Sweet, I've got the day off from school today ^^ Apparently it was really windy last night and some power lines got knocked over. (I also, incidentally, have a scheduled day off tomorrow, so TWO DAYS OF FREEDOM YESH~)
Well, I figured I'd finally do something that I've been really wanting to do for some time--get some of my old Abyss fanfictions up. Of course that requires an explanation of my main universe (the "Ionverse", as Red and I dubbed it), so I'll launch right into that.
As is probably obvious in some of my older posts, the main character of my writings was Dist. Born Saphir Wyon Neis in the snowy town of Keterburg, Dist was one of those socially awkward yet gifted kids, skilled in math and the sciences. He and his friend Jade Balfour grew up to become leaders in the emerging field of fomicry--a sort of cloning (referred to as replication), involving a form of energy called fonons. Dist developed machinery to make the process more precise, while Jade worked primarily on developing theorems to make the mathematical calculations involved easier to do.
Anyway, fomicry was limited for a time to plants, animals and various smaller forms of life, but of course the topic of
human replication came up, and there Jade and Dist came to an impasse. Jade believed replicating a human being to be morally wrong, while Dist believed a human replica would essentially lack a soul--and thus, human replicas could be used as soldiers and as common laborers, doing the work people don't like, without any guilt on the part of their creator. Jade ended up winning favor for his side of the conflict, and got legislation to prohibit human replication, as well as an order for Dist to turn in his fomiscist's license. Dist, deciding to stand up for his end in it, went on the run.
While hiding out, Dist was found and seized by some knights, and dragged off to the holy city of Daath, where the Order of Lorelei reigned supreme. There, he was placed in front of the Order's leader, Fon Master Ion. As Fon Master, Ion possessed the ability to read something called the Score--basically, a record of everything important that had and would happen in the world, and had discovered, among many other awful things, that he himself was to die soon. Because he lacked an heir, and didn't want to risk the turmoil that would arise in a masterless Order, Ion devised a scheme to cheat death in the eyes of the public--to have a replica made of him, enough like him that he would appear to live on. Because Dist had already done some human replication work for a member of the Order (i.e., Luke's replication, for those out there that know Abyss), he asked Dist to do the job, and, seeing the task as a chance to do some lasting good with the technology people had so quickly rejected--Dist agreed.
He ended up taking two years do it, due to the complicated nature of the process. It took him twenty-one tries in all (canonically, it's seven, but I ended up jacking it up for more angst XD) before he produced a replica close enough to Ion's appearance and abilities. During this time, he suffered deeply, forced to question his beliefs as he brought horrendous, wretched humans into being with each failed attempt. He did have some bright moments in interacting with Ion's guardian-in-training, Arietta, and Ion's physician, Gelda Nebilim (yes, I did pull the latter from his canonical early life and stuck her in later, so she and Dist could have a relationship. ^^). Gelda he actually ended up falling in love with, but that bliss ended as she fell at the hand of one of the crazed, malformed replicas--in his darkest hours, Dist tried to replicate
her in an attempt at resurrection, but it was ultimately futile.
After the replication--after the Fon Master was dead and buried and the replacement had quietly taken his role--Dist remained in the Order, doing engineering work for the Order's military. He figured the horror of the replication was over, only to find that two of the replicas that were supposed to be disposed of had survived--Fifteen and Sixteen, Sync and Florian. The Order figured Sync had some potential to be trained as a soldier/assassin, and Sync ended up taking care of Florian, so both of them started coming in contact with Dist. Over the course of a few years, Dist was forced to face these two lives that he'd considered failures, and that had considered him a bringer of death and pain--and atone for his sins by learning to treat them as people, not just mistakes incarnate.
