Art: 056/100 Themes - Danger Ahead

"Danjere Ante." Danger ahead. - 56/100 Themes.

Kai is another character I have recycled for Mondigan. Kai is an arrogant, teenage seafarer. His father - a wealthy, Vestanzan merchant, abandoned him when he showed signs of dark magic in early puberty, and Mirab took pity on him. He is an integral portion to her becoming a more empathetic character. Oddly enough, he enters a relationship with and knocks up Perrin, Rivek's mentee. Perrin's father - who is a similar, single, formerly-teen father - is not very pleased with this, but it gives Kai the chance to grow up.

 

Kai ran to the prow of the Surgent and leaned his face into the wind. "Danger?" he laughed. "About time."

Art: 055/100 Themes - Waiting

"Dunministrar." Waiting. - 55/100 Themes.

I interpreted "waiting" in the restaurant sense.

 

Sorian leaned back in his chair. He wanted good news. Fighting those damned dark-mages was costing him a fortune in raw materials. As winter approached, the ground had begun to freeze, and ore had become more difficult to obtain. He huddled back into his cloak, bringing the fur collar up around his cheeks. He pressed his hands together as his confidant, Vendelain, approached. He carried a silver platter. Sorian smiled. He knew what this was, and it would make him very, very happy.

"Here is what you requested," Vendelain bowed, placing a cloth napkin on Sorian's lap before setting the tray on the arm of his throne. "A glass of red wine and the heart of Mitharon Ailinar."

Art: 054/100 Themes - Tower

"Turios." Tower - 54/100 Themes.

There is something incredibly gut-wrenching I enjoy watching in betrayal. And that characters should be presented with very hard choices. And chances to redeem themselves. They say at the end of a story, each character gets a 'reward' - or something as a result of their actions. Still don't know what to do with Fenne. He just fails so hard at the "standing up and being a man" thing (get it? standing up? oh, ho, ho, double entendre!)

 

Fenne enjoyed the contemplative quiet his tower room offered. The city sprawled below with people crawling like busy ants, but only bird song reached him here. He rubbed the scars left by the stitches from his amputation. Every so often, he felt as if his legs were still there. No longer able to tap his foot, he rapped his knuckles on the windowsill in time to the song stuck in his head. As he did, he heard a knock on the door. "Who is it?"

"It's me." Fenne's personal royal guard, Bohren opened the door and scratched his mop of blond hair. He bowed, "The Heilmdoran Prince wants a word with you before he heads out."

"I already told him I'm not interested." Fenne traced his fingers along the wood grain of his chair arms.

"He's got something for you." Bohren forced a smile, hoping to see his prince happy. "I think you'll like it."

Fenne folded his hands together. He trusted his knight's opinion, even if he was too optimistic at times. "Let him in, I guess."

Bohren exited and returned with a regal man in a thick, fur-lined cloak. He had a well-muscled build and light brown hair, cropped close to his skull that exposed his high forehead and aquiline nose. He met Fenne with his intense, orange eyes and bowed. "Your highness," he said, holding out a long, heavy, object wrapped in ordinary sack cloth.

Fenne frowned, "What is this? You had better not be mocking me."

"I would like to clarify that there are no hard feelings between my domain and yours due to our mutual interactions with the Tyrisi. Therefore, I have brought you a gift."

He gently laid the package on the floor and knelt to gingerly unwrap each corner of the cloth Fenne's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the beauty Sorian had unveiled. A functional, mechanical leg. The bent steel bars replicated bone, and the copper wire mimicked the graceful flex of muscle. Sorian had replicated, the knee, ankle, and even toe joints with tiny hinges and gears, reinforced by outer plates of iron.

"I should hope that you would forgive my obtaining your measurements from your seamstress. I simply desired that my design fit your body perfectly. I did not mean to commit an intrusion on your privacy." He stood, letting Fenne view the construction in its entire, burnished glory. "If you sign with me and back my position against those Tyrisi traitors, I will give you the twin to this creation and return for a proper, personal fitting."

He gave one final bow and headed out the door. Fenne returned his attention to the window, but he could not shake his nagging curiosity. Once he heard Sorian descend the tower stairs, he shifted his eyes back onto the steel prosthetic on the floor. "Bohren," he called. "I need your help."

