Gomu Gomu!!

I love Pirates. I blame One Piece.

Raising Tides, logo sketch

Want it to kind of look like a beer label when it's done. Waiting for the go ahead to continue.

Tiger Final, painted

Warscribe Redux Pages 1-6

A knot of desperation grew in Ian’s stomach as he ran through the boot sucking mud of the streets. He raced towards the building where a regiment of the army was recruiting locals. They had been in his village for the past few days, touting the opportunities and honor of service to any who would listen before they departed for elsewhere. It was their final day of stay in Ian’s village and he hoped that he would reach them in time. Not to sign up however, but to stop someone else from enlisting. He reached the front of their makeshift office, panting. Throwing the door open, he shouted, “Where is my son!?” Blank young faces, some of whom he recognized, turned towards him. They didn’t seem to know what to make of the gaunt-looking older man with thinning hair in the doorway. A perturbed looking and scruffy headed young man emerged from the back and walked up to Ian.

“What are you doing here father?” he muttered, trying to save face in front of his fellow recruits.

“I’m here to stop you from making a mistake,” Ian said. “What do you think you’re doing? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to your mother?”

“It’s what I want,” he explained. “There’s noting for me here, not any more.”

“Fool boy, you don’t know what you want.” Before their argument could get any more heated, a man in a blue uniform walked up to them with a glare in his eyes that could kill.

“Is something wrong here?” The officer asked. The fire in Ian’s blood cooled considerably as the officer directed his ire towards him like a weapon.

“No, sir.” Ian said, calming himself. “I was merely discussing my son’s… choices. My son, though I love him so, can be a fool at times.” At this, Ian’s son glared at his father but said nothing.

The officer sighed to himself. “Your son has chosen to enlist himself in the army.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you not find honor in serving the empire?” The officer’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “You should be proud.”

“I know, sir. It is just—” Ian took pains to not look in the eyes of officer directly. Instead he turned towards his son. “I cannot bear to lose him. And I know he is making a mistake he will regret.” He mustered his courage and looked at the officer. “Please, take me in his place.”

“Father, no!”

The officer cut him off with a raised hand. “If what you ask were even possible, why would we do such a thing?”

“I—I don’t know. Please, my son is young. Let him serve the Empire in some other way.”

The officer ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “What is your occupation?” He seemed to at least be humoring Ian.

“I am a scribe, sir.”

At that the officer paused. He raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“I track agreements between people. Debts, credit. I put them to paper for them to sign. Sometimes I am dictated letters to be sent to people.”

“I see.” He rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Interesting. Does your son here apprentice to you?”

“No sir, though I have tried. He’s decided to apprentice to a local blacksmith instead.”

The officer smirked and placed a hand on the shoulder of Ian’s son. “Perhaps you should listen to your father more.”

“Sir? What is the meaning of this?”

“I believe we may be able to find a use for you after all,” the officer said to Ian. “Young man, you may return home.”

“What?!” Ian’s son looked incredulous. Ian took his hand.

“May I have a moment with my son?” he asked the officer and received a nod in return.

“You have one minute, then we move out. It was lucky you arrived when you did,” the officer said with a chuckle.

Outside, the two stood in the cold. His son stared at him in disbelief, confused and angry. “Why are you doing this?”

Ian shook his head. “My son, I pray I haven’t made a mistake for the both of us. If time passes and your head clears and you still wish to enlist, then so be it.” He added, “But, I think I know you well enough by now.”

“You’re insane. How are you going to survive?”

Ian shrugged. “I have lived a good life.” He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “Listen to me. There are other ways to serve the empire. Reconcile with Natalie. Or find someone else who will make you happy. Grow old together and have children.” Ian looked at the office door. “Take care of your mother and sister. Tell them I will return if I am able. Now go.” He pushed his son and said louder, “Go before they change their mind!” His son took a few steps back before turning and breaking into a run. Ian watched, his old life raced away with the footsteps of his son.

Ian, along with the rest of the recruits, set out soon after. They rode by wagon to where the rest of the army was camped in fields on the outskirts of a handful of villages including Ian’s. The other recruits with him cast sidewise glanced towards Ian but said nothing. He spent most of the trip looking down at his hands, creased and worn from age, but soft. After spending most of his life holding quill and paper he wondered if he could even hold a sword without bruising them. The sun set before they reached camp, but its many torches and campfires lit it and the surrounding fields up. By the light, Ian could see that the camp was a large collection of tents, some of which were massive, at least equal in size to the buildings from his village. Their wagon came to a stop at the front of the camp dropping them off with recruits from other villages who had arrived before them. Left to themselves, the recruits stood in a disorganized clumps talking to each other. Ian counted about two dozen or so young men and him, the geezer amongst them.