Believe me, it ended happily. XD I left a space after that for the events of ingame, and after some craziness starts shaking the Order apart, and Ion's replacement replica dies in the midst of it, Florian ends up replacing him as Fon Master, with Sync at his side. A lot of the Ion replication stuff (which was concealed by the Order) comes out, and Dist has to go on the run for a while. Eventually, he returns to Daath, broken and weary, and in kind of an ironic turn of events, has to beg for amnesty from Florian and Sync. Luckily, by this time, Florian and Sync have come to understand him enough to take pity on him and grant it. And yeah, he lives with them under the protection of the Order after that. :)
A pretty dark story though, huh? I developed it over the course of the two years I was into Abyss, and looking back, I realized that the latter of those two years (in which I really focused on the Ionverse) was actually a pretty difficult one for me and especially for my friend/writing partner Red--we were both pretty swamped with work, and Red was working to overcome some emotional problems. I think we ended up expressing a lot of our issues through our writing--I saw a lot of my own vulnerability coming through Dist, and her difficulties in becoming more sociable towards people wound their way into Ion. Sorta makes me wonder, when I'm done with Vesperia, what parts of me I'll see in Yeager...
Anyway, I'll put up two fics--both what I'd call 'contemporary', because I wrote them this summer (after the two-year period of Abyss obsession.) They're more descriptive/explanatory than some of my earlier work though, so I figured I'd get them up first.
Title: Ion's Score
Rating: PG
Warnings: High emotion, a little bit of bloodiness.
Notes and things-to-know: Just a couple things.
~I use the name the same way in my Vesperia works, but just as a reminder, "Lorelei" is basically God.
~Yeah, Ion's parents are dead. His mother fell ill and died of the 'bleeding sickness' (a sort of water-borne tuberculosis, which Ion later sickens of himself), and his father actually died in an accident at the hands of his son--Ion's very, very powerful, arte-wise, and couldn't really control such power as a child.
~If you can't tell, here's who's really mentioned in Ion's Score.
-"a child of the wilderness" = Arietta
-"a physician"/"a white-haired woman" = Gelda (yes, I decided she is distantly related to Ion's mother, hence why she's called to treat Ion's illness.)
-"an outsider"/"a lanky, bespectacled young man"/"the frustrations of another" = Dist
Summary: Ion discovers how destiny has condemned him.
“The Score is hell, replica. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen things that I never want to see again.
It’s living hell, that’s what it is.” ~Ion, to Sync, in a fanfic by Red
The Score, through anyone’s eyes, was a long, smooth slab of stone set into an altar of dark, carved wood. It sat in the central hall of the new section of the cathedral, where masses were held, surrounded by candelabras, golden relics and tapestries. It was framed against a massive stained glass window, filled with detailed depictions of notable Fon Masters and their acts, all beneath a many-pointed sun, a classic representation of Lorelei.The Score had not a word carved into it, not a mark upon it except for a slightly rough area at its center, worn from the many hands that had touched it over the years. It had no purpose inscribed over it, no written indication of the vast amounts of knowledge contained within. From a distance, it seemed to have no reason to be there.But up close, as he laid his hand down upon the stone, Ion could feel radiation rising from it in slow trendrils, feel the air grow thick and potent with concentrated fonons. When his delicate fingers touched the surface, he could feel the tingling warmth rise up his arm, through his body, preparing a connection.He closed his eyes, letting the world fade away around him, focusing on the warmth that pooled through his blood. In his younger years, it had taken nearly ten minutes to shut his mind down properly, to empty it of any interfering thoughts. Now, it was a matter of seconds.The radiation was calming, peaceful, drifting his consciousness into something like sleep. His mind passive, his body took over—whether it was instinct, or some genetic predisposition, he never knew, but somehow a burst of fonons surged from deep within him, tightening those trendrils into taut ropes.For a space of time that could seem a moment or an eternity, he balanced in a limbo between memory and reality, bound and petrified before the Score.Then, with a jerk, he was pulled in.The substance of the Score was gold—gold dripping and rippling like some viscous liquid, gold shimmering beneath like the brightest of oceans and above like the wildest of skies, gold constantly surging and undulating all around, ever-changing, ever-beautiful. Drowned in the currents of that golden world were the lives of a billion people, and as