Art: 053/100 Themes - Keeping a Secret

"Pozesir zekreta." Keeping a secret. - 053/100 Themes.

Best first date ever. ;D

 

Rivek leaned his head back, but it only caused the blood to drain down the back of his throat. It tasted sour. He turned and spat into the fountain before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Willow grabbed his jaw, so she could hold him still and get a better look at the damage. She wet the rag she clutched and wiped off the blood that had begun to dry on his upper lip. As her fingers graced his skin, she could see the networks of his broken blood vessels lighting up with her magic. Quickly, they darkened, absorbing her energy. She blinked. This had never happened before. She touched them again, and again her magic faded into his body.

"Can you fix it?" he asked. His ears rang, and his stuffy voice felt far away.

"I'm trying - I don't know what's wrong." She threw out her threads once more. This time, she had to forcibly pushed them forward through his bloodstream, constantly reinforcing them with more magic from her core. Her hands shook a little, and sweat beaded on her palms and forehead. As her energy passed through, the burst vessels repaired themselves. She drove her threads deeper, through the soft skin and flesh, to his skull. She ran them along its surface, searching for any irregularity. A wide fracture ran across his nose bridge.

She moved his hand away from his face. "Don't touch it - it's broken."

He smirked and replied with a nasal, "You're telling me."

She placed either hand on the side of his nose and with a crunch, set it back to place. He howled and pushed her hands away.

"You, sir, are a terrible patient. Stay off it, and let it heal." She looked at her work in the moonlight. Even in the dark, she could tell this was sub-par to any healing she had ever done before. She sent another barrage of magic through his sinuses, but she was too tired to reinforce it. It dissipated like her first and left her short of breath. The bone and tissue repair was still shoddy, rough around the edges.

"This is going to bruise tomorrow morning. Keep something cold on it, to keep the swelling down."

He sat on his hands to keep from touching his face. "Is it going to hurt like a bitch? The same way it's doing now?"

"Don't say 'bitch'!" She set her arms in her lap and broke eye contact. "Probably."

He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. We'll just say I fell off a horse."

"I'd believe that. You're an awful rider." She stifled laughed with her now bloody hands. She rinsed them in the fountain.

He washed his hands as well and stood up to wipe them on his pants. "Let's go," he motioned. "It's harder to sneak back into a castle when people are awake."

Willow stifled a gasp as he put his arm around her shoulder. She was glad it was dark out, or he would have seen her blush. "That was a really nice thing you did - standing up for me."

"Don't worry about it."

She ran her fingers nervously through the ends of her braided hair and bit her lip. "You're not going to tell anyone that I asked you to sneak me out of the palace, right?"

"As long as you don't tell anybody that I travel with thieves - but more importantly - that I can count cards." He winked but quickly regretted having ever moved the muscles on his face. With something halfway between a smile and a wince, he whispered, "This is our little secret."

Art: 052/100 Themes - Deep in Thought

"Sundum kognia." Deep in Thought. - 52/100 Themes.

A "new" character, Eamon. You can see his original (heavily D. Grayman-inspired) incarnation here: http://fav.me/d1czxwo

Now, he is the lab technician in the research lab that Rivek and Willow worked in during high school. He crashes in his work clothes, naps under his desk, and drinks caffeine to relax. He has some light-magic in him that gives him super-human intelligence. Having been a screw-up before, he is as religious as scientific.

He messed up as a teenager and became father. Unable to deal with having a child, the mother ran. Now, his whole life revolves around his daughter, Perrin. And despite her age, she ends up picking up after his eccentricities a lot. When his daughter begins to exhibit signs of dark-magic, he first denies the signs, but eventually outright questions his faith. Fenne begins to genocide dark-mages, and he chooses to do what's best for his daughter - seeks refugee status with Willow. Once on her side, he uses his technical knowledge to backwards engineer Sorian's technomagic designs and comes to terms with his faith - that you can be devout and progressive at the same time.  

More in this Series: http://fongmingyun.deviantart.com/gallery/281196

   

Eamon brushed the thick, auburn hair from his eyes. Magic was fickle as human emotion, but he was sure it could be quantified and harnessed. You could treat it like a volume of water, calculating and controlling the speed of its flow to get one's desired result. After all, Sorian had managed it somehow.