“Fall in!” A powerful voice came at them. Each of them, even Ian, quickly gathered shoulder to shoulder and stood as rigid as they could manage. A tall, older man with closely shaved gray hair in a well worn uniform walked out of the camp to greet the recruits. Ian reckoned him to be around his age, but obviously more hardened. “I am Commander Petrov,” he began. “Welcome to the glory of the Alban Empire. Here, you will learn to fight and kill to protect your homeland. There is no greater honor than the one you are about to embark on. The life you once knew is over. I suggest to all of you right now to put whatever warmth and softness is in you into a safe, dark place in your soul. They will not serve you in the times ahead.” He swept out his hand and gestured into the camp. “Now, come and join your brothers and sisters!”

The young recruits cheered and rushed into camp. Ian followed them, walking with a less enthused pace. He glanced at Commander Petrov, only to see the commander’s eyes locked on him. Ian quickly looked away, but felt the commander’s gaze burning into the back of his neck. Once inside, Ian was issued a uniform, blue long-sleeved buttoned shirts and pants. The recruits were then led to the mess area, a series of large open tents, where food was served. They were arranged in such a way to encircle a courtyard area with tables and benches. Ian was given a tin tray with a hard biscuit, a scoop of mash with gravy, and a mug of beer. The mess area filled up with recruits chattering and joking to each other excitedly. Each told taller tales than the last, boasting of the feats they’d surely accomplish in battle. Ian sat by himself, away from his fellow recruits. The biscuit was about as he expected and reminded him of biting into a chunk of wood. The mash was slightly better and he spent most of his meal soaking his biscuit in it to soften it.

Afterwards, they were sent to their barracks, a long hall-like tent filled with cots. Recruits filed in, eagerly claiming territory for themselves. Ian picked out a cot at the head of the barracks, took the boots off from his aching feet, and pulled the covers up over himself. The others were still wound up with excitement and took some time to settle down. As the night wore on, more and more of them crawled into bed and the barracks fell into enough of a silence that allowed Ian to begin to drift to sleep. He thought of his family. The brown curls of his daughter, the freckles on his wife’s face, and his son’s impetuous smile. A muffled noise came from the back of the tent, catching Ian’s attention. He focused in on it and realized what it was. One of the recruits had begun quietly sobbing.

Rahaha!

Hands!

Maids...

Undead Warrior?

Didn't do much this week, so here is some random stuff.

Now go listen to this song!

Warscribe Pages 9-11 (NaNoWriMo)

Ian wandered down the direction Korb pointed and it wasn’t long before he arrived at what must have been the most ruckus area of the camp. A series of large open tents where food was served had been arranged to make a courtyard area with tables and benches. While waiting in line, Ian observed the soldiers. Most of them seemed to be having a rowdy time for themselves, conversing loudly and laughing. He was given a tin tray with a hard biscuit and a scoop of mash with gravy. Ian found a half empty table and sat on its edge by himself. The biscuit was about as he expected and reminded him of biting into a chunk of iron. The mash was slightly better and he spent most of his meal softening his biscuit bit by bit in it.

There was triumphant yell at the other side of the mess. Ian turned just in time to see a raven haired woman slam her opponent’s arm down to the table. A small crowd of soldiers was gathered around them, most of whom were now grimacing and covering their faces in despair. He noticed that though the rest of the soldiers wore simple uniform of blue tunics and pants, she had on a thick navy jacket with yellow trimming. Ian shifted slightly over towards the soldiers sitting at his table and cleared his throat to get their attention. He pointed at the woman and asked, “Excuse me, but who is that?”

They shot Ian strange glances before a freckled lad finally spoke up, “You must be new then? That’s Lieutenant Renata, she’s Aegisgarde.”

He looked back to see her opponent sorrowfully push a small stack of coins towards her as she raised her arms in triumph. “I see.”

“I wouldn’t go out of my way to trouble her if I were you. Those Aegisgarde are tough bastards.” Ian nodded in response. Reasoning that he would have plenty of time to get to know the Aegisgarde in the future he got up and headed back to Mikhail’s tent.

“How was your meal?” asked Mikhail as Ian pulled back the flap to his tent.

“It was fine,” Ian replied.

Mikhail scoffed from his bed. “Nonsense. The food here is terrible.”

Ian smiled and agreed, “It was pretty bad. I saw one of the Aegisgarde at the mess. Renata I think her name was.”

Mikhail began to chuckle. “Been showing up the younger soldiers again has she?” A coughing fit cut him off. Ian poured Mikhail a glass of water from a pitcher by his bed which he took gratefully. “She’s trouble, that one,” he remarked, his tone held a bit of warmth. He took a few sips. “You should begin your study.”

Ian flipped through the pages. “I’m not even sure where to begin.”

“Perhaps you should tell me what you know about the Aeigisgarde already,” Mikhail said.

“Just what everyone else knows. They are the elite cadre of the Alban army.” He picked up Mikhail’s unfinished blade. It was a magnitude larger than any sword Ian had ever seen and he had to put his weight into even hefting it off the workbench. Runes about the size of a palm were etched into the blade, deep enough to be easily seen. They held an almost delicate quality to them. “It’s a wonder how any of them can wield these.”

“That has to do with the runes,” Mikhail explained. “You must understand, they have their own rules. Each rune has to be a certain depth and distance from each other. It all must be just so or it will not carry the effect you desire.”