Ion’s mind swam into the midst of it all, a billion layers of emotion threatened to envelop him; happiness, sadness and everything in between all twisted together into a torrential scream.His first time, he hadn’t been prepared for it. Normally, a Fon Master preparing to take the throne would enter the Score with his father beside him, and the father would, for the first couple times, protect his son from the blast. Ion, lacking a living father, had made his entrance under the guidance of a few nervous attendants, and had faced the phenomenon alone—the agony referred to, in benign-sounding ancient Ispanian, as the ‘essence of feeling.’He had torn himself away that day and fallen into a hysterical fit, writhing and clawing at his head, trying desperately to claw out the horror that, in one swoop, had destroyed much of his innocence.Experience taught him well, though, and nowadays he was prepared. As the wave swelled over him, he propelled it back with overarcing force of will, forcing every feeling to its respective corner of the whole. He lingered momentarily, listening to the distant echoes on all sides, then calmly made his way to the individual he wanted to see.A common misconception of common people was that the Score was much like a book. The level of sight did vary from Fon Master to Fon Master, but for all it was more than a record in words—every life was filled with vivid imagery and emotion. The Score could convey sensations of cold and warmth, pain and pleasure; it could place the reader into scenes, within the body of the person who the event belonged to. It was a strange vessel of empathy, and if one gave in to its power, reading it was a deeply personal experience that could inspire or scar.Ion had long ago stopped giving in, stopped empathizing, with the occasional exception of the few people he actually cared about. He had seen and experienced so much, lived so many lives that he felt detached from humanity, a serene observer of the fallacies of the population, a god of sorts. The only Score he did not restrain himself from was his own.It was his own he sought today, breezing past others, guided by his intent. He felt it amidst the gold—an entrance was never so much an image as it was an impression of thoughts and feelings—and dived in, moving through memories that flickered by like lightning. He stopped at the present time, glanced about the hall, then reentered his Score, oriented towards the future. He checked the outcome of the meeting with King Ingobert in advance, discovered who would ask for a reading of their scores over the next two weeks, found out that he was going to get his long green hair trimmed in a month’s time. Or, at least, it was likely that he would. Such trivial things were rarely absolute.He saw himself playing with a pink-haired, feral girl during the next year, and basked in the scene, enjoying its associated happiness. The girl had been raised for most of her life by ligers, and she would be presented to him because unusual people so amused him. He would decide to keep her, call her one of his guardians, entertain her and be entertained by her antics.She would be important to him—he knew, because that part of his Score had a caption. Only the important parts were officially labeled—when asked about other portions, he had to describe them himself.“Ion the ninth will befriend a child of the wilderness, and she will bring him joy.”Ion wondered what other things in his near future were written out in words. He drew back and skimmed his Score, scanning the remainder of the year.“Ion the ninth will resolve a dispute between the countries.”
“Ion the ninth will attend a wedding of dignities, and promise prosperity in their future.”
“Ion the ninth will fall ill but recover within a week’s time.”
“Ion the ninth will celebrate the feast of Lorelei, and the Order will…”Boring, all quite boring. He continued skimming, more quickly.“Ion the ninth will agree to military action against a group of heretics.”
“Ion the ninth will celebrate his seventeeth birthday.”
“Ion the ninth will deceive a man destined to die.”Oh, that was an interesting one. Not that he had never done that before—his attendants may have taught that the Score was wonderful in its entirety, but he had learnt that tact was necessary when informing the populace of its contents. He had taught himself how to lie by omission, tell half-truths and white lies, because, faithful as people may be, they still never wanted to hear bad news.He kept going, perusing through his Score, settling briefly on atypical captions and bypassing the bland. Soon enough, he stumbled on something a bit troubling.“Ion the ninth will contract the famed bleeding sickness.”
“Ion the ninth will be unable to attend mass due to poor health.”
“Ion the ninth will be attended by a physician within the Order.”
Hm, he hadn’t had a bout of illness that long in some time.“Ion the ninth will become bedridden for three weeks.”
“Ion the ninth will be attended to by an outsider.”
