out of his face. "You're going to sit naked for an undetermined period of time in a public place that will be quickly populated in a few hours. Good plan."

"That's not what I mean." She threw him a fake, angry glance and pushed him back playfully. He went along with the act and dropped to his knees.

"Then what do you mean?"

"I simply mean I don't want to go back to my room."

He nodded and rolled his eyes, "That seems like kind of a dumb thing to want."

She knelt to meet him and began playing with his dark hair. She ran her hands down his bare abdomen, tracing the scars that ran down it. She paused, just under his navel, before letting her fingers snake slowly downwards again. He tensed.

"Well, since you've been nice enough to let me have what I want," she bowed her head and looked up to meet his eyes, "I can give you what you so desperately want."

With one quick breath, she pressed her lips to his and slipped her tongue between his teeth.

It tasted like iron, ash, and saltpeter. Quickly, he broke the kiss and bit his tongue. He wanted to wash out his mouth. Even his own blood would have tasted better. He spat onto the ground, narrowed his eyes, and wiped his lips.

Cupping his hand around her fair cheek, he leaned in and whispered into her ear, "No, I'm afraid, you can't. Because this is a dream. An illusion. And when I wake up, I am going to make you regret this. Because - sorry, love - but birds like me mate for life."

He nodded toward the silken cloth spread on the floor. "By the way, Rosmyne, her favorite color is green."

Art: 044/100 Themes - Two Roads

"Dai piea." Two Roads. - 44/100 Themes.

 

"Willowren, you have two very different men in your life who are going to take you down two very different roads - which lead to two very different places, for you and your kingdom. Make sure you pick the right one."

Art: 043/100 Themes - Dying

"Mortaran." Dying. - 43/100 Themes.

Mitharon Ailinar is a very regal man whose actions are steeped in religious tradition. The leader of his tribe, he is very focused on protecting his people and making sure his daughter will be a similarly capable leader. He also wants to connect with and apologize to his son, whom he hasn't seen in fifteen years.

Mirab was very close to her father. However, unlike her father, her half-blood heritage has made her very aware of the prejudices her people face, and she rejects anything that might possibly conflict with her Alisian side - especially helping a country that took part in the genocide of their people four hundred years earlier. It was only her father's desire for a better future that gave her reason enough to provide her prodigal brother with mercenary aid.

As second-born, Rivek does not have the same leadership pressures as his sister. When the relationship with his father is re-kindled, he is unsure where he stands in Alisian society. But seeing his father sacrifice his life to make others' better paves the way for him to make the same sacrifice later.

 

Mirab brought over the last bushel of wood and looked at her brother. Rivek shivered, huddling beneath the wool cloak around his shoulders. Even with the cover, visible goosebumps formed on his skin. 

She grabbed the sheet and threw it to the floor. "You will show some respect. This man is our father. Nothing up your sleeves. Braving the cold will make you grow stronger." 

Rivek hunched over and ran his freezing hands up and down his bare arms. Custom meant wearing nothing, not even the bandages he normally wrapped around his wrists to hide his scars. "Dad has been saying that since we were little." 

Mirab ignored her brother's remarks and stared at the black tattoo on his shoulder. Despite his modifications, it was still a brand, labeling him as a heretic and practicioner of evil magic. And she couldn't stand it. 

"Respect?" he said, covering the six-pointed star. The ink he'd added, an Alisian prayer, still trailed out from under his fingers. 

She turned, wordlessly, and took a flint from her belt. She picked up a thick rod of cedar from the pile of wood and lit its end, letting it burn until the smoke began to carry its fragrance. As much as she did not want to, she approached the funeral pyre before her. The man on top who had towered over her in her childhood seemed so small amongst the tangle of dry branches. As the eldest, this was her responsibility. She gave her father's pale face one last glance before lifting the linen over his head. She slowly ran the torch around the edge of the pyre, letting it light. She reached over the growing flame and placed the torch on his breast. The linen caught fire immediately. Now, his people had become her people and her responsibility as well. 

She made the sign of the Lady of Death across her chest. "Argia dena pilio. E leva ei senta ni pienara. Em korvi redukta ta tarri en zinera." 

He brother recited the same ancient prayer in common tongue, "Wrath begets Pardon. I depart and feel no pain. My body returns to the earth in ashes." 