He stared at the bull's carcass on the table. It contained as much metal as it did rotting flesh. Magic had allowed Sorian to turn a living animal into a technological war machine. Now it was Eamon's job to figure out how to stop them.

He had been writing for hours. His chalkboard was riddled with equations. He always arrived at the same answer, but it was not possible. Those resources could not be obtained. They simply did not exist anymore.

He looked over at Rivek. The dark-mage had come to the lab to watch Eamon dismantle the beast that had gored him. He leaned back in his chair, conversing with his bird. To Eamon, it seemed like a very one-sided conversation, but it seemed to be making sense to them. A soldier by nature, Rivek was not well-versed in the sciences by any means, but Eamon knew he had a head for arithmetic. He had learned this the hard way. Rivek frequently used his mathematical intellect to sweep card games.

"Do you mind looking this over?" Eamon asked, handing Rivek his notebook. The bird walked up to Rivek's shoulder as he took the pad in his hand.

He looked over the chalk board and picked up a quill. Step by step, he re-did the calculations on his paper. He circled his answer - it was the exact same. "You might want to graph is more precisely to be sure but... The only way to zero out this equation would be to use its inverse. You have the answer, Eamon. It's staring you in the face. You just don't want to believe it. To make this work, you're going to need dark-magic."

Art: 051/100 Themes - Sport

"Oludum". Sport - 51/100 Themes.

Even fantasy schools have field days.

At heart, Bohren is a swordsman, so he never does too well at the joust. Even he doesn't have the upper-body strength to handle a lance for too long (or being hit in the chest with one), and his aim is too terrible for ring jousting. Even so, he tries because he thinks it's the most impressive sport, and he gets to wear some cool armor while riding a horse.

Usually forgotten or disfavored due to his unassuming behavior in class, Rivek is a dark horse who blazes through archery tournaments. He easily nets first in most tournaments he enrolls in thanks to his avian powers and hunting practice. Not that he would listen to rules, but even if instructed to use his normal eyesight, he can't reign his body in to that level. Archery is probably the only profitable activity Rivek does that isn't morally questionable.  

More in this Series: http://fongmingyun.deviantart.com/gallery/281196

   

Rivek sat behind the empty stands, eating a pork bun from one hand and jingling a pouch of coins in the other. His snack was dry and a bit too salty, but he had already paid for it. His unstrung bow and other archery equipment lay on the ground next to him, arranged in a neat grid.

Bohren approached his friend. He still wore his breastplate and carried his helmet under his arm. His thick, blond hair was matted with sweat and taken on the rounded shape of his headgear. He reached out an armored hand to grab the remaining bread but Rivek shoved the entire thing in his mouth.

Bohren frowned, "So - how did you do?"

Rivek took his time chewing before he swallowed to speak. Bohren gritted his teeth. The archer smirked, holding up the bag of coins. "I don't know. You tell me. Well enough?"

"You're a cheat. The rules say no magic."

"I'm offended you think I'm a cheat!" His blue eyes briefly flashed to an avian gold. "I'm just naturally talented. And you? Manage to win anything?"

"Does two broken lances count?"

"Your incompetence is astounding." Rivek laughed. It was cut short by his growling stomach. After shooting all day in the heat, that pork bun hadn't nearly been satisfying enough. "Dinner?"

Bohren jabbed Rivek in the abdomen. "You're buying."

Art: 050/100 Themes - Breaking the Rules

"Shundar regelum." Breaking the Rules. - 50/100 Themes.

I can't believe it! I started this project two years ago, and now I am halfway though. This is a landmark. I'm really happy.

Under Willow's pressuring, Rivek sneaks her out of the castle, dressed like a boy. This is what we call a "character midpoint"...

 

"Haven't you ever been outside a castle before? You're seem new at this rule-breaking thing." Rivek handed Willow a pile of folded clothing. "Put these on."

She looked through the individual articles. They were commoner clothes, a simply design boy's outfit with dull colors and many holes. However, most importantly, they bore no palace markings.

"What? They're clean."

She picked up the shirt, stretching it out at her arms' width. "They're kind of big, aren't they?"

"Well, you're kind of small."

She threaded her hands through the cotton sleeves and narrowed her eyes.