“Ion the ninth will petition the public for prayers for his health.”He could feel the illness—the labored breathing, the aches and chills passing through his body. He saw himself among unfamiliar faces—a white-haired woman that looked like his long-dead mother, a lanky, bespectacled young man with a nervous appearance. He saw and felt himself suffering, smelled cold sweat and foul ointment; ran a hand along his ghastly pale, emaciated face; coughed into his hands and watched blood seep into the lines of his palms.He felt apprehension and grief, and knew he ought to stop, but he couldn’t.“Ion the ninth will be affected by a disease of the mind.”
“Ion the ninth will share in the frustrations of another.”
The scenes grew vaguer the farther he went. In one, he stood laughing and choking with blood splattered on his robe; in another, he was regarding the white haired man with mild amusement, who looked lost. He could make little sense of either.“Ion the ninth will become bedridden for the last time.”
“Ion the ninth will be moved to the red chamber.”He lay in a room with stained glass windows in shades of deep red and violet. It was dark, and he couldn’t feel his arms or legs—he couldn’t feel much of anything, but he could hear light sobbing nearby.Stop it, you don’t want to see this, he told himself, but he was trapped in the scene, too involved to free himself.He watched the scene fade around him, his vision growing fuzzy, his breath slowing. He watched helplessly as everything went black.Black, rounding off the edge of his long chain in the gold, and the voice of the Score tolling in his head.“Ion the ninth will die before his twenty-first birthday, and the Order will die with its heirless master.”Ion shot back, back through the course of his life, emotions and sensations striking and ripping at him like an angry mob. He tumbled out into the endless, glistening gold, and the ‘essence of feeling’ smothered him like a shroud, shrieking and gnawing and devouring his sanity in the moments before the ropes frayed and he tore through to reality, his hand scorching as fonons gushed into the stone and the surrounding air, severing his connection with the Score.He fell into a sitting position from the rush of it all. The remnants of the ‘essence’ still screamed in his mind, and tilting his head back, he screamed with them, screamed and cried like an animal at the Score, at Lorelei, at the brief waste that was his life.Two years.Two years were all he had left.Title: Liftoff
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes and things-to-know:~The title is a play on something Dist says in another fic I'll have up here sometime, called Silence and Flight: "I thought the application of fomicry to a human being might be my destiny, the flight I’d built wings for…"
~The numbers Dist counts are ironic--twenty-one being the final replica's number, fifteen and sixteen being Sync and Florian, and fourteen, incidentally, being the mentally ill replica that takes Gelda's life.
~I know I didn't mention him in my summary, so...General Van Grants belongs to the Order's military, and is just one of the small inner circle that gets to know about the Ion replication. He's the one that gives Dist another job in the order later on, after the replication is over.
~The tuning fork thing is a holy symbol. Also about appearance--I imagine the characters dressed in sixteenth-century clothes,
like so. It's my version of the Order's uniforms.
~Yeah, Gelda realllly doesn't like Dist at first, because she isn't cool with the idea of human replication. Once he starts questioning its morality himself, the two get to liking each other better.
Summary: Dist is forced to make a choice that will either make or break him.