Warscribe Pages 5-9 (NaNoWriMo)

He raised an eyebrow. “Surely an ordinary blacksmith cannot be uncommon for you to find?”

“No, but an ordinary blacksmith is not what we require.” Sergeant Petrov led Ian to tent the size of a small room. Pulling the flap open, Ian immediately saw a man lying in a cot at the other end. “Mr. Vlasek, I would like you to meet Mikhail.” Ian entered the tent, followed by Petrov. Mikhail was an elder man, though Ian could not tell if Mikhail was older than him. Some sickness had made Mikhail’s features stretched and pale.

“Ah, Sergeant Petrov. Am I to meet my replacement after all?” Mikhail turned his face towards the two of them slowly before descending into a coughing fit.

“It is with my hope, old friend.”

“Ian Vlasek, sir,” he said, nodding.

“What has the sergeant told you Ian?”

“Dreadfully little, I’m afraid.”

Mikhail winced. “You would make a dying man waste time explaining matters, sergeant? Bastard.” He cleared his throat. “Very well. As you can see, I am dying. Over by the door you will find my workbench. On it is my last work that I have left incomplete.” Ian looked back and found a large sword lying on a small wooden bench, turned into a makeshift table. Symbols lined the blade, leading up from the hilt. The symbols ended halfway up the sword. A hammer and chisel lay by its side. “You must complete my work Ian. And hopefully a great many more.”

Ian swallowed. “This is an Aegisguarde sword, isn’t it?”

“It will be when it is finished,” answered the sergeant. “Do you understand why you are here now? Listen to me, I know this is an unorthodox situation, but I know what you are thinking. A new ‘scribe should have been sent to us from the capital. But, here is what you do not know nor have we told anyone in your city. We are cut off from the capital.”

Ian widened his eyes. “They have come this far?”

“Yes. And with Mikhail here unable to work, we are unable to utilize the Empire’s greatest weapon to reopen the passes. We need you to learn this new trade and make us more Aegis weapons and armor. Do you understand what is needed of you?”

Ian nodded.

“Good then. Are you ready?”

“In all honesty, sir? No.”

Petrov nodded. “I would have been surprised if you were. But needs what may. I’ll leave the two of you to get acquainted.” He let himself out of the tent.

Mikhail directed Ian to a thick, old book at the foot of the cot. Within were worn pages scrawled with a multitude of symbols in black ink. Each had at least a full paragraph of notations on their purpose and use.

“You must memorize that book,” Mikhail explained. “It matters not if you understand the words now. You will need that knocking about in your head for any hope to understand what will be to come.”

“I see.” Ian flipped through the book, running his fingers over the pages but being careful not to touch them. “How long it take you to learn this craft?”

Mikhail raised an eyebrow. After a moment of thought, he chuckled and settled on saying, “More time than you have.”

With his eyes still buried in the pages of the book, Ian asked, “I see.”

Mikhail waved dismissively. “Go to the mess tent and find yourself something to eat for now, we can begin your tutelage afterwards.”

Ian nodded and set the book down. “What about you? Should I bring you something or…?”

“Sergeant Petrov will have something arranged for me.” He descended into a coughing fit. Clearing his throat, he added, “It’s become something of a punishment for the junior officers, heh.”

Ian nodded and left the tent. It wasn’t until he was outside before he realized he did not know where the mess tent was and the idea of going back in to ask did not seem becoming of his new position. He picked a direction and began to walk, hoping that when he found a large enough gathering of people he would be in the right place.

Following the sounds of the camp did little to guide Ian. Everywhere around him soldiers and laborers were busy tearing tents down or putting tents up. A familiar clatter of metal on metal brought him to a smithing workshop where he felt an odd comfort.

One of the blacksmiths looked up from his work towards Ian. “Something I can help you with?”

“How much carbon do you use in your metal?” asked Ian.

“Oh, a metalworker are you?”

“Mostly tools, pots and pans.” He shrugged. “Swords once in a while for the city guard.”

The smith took off a work glove and extended a hand towards Ian. They shook. “Good to meet you, friend. My name is Korbova, call me Korb. I assume you are here to work for the army?”

“Yes, but not in the smithy. I was going to ask for directions to the mess tent.”

Korb winced. “Don’t tell me they have you working in there. That would be a waste of your ability, and we could certainly use your help here.”

“No—ahh.” Ian paused and wondered how much he should be talking about his new job. “They brought me in to work with Mikhail.”

“M-Mikhail?” His eyes widened and he withdrew his hand slowly from Ian’s. “I didn’t know. The tent you are looking for is down that way. Forgive me for my impertinence.”

“I was not offended.”

“Thank you, sir. If you will excuse me, I have to get back to my work.” Korb went back to his anvil where he picked up a pair of tongs holding a piece of metal. He brought it to a forge and plunged the end of the metal into the fire. Ian noticed that Korb ceased to look back in his eyes after he mentioned he was working for Mikhail.