They stood by the burning mountain until both shivered, and every bit of smoke had blown away into the night sky.

Art: 042/100 Themes - Standing Still

"Stera stil." Standing Still. - 42/100 Themes.

This is a prose-style re-write of something I did for screenwriting class. Andell is Willowren's doting older brother. He has a sunny disposition, but always is more ready with a joke than a plan. He had just finished medical school before being sent to be a war general. Of course, Sorian interprets Andell's preference for politics instead of battle as simple laziness, so he kills him - hoping to put that throne in his own, more capable, hands. However, his death actually puts Willowren next in line for the throne, and inspires her to seriously take on the healing arts.

 

From his vantage point on the butte, Sorian gazed across the ice-covered fields, subconsciously smiling as the two nations' armies clashed. He stroked the white mane of the horse he rode and patted the down cloak of his military uniform. His armor was made of gray steel edged with white fur, much like his soldiers' below, but embroidered with golden, religious symbols that spoke to his royal status. "For Heilmdor" was engraved on its breastplate, over his heart. He laughed, and fog poured from the mouth grate of his horned helmet, emerging through its sculpted, carnivorous grin like a demon's smoking breath.

He blinked, searching for the opposition's green and gold flag. For all their finesse in swordsmanship, the Tyrisi were felled by such simple opponents as slippery rocks jutting out from the snow. Sorian's men hacked through their opponents with wide, gleeful swings. The ice was their home.

Eager to rejoin the fray, he tightened his grip on his horse's reins. The animal, also covered in matching, patterned armor, shuffled its thick, furry legs in response. It tossed its head, indicating it had no intention of descending the frozen slope. Sorian disciplined it with a sharp tug and nudged it forward with his golden spurs. The beast hung its head and walked, guided by Sorian's ankles pricking its sides.

He scanned the ground ahead with professional ease, looking for spots the steed might have trouble with. As they trekked, he noticed a trail of abnormally bright, red blood. He turned the horse to follow it. The droplets grew larger and brighter each step.

Sorian dismounted to follow it, still maintaining his slow, deliberate pace. The sound of battle faded away. He found himself in a secluded patch of forest. The pine tree tops formed a circle overhead, revealing a patch of gray sky. Two crows sat above, circling and watching with their beady, black eyes.

A young man with chestnut hair crouched amidst his cast-off armor and weaponry. He wore a green tunic and a gold circlet around his head. Sorian recognized him immediately. This was Andell, the crown prince or Tyris and his sworn enemy.

He clutched his right arm. Bright red blood pumped out of an exposed artery. He pressed snow into the wound, trying to get it to stem the flow. He ran his fingers over the gash, summoning his healing magic to suture it. The skin moved at his command, but he was too tired to fully close the seal. His cheeks were pale and grey from the cold.

Andell laughed nervously, "You must Sorian. War-Prince of the Icy North."

Sorian nodded. More warm breath escaped from his mask. It condensed on the iron surface making it seem as if the gnarled, fake face were sweating.

"I was never into that war thing," Andell continued, using his legs to push himself backward. "Always preferred politics to beatings, myself. It's what you get when you come from a family of doctors. Royal doctors, especially."

Sorian unsheathed his sword and motioned for Andell to rise. The other prince merely squinted in confusion and shook his head. Sorian gestured again, letting a growl out through the mask. It echoed through the metal teeth. Andell leaned back against a tree and used it to lever himself upwards. He pointed to the badge Sorian wore at his belt, a gold disc embossed with a roaring lion's head, "I hear they call you the 'lion.' Must be nice to have a good, unique title like that. I have to settle for just 'prince'."

Unamused, Sorian stepped forward. Andell backed away instinctively, moving to the side of the tree. Sorian picked up Andell's sword. The handle was wrapped in green and had an intricately carved stag in its pommel. He snorted. This blade was more for decoration than for practical use. Nevertheless, he held it, hilt out to Andell.

Andell took the sword in his good left hand and stepped back, assuming a shaky, high guard. Sorian rushed forward. Too weak to block the move, Andell stepped to the side, parrying at the last second. However, the speed required for the move had left him too exposed to recover quickly. Sorian spun on his heel and lunged forward again. This time, he swung up from the ground.

The already wounded prince could not move in time, and the blow cleanly severed his leg. He fell to his side with a brutal thud, dropping his sword. He rolled onto his back only to find Sorian standing over him. He panted, "They also say you take no mercy. Not even towards healers. And especially not towards royalty."