When the double doors slammed shut behind them, the sound echoed like a blast through the hall, reverberating off of thick stone walls and arched ceilings. It seemed so loud, and lasted so long, rebounding in the thick and empty air that he fancied it something symbolic, some blow of fate.He shivered and glanced around, wringing his bound hands.The hall was draped in shadow, lit only by the meager amount of light passing through stained glass windows. The windows threw fragments of blue and green upon the worn floor tiles, as still as if they had been painted there. A cloth-covered altar stood at the far end of the room with a few chairs behind it, flanked by unlit lampstands.Van stood with his arms crossed, watching him calmly. The only other men in the room, the two knights, stood on either side of the doorway like statues, holding burnished axes.It seemed like an eternity that they remained in silence. He listened to his heart pounding in his ears and counted the beats in an attempt to steady his nerves.Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…
The doors creaked open so quietly that at first he barely noticed. After a moment, though, he felt the atmosphere of the room change, felt Van’s gaze turn from him, and he turned to look as well.A woman with short, white hair in layers strode in, retaining an expression of formal indifference as her golden eyes flickered between the men. With the air of one well used to the gesture, she lifted her black velvet gown to her ankles and bent into a curtsey.“His knowing holiness, Fon Master Ion the ninth.”It was the fomiscist’s first time seeing the Fon Master in person. He had seen pictures of Ion before, as had most, but the pictures had never quite captured the young man—no, the boy, he could scarcely be over eighteen. The pictures had never made apparent how short-statured the boy was, how thin his frame was, so slender and delicate that a firm grip on his arm might break it; how deep and dark his eyes were, like pools reflecting a night sky; how, when he made his slow and serene promenade inside, the ambient fonons concentrated in a way that made one’s hair stand on end, as during a thunderstorm.Fon Master Ion wore a light green robe with a high collar, a cincture around his waist, and a stole embroidered with swirling patterns. He had fingerless gloves on his hands and a long dark cape, fastened with a gold clasp, covering his shoulders and trailing after him some distance across the floor. He carried a lacquered wooden staff topped with a jewel-studded, engraved tuning fork, and had another tuning fork around his neck, hanging from a wide jeweled collar. His green hair fell in bangs around his eyes and was cut short in the back, with two long locks left to hang in the front. He had on a circlet, also full of gold and jewels, with tassels dangling on each side of his head.Van bowed as Ion came in, and everyone else did the same. Ion said not a word to any of them, but smiled a small, sweet smile as he passed by his prisoner, and did something strange—he raised his free hand and brushed the fomiscist’s hair very lightly with his fingertips.The Fon Master crossed to the other side of the hall, and Van muttered something inaudible. The fomiscist didn’t look up, but heard the clank of armor as the two knights moved, and the doors open and shut again, declaring their leaving.There was a suspenseful silence again, and the sound of his heart hammering in his chest.Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…“Saphir Wyon Neis,” a languid voice called out, pronouncing each syllable flawlessly, as though it had spoken the name a thousand times before. “You may approach.”Saphir stopped his counting and raised his eyes. Ion beckoned gently to him from his seat behind the altar, and, after a moment’s hesitation, prompted by Van’s hand falling on his shoulder, he walked quickly over to the Fon Master.“Saphir Wyon Neis,” Ion said again, in a tone so syrupy it was almost feminine. “Native of Keterburg, possessor of degrees in fonic engineering and fomicry, engineering director at the Balfour-Neis Research Center until just recently. A fairly agreeable twenty-seven-year-old, who likes to think that he’s stubborn, though, judging by his emotional state, I doubt that is the case. You have no idea why you are here, do you?”Saphir felt another shiver pass down his spine, but spoke as firmly as possible.“No, and your soldiers have violated my rights under international law by not telling me. I could press charges.”“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, considering you’re an international criminal yourself.” Ion laughed. “Quite an accomplishment at your age, to become one of those.”“I’m not a criminal.”“Refusing a court order to turn in your fomiscist’s license is a criminal act, is it not? And besides, you are practically on the run from your best friend.”“We had an ideological dispute, that’s all. I’m standing up for my side in it.”“Pray tell, what is your side? I know already, of course, but I want to hear it in your words.”Ion rested his chin in his hand, and his elbow on the arm of the chair, completely at ease.