He sat down at his desk, waiting. He knew girls could take an awful long time when getting ready, but he had told her not to wear make-up. He hoped that would at least cut the time in half.

She waved her hand. He gave her a confused look in response.

"Oh, wait. Right." He turned his chair around, making an exaggerated gesture to show he was most definitely covering his eyes.

Just in case he was watching, she slipped the garment over her head before unbuttoning her uniform. It took substatial flexibility to remove her everyday shirt, but Rivek's gave her plenty of room to maneuver. She let her clothes drop to the ground before sliding her arms through the sleeves of her new top. On Rivek, the cuffs fell just past his shoulders, but, on her, they reached her elbows. She threw his vest on top, and it ended at her hips, close enough to be a dress in its own right.

"Done yet?" he started to turn back around.

"No!" she picked up her discarded shirt and threw it at his head. He immediately returned to face the wall, throwing his hands into the air before covering his face again.

As carefully as before, she put the pants on under her skirt before removing her own clothes. They itched a little, and the crotch fell uncomfortably low, almost halfway down her thighs. When she let go of the waist, they drooped to her knees, and she scrambled to pick them back up again. "This isn't going to work."

He turned around. Willow stood with his pants hiked around her waist. He could not help but laugh. He stifled his mirth and got up to dig through his dresser. He produced a wide belt. "Nope, won't work at all, but maybe this will. It's Bohren's, but he won't mind."

Willow sat down on the bed to keep the pants from falling down mid-fastening and tied the belt around her waist. "All right, let's go."

He tilted his head to the side and looked her up and down. "I don't think so." He went back to the dresser and emerged with a gray cap. He threw it in her direction, and it landed at her feet.

She picked it up off the floor and put it on her head. "Done now?"

He motioned for her to tuck her hair under it.

"You're going to make me look like a boy." She knotted her long, chestnut braid into a spiral and tugged the cap squarely over it.

"That's kind of the plan. So, that -" He pointed to her chest. "-is going to be a problem." The unbuttoned collar hung just above Willow's petite cleavage. She immediately folded her arms to cover it, blushing.

He laughed again. "So I guess you don't just need my old clothes. You'll also need my sporting equipment. Here." He handed her a fat roll of bandage and turned around again. "Tie them down. I won't look."

She undid the belt and took her top off, keeping a watchful eye on Rivek. Next, she removed her bra and stuffed it under her discarded clothes. She covered her nipples as she passed the first end of the bandage under her arm. Wrapping the strip around her body was more difficult than she had expected, and the loops she made were diagonal and uneven. Nevertheless, she figured it would do. She clipped the ends down and tucked in the edges. Her chest felt tight, so she adjusted her breathing as she put the other clothes back on. "You can turn around now."

He sized her up one last time. "Almost," he touched his earlobe. "You forgot something."

It took her a few seconds to recognize what he meant. "Oh!" She took the gold backings out, and let the emerald drops fall into her palms.

Rivek extended his hand.

"How do I know you'll give them back?" She closed her hands into a fist. "For all I know, you're going to run off and sell them!"

"Looks like you're just going to have to trust me. But," He shrugged. "To put things into perspective - since you're already trusting me to guide you into a figurative thieves' den, then the earrings aren't such a big issue, are they?"

Resentfully, she opened her hand. He took the jewelry and dropped it into his dress shoe under his desk.

"That's disgusting."

"Come on. I haven't used them in months. And trust me - no one will find them there." He approached the door and held it open for her with a bow. "Milady."

She walked up to the exit. But right before she stepped over the threshold, he let the door slam shut. The hinges reverberated from the loud crack.

He winked. "Get used to it. Where we're going, that doesn't happen."

She glared at him. Then, she pushed the door open herself and stepped into the hallway.

Art: 049/100 Themes - Stripes

"Virtigen." Stripes. - 49/100 Themes.

Just Rivek and Willow being cute. He's still trying to adjust to his servitude. Good thing Will is a nice boss. For the record, Rivek is 5'11", and Willow is 5'4".

 

Willow grabbed Rivek's wrist and moved behind him, stepping on her tiptoes, so she could reach his shoulder. She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. It was covered in green and gold stripes. She tied it to his arm, around his tattoo, and kissed his cheek, "There, that's how they'll know you're mine."

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."