"In certain cases, perhaps, but I see no reason to pity those who cannot prove they are worthy of their assets. If you cannot perform the simple task of deflecting an infantry arrow to hold your father's land, it might as well belong to a better candidate."

He dropped his sword down onto the shoulder joint of Andell's bleeding arm. It took three clean hacks to sever the limb. The prince screamed, but Sorian did not react. He took the dismembered arm and laid it off to the side. Bright blood spurted into the snow, darkening as it touched the ground.

He began to methodically remove Andell's other limbs with the same medical precision. As each appendage came off, Andell's voice grew quieter shrinking from a howl to a whimper. As he sawed through the hip joint of Andell's last leg, all Sorian could hear was ragged breathing.

Andell lay immobile. Only his chest moved, heaving up and down. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his mouth gaped open. Sorian knelt and tore at his victim's clothing. He unearthed Andell's royal signet ring, inlaid with emeralds and gingerly held by a chain around the fallen man's neck. He took it in his palm and yanked on it with enough force to snap the gilded line. He kissed the stag carved into its face. Finally, he took off his glove and slipped it on his own finger.

With one last, disdainful look, he turned around and swiftly lopped off Andell's head. He stood and held it under his foot as the crows circled above him, enjoying the stillness of the icy air.

Art: 041/100 Themes - Teamwork

"Lavor Suadio." Teamwork. - 41/100 Themes.

Fenne is my secondary villain who is forms a contrast to Sorian. Both are princes who want to please their fathers and seem worthy of the crown.

However, Sorian is a very direct villain who should still be respected for his intelligence and bravery - he just takes things too far.

On the other hand, Fenne is a coward who is too afraid to put himself in a position to gain true respect. He sells people out and makes petty, vindictive political plays.

Rivek joins the royal guard as a way to become a more useful human being. As a result, he engages in physical combat to save Fenne's life, and his heretical powers are exposed. When Rivek is sent to court, Fenne is too pre-occupied with looking good in front of his father than to speak up and save his friend. Hence, when they are in a situation again - Fenne depending on Rivek - there is nothing but bitterness. But Rivek finds himself in a catch - if he abandons Fenne out of vengeance, he will be no better than his opponent.

 

Rivek wiped the blood from the base of his nose. His nostrils burned as if he had just vomited up the wrong passageway. He rubbed his temples to chase away the ringing in his ears. He brushed the ash off his limbs, taking count to make sure they were still there in one piece. Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, he checked his belt. Good. His knife was still there.

Still shaken, but satisfied with his condition, he began scouring the rubble, looking for signs of life. He thought he saw a broken door frame lift upwards a few inches. He waded, knee-deep in debris. There was someone alive under there. He could feel it. He drew his knife, keeping it in his left hand.

If he wanted to keep his weapon hand free, he would have to be smart about lifting the door. He searched along its edge for the best point to grab. Here, if he pivoted it a little, he could use a piece of broken foundation as a fulcrum. He grabbed the corner, wincing as splinters dug into right palm. Despite consistent treatment, the skin had not fully healed yet. He braced his legs among the broken moulding and threw his entire weight into his arm, lifting the structure above his head.

The moment he fully extended his arm, his right elbow locked and began to shake. Without thinking, he caught the falling door with his left, knife still in his palm.

Shit, he thought. If whoever was down here wasn't the particularly friendly sort, his entire abdomen was now an open target. This is what you get for helping people. He looked down.

"Fenne."

The thin prince lay on his side, wheezing. He looked up at his rescuer. It took a few seconds before the recognition spread across his face.

"Cordelain, help me. Take me to my father."

He sat up and brushed the waves of matted auburn hair out of his eyes. Rivek could no longer tell what marks on his face were dirt and which were freckles. He quickly sheathed the knife, so he could use both hands to support the door.

"Did you forget, your highness? I haven't been 'Cordelain' for awhile, nor will I ever again. I don't have an obligation to help you here."

Fenne whined. Rivek paused and took a step back, letting the door fall.

"Wait -!"

Rivek caught the door on his shoulder, supporting it with his legs and entire back, rather than his shaking arms, made it much easier.

"You can't leave me."

"I think it's high time the royally of Brennan stop telling me what I can and cannot do."