“I believe that outlawing human replication outright…it was a rash decision. There’s so many possibilities in the field, beneficial possibilities that we haven’t even had the chance to touch upon yet. We could use replicas to supplement the workforce, and—”“As soldiers, too, so our brothers and sisters will not be lost in battle?”Saphir stared at the Fon Master, going pale.“Jade was very upset with that one, wasn’t he?” Ion said with a smile. “He really yelled at you for that one. He thinks they would count as human lives. Do you?”“O-Of course not,” stammered Saphir. “They would count as—as animals. Humanity isn’t what you get when you combine a particular frequency and some base materials. Even with improved technology, replicas would likely never have the mental capacity of an ordinary human being. And honestly, something created synthetically, created in a lab by an unnatural process can’t be considered on the same level as a human being.”“So what you basically think is that the replicas would lack souls. That sort of defining difference between us and animals.”Saphir nodded. “Yes. That’s what I think.”“And I agree. There also is no mention anywhere in the Score of replication, or any personal Score to be found for the little ‘favor’ you did for the general.”“Really?”“None whatsoever.” Ion waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “Now. The reason why you are here is because I want to ask you for a favor. It relates to that now-forbidden branch of replication we just discussed.”Ion rose from his chair, stepped up to the altar and rested his arms on it. Saphir saw a momentary wince pass over the Fon Master’s smooth features as Ion bent over the altar to study him more closely.“Some years ago, out of childish curiosity, I decided to find and read my own Score. I thought it might be interesting to discover what of my past was recorded, and what might be destined for my future. I knew there would likely be hardship of some nature in the years to come, as there is in everyone’s Score, but I believed, being Fon Master, my life would have to be a comfortable and satisfying one.“I read up to a time two years from the present. I discovered that I would come down with a bout of the bleeding sickness, which was not too surprising, as I tend to be rather susceptible to illness. However, it seemed that this bout would be much worse than anything I’d had previously. It would continue to worsen, up until that two year point, where I discovered my Score cut off abruptly with a single line.”Ion closed his eyes. “Ion the ninth will die before his twenty-first birthday, and the Order will die with its heirless master.”
Saphir blinked, bewildered. “You mean to say—”“I have no siblings, Saphir. My mother passed away a few years after my birth, and my father did not remarry before his unfortunate demise. I am the last of the Fon Master lineage, and when I die, there will be no one left to read the Score, aside from a handful of fonists who can decipher only fragments. The world may very well fall into chaos without me, and I have little doubt that the Order will be dissolved.“General Grants and I had a long discussion about this, and considered our options. We thought of arranging a wedding of some sort, against canon law, so that I might sire an heir, but…then imagined a better solution. Van was very impressed with the work you did for him, and when the first signs of illness began to show in me a week ago, he and I decided to seek you out. You see, Saphir, the reason why you are here is because I want you to replicate me. I want you to create a replica so like me, in appearance and abilities, that in the public’s eyes, the Fon Master will recover completely from his illness, and continue to lead the Order.”“I…” Saphir looked at the floor. “I don’t know. Won’t the Order fall apart regardless, if the Score wills it?”“Didn’t you go to religious classes as a child, Saphir? You ought to have learned that there are only a few absolutes in the Score—birth and death dates, marriages, personal events of that nature. Many things are likely to happen, but may be postponed or avoided, if one deviates enough from what is written.”“But one isn’t supposed to deviate from what’s written, so what you’re asking me is sacrilege.”“I stated already that the Score is silent on replication. In that respect you will be doing nothing for or against it. I am not asking you for immortality, so you will not be defying my death date, were that even possible. As for that bit about the Order, even the Grand Maestro believes there must have been some mistake. The Score ought not to exist without the Order’s guidance and interpretation.”Ion’s cavernous eyes glimmered, and Saphir had the sense that there was something the Fon Master wasn’t telling him. He decided not to pursue it, instead fumbling for a different excuse.“You do know that Van’s ‘favor’ was an extremely rare case. With you, it’ll probably take a number of tries before I create an acceptable replica.”“I’m aware,” Ion said musically. “Which is why we are prepared to give you room and board for however many months you need. Van also purchased some equipment and materials for your use.”