Fenne shook. "You can't leave me because if you did, you'd be fulfilling every stereotype that they threw at you in that courtroom - the same judgements you fought so hard to turn around. And this time, you would burn. The punishment for regicide is death. You know it as well as I do."

Rivek bared his teeth, but he kept the door propped up on his shoulder. He nodded, "You should get out before I change my mind."

Fenne scuttled out, and Rivek let the frame drop back onto the ground, raising a massive cloud of dust. He coughed and turned to face Fenne.

"You still have your sword."

He gave the scabbard a harsh tug, breaking the gilded snaps that held it to Fenne's belt. He grabbed Fenne by the collar.

"Now, listen here. Given I don't report to you anymore, you can't just expect me to handle every bad guy that comes along. You're going to learn this little thing I like to call, 'teamwork.'"

He shoved the sword into the prince's bleeding hands. Rivek smirked. About time that spoiled brat get a callous on his fingers.

"We'll find your dad. But we'll do it together. As equals."

Art: 40/100 Themes - Rated.

"Ordiarei." Rated. - 40/100 Themes.

Drawn while listening to a lecture by Jon Foster, one of my favorite artists. I actually really like how he can create a dynamic, floating feel to his characters.

 

"I will not be beaten by some second-rate, animal!"

Art: 039/100 Themes - Abandoned

"Perinarei." Abandoned. - 39/100 Themes.

Rivek finds Vika as a fledgling and nurses him back to health after his mother dies out of negligence. Slowly, his magic flows into the bird, and Vika becomes an emotional, intellectual extension of himself - a very sarcastic, brutally honest extension. They are tied together spiritually, and each one reflects the other. So, if either were to die, the other would as well. Part of their shared bond comes from the fact that they are both abandoned children.

Rivek undid the tethers on the falcon’s legs and extended his arm. The bird hopped on indignantly on his gloved hand.

You don’t need to use those awful things, you know. Or do you not trust me enough?

“I trust you. It’s other people I don’t trust. An un-tagged bird on palace grounds? You'd be re-claimed in minutes. And I assure you, whoever it is will not be nearly as nice. Or as good of an avian conversationalist."

I hate it when you’re right.

Vika extended his wings. With one modest push, he took to the air, searching for prey.

As Vika circled the warm air above, Rivek closed his eyes, listening for voices in the grass. Since he had been a child, he could see and hear the thoughts of birds. Most of the time, they thought about food. Though Rivek had to admit that he was no different.

The sparrows hidden by the foliage were quite content focused on finding seeds.

You’re supposed to be helping me chase them out.

“Ah, but I have higher expectations of you. You’re not a bird of average intelligence, you know. It wouldn’t be fair for them.”

Vika let out a screeching cry. All the small birds looked up, searching for the predator above them.

"You’re wrong,” Rivek said to them. “There’s no big, scary, hawk up there," he laughed. He watched the thoughts in the sparrow's minds change, from images deadly shadows back to images of their next meal. Once again, busy with food, they stayed buried in the grasses.

I know what you’re doing. You’re making this far harder than it needs to be.

Rivek shrugged, fully aware the bird could see him below with his impeccable eyesight. “You’re getting fat.”

If I’m getting fat, then you are, too. You know that’s how it works.

“You cut me to the bone, sir,” Rivek mocked. He looked towards the field for the sparrows. Still there. Still eating. “Well,” he said. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there’s a big, black shadow looming over you all. Better run while you can.”

The grass rustled, followed by a flurry of feathers as the sparrows took to the air.

Don’t think I’m going to actually thank you.

Vika tucked in his wing and dove, a spectacular display of speed. There was no way the sparrow could have escaped in time. He pegged it on the wing, sending it spinning and broken from the force of gravity. He landed on top of it in the dirt and crushed its neck. Rivek beckoned with his covered hand, and Vika picked up the kill. He landed on the outstretched glove with his prize and immediately began eating. Rivek reached over to take a piece.

Hands off. You didn’t do anything.

“You might be right about that one. Might be.” Rivek shrugged and took a wing anyway, spitting the cleaned bones onto the ground. Blood still on his lips, he kissed the bird on his head and let him finish his meal. Vika ruffled his feathers, beating the man off with his wings.

You know what it’s like, to only be able to talk to you? Exceptionally boring.