“The replica won’t have any of your memories, either. It’ll have to be taught how to walk, speak, eat properly…”“We will be able to handle that. The Fon Master will suffer some brain injury from his prolonged illness, and require reteaching.”“I still don’t know. I really don’t.”Ion straightened, pain rippling through his face at the movement, barely disturbing his smile.“Well, if you don’t want to do it, we can always find someone else. There are a few other fomiscists out there that seem to be evading the law, though I’d much rather have someone of your standing in the field. If you leave, the Order can promise you protection, under the condition that you tell no one of what I’ve told you. You can practice fomicry elsewhere, or do whatever you like. Now that you have heard my request, I will not compel you to do anything.”Saphir thought about it. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, Van walk up next to the Fon Master and exchange a few whispered words. He wondered whether he could cope with keeping the request a secret, or whether he could pass up such an opportunity at all.He hadn’t been sure what to do when he’d fled to Belkend, away from his research, the law, and Jade. He’d thought it some noble declaration of his beliefs, then found himself lying low, paranoid that he’d be discovered. If he turned in his license now, there was no guarantee that there wouldn’t be penalties, that Jade would want to speak to him again. If he kept it, there was no guarantee that he’d ever be able to do anything with it, or feel safe in the outside world.Here he was, with the Order promising safety and acceptance. Here he was, on the edge of a decision that could be the most important one he’d ever make. His accomplishment would never be written in history books, but it would save the Order—preserve the stability of the world. He would be a hero, in a way, and if it ever did become public knowledge, if Jade found out…he would have the strength to look his friend in the eye and defend himself. He would be able to say he worked some good with human replication, that Jade had always been wrong.That Jade had been the misguided one, all along.Please, dear Lorelei, let this be the right choice. Let this be what I was meant to do.
Saphir glanced up at the Fon Master, tossing his head to shake his white bangs from his ruby eyes, forcing himself to look serious, and, hopefully, brave.“I’ll do it.”“You will, hm?”“Yes.”“I knew you’d say that. The alternatives for you aren’t so promising, are they? Better to entrust your future to this venture. I’m certain you’ll do a marvelous job.”Ion gestured lazily to Van. “Go untie him and show him to his rooms. He can have three days to prepare himself, and begin work after the Loreleiday service.”Van gave a slight bow, and went to unknot the ropes around Saphir’s wrists. The Fon Master followed, giving another careless gesture of his hand, summoning the white-haired woman from where she had been standing in the shadows, listening the entire time.She took her place in front of the Fon Master, curtseyed, and strode ahead of Ion as they processed out of the room. As she passed Saphir, she turned her head to look at him, appearing in a moment to take in his bony frame, his unbrushed hair, the rumpled red dress shirt and gray pajama pants he hadn’t had the chance to change out of since Van had captured him. She noted the way his collar was unbuttoned, the way his glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, and, as though his general appearance confirmed some unpleasant suspicion she’d harbored, she ended the once-over by shooting him a glare, filled with such icy hatred that it nearly made him jump.At least the Fon Master seemed to like him…“I’m glad you’re staying, Saphy,” Ion whispered as he walked by. “You’re such an interesting person.”He stared, and Ion’s pleasant little smile assured him that the Fon Master hadn’t made up the nickname on the spot. If it hadn’t been apparent before, it was obvious now that Ion had read Saphir’s Score—though, how much of it, it was impossible to tell.Please, Lorelei, give me strength. Let this be the right choice.There was no backing out now.
Some face sketches I'm rather pleased with. I started with the Yeager on the top left, then decided to really focus and did the other three, which I'm rather proud of--a sly-looking Yeager, Dist from my Ionverse, and the protagonist of my novel, Saniper (who's always really difficult for me to draw, because he's very real-looking on my mind, and I have trouble translating that into my decidedly unrealistic style. XD)
Older Aurnionverse sketch of the five major guilds of the Union (I've drawn them before.) Top row (left to right) consists of Liana, leader of the Soul Smiths (a weapons-crafting guild); Don Whitehorse, leader of Altosk (mercenary guild); Nelson, leader of Ruins' Gate (blastia-mining), and on the bottom are Barbos, leader of Blood Alliance (mercenary guild) and Kaufman, leader of Fortune's Market (general store guild, sells just about everything.) I was looking for more of a punkish, industrial style of clothing to go along with the gritty feel of that uni, thus all the chains and studs and whatnot.
Krityaverse Yeager. The words are from a Paramore song called "Fences", which, lyrically, is quite him indeed:
