The Painter

The fire jumped as another wooden easel joined its brethren. Furious scribbling was heard next to the raging flames as a man tapped away on his newest canvas. His hand was steady as he sketched away with black ink, brush moving in clean, even strokes. He kept at it for less than a minute before his hand suddenly stopped. Then, with nary a shout, he knocked the easel into the fire to his left.

Hardly glancing at the discarded, burning board, he brings up another easel and begins again. The dry smoke from the burning wood slowly disappeared up the nearby chimney out into the forest air. Sunlight shone through the windows near him, bringing with it the smell of morning dew on the ground. It rustled the remaining easel paper to the man’s right. Very little else was in the room except for a single bed with a water filterer built into the wall next to it. Below it was a pitcher filled with slightly opaque water that rippled as the next easel hit the fire. A line of finished drawings lined the way to the door with the more elaborate ones on either side of the entrance.

His solid purple shirt and pants wrinkled slightly as he started to sketch away at the newest canvas. He replaced his brush with a thin stick of charcoal that had its tip fined away until only a pointed edge remained. His hand delicately pressed down on the slightly greyish paper, moving with practiced motions. He slowly began forming the lines to create the image inside his head. Experienced hands began to draw the first curve to his newest creation. The frown upon his face eased up as the drawing took form. The world slowly faded away, his eyes only focused upon his work.

A loud knocking on the door broke him out of his reprieve. He winced and sent his hand slightly off course. He added an unsightly, snaking line to the smooth curve that made the piece seem uneven. His frown returned tenfold as he gripped the hair on his head and almost tossed the work into the fire. But the continued knocking caused him to pause in his anger. He took a deep breath, smoothly turned around, and marched towards his door. He opened it but a crack, the well-oiled hinges making no sound as he did.

Standing just a few feet in front of his door, their heavy greaves crushing the grass, were two armored knights. Their armor was heavy yet practical, movements hardly restricted within it. The heraldry upon their shoulders a black phoenix, with a golden cog around it all, emblazoned upon a crimson background. Behind them were two hooded figures, their hands holding the reigns to four horses. Slung upon their backs were fully strung crossbows that didn’t seem to weigh down their bearers at all.

With a scowl, the man curtly questioned what the soldiers were doing there. The two knights looked at one another before the rightmost one produced a rolled-up parchment from a loop on his hip. The Painter grabbed it and closed the door in the face of the soldiers. With his back against the door, he opened the parchment. Under the morning sunlight, he read the expertly written letter with the familiar wax seal stamped on the bottom left corner. The Painter’s frown slowly turned into a confident smile as he finished reading the letter. His chuckle turned into a laugh as he rolled up the parchment. With quick movements, he moved to the painting he was originally going to burn.

He picked up his charcoal and began to draw, as the invitation sat comfortably in his pocket. A smile that reached his ears remained on his face the entire time.

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The Revolutionary

The air was cool as it blew through his room. The alchemical fires held in the braziers on the walls shifted slightly as the oxygen hit them. The substances they burned made the smell of hickory smoke permeate within the room. A fur carpet took up the center of the tiled floor along with the king-sized bed that sat upon it. The sheets and pillows were a solid black with simple, plain looks. The bed sat completely undisturbed as if no one had slept in it in years.

Right across from the bed, a man sat in a well-crafted wooden chair. His back was straight as he looked at the map of his realm pinned to his desk. His jerkin was crimson with his heraldry stitched proudly upon its chest. His pants were the same color, comfortably fitting his frame. His black hair was covered by a crown the same color as the gilded hilt of his sword. The blade sat in its scabbard, leaning against the leg of the desk.

His brown eyes were riveted to the map, flicking between the red pins that represented his forces. Each was placed in such a way that if any of his neighbors attacked, they’d be repulsed by his legions. His Marshal and Spymaster had gone over the strategy with him countless numbers of times. By the time they were done, the sun had already risen high into the sky to welcome the next day.

The Spymaster and Marshal were dismissed.

The King remained glued to his map.

His fingers tapped away on the hardwood, his left hand holding the side of his head up as he thought about the steps he took to get here. It had been five years since he had come into power through his peasant revolution. Backed by the military generals he had coerced, blackmailed, or bribed to his banner, his revolution had succeeded with few roadblocks. With the ineffective councilmen in the very prison he had once occupied, the support of the people, and all remaining officials loyal to him or dead, his ascension to the throne was guaranteed. Such a change hadn’t come easy and dealing with the sudden power shift had consumed his first three years as King. Rebel forces, the remnants of the Council’s loyal dogs or his own people riled up by rival empires, had all been brought to heel through military force of arms, attrition, or the simple application of funds.

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Now, none should remain who could question his rule…but that was merely what his advisors said.

No, he knew there was more to it. There was something that he wasn’t seeing, a puzzle right underneath his nose. One rebel group remained at large, and they were growing bolder by the day. He glanced down at the six dead ravens he had discovered littered across his room, all in a pile on his desk. Normally, he would only be slightly worried. There were numerous people sending dead things to him daily. He hadn’t delivered on every promise he had made, nor made changes that kept everyone happy. However, he was always able to trace those “gifts” back to who had sent them.

Not this time.

There was only one group he could think of that would use ravens as their calling card. His spymaster was already scouring the kingdom for them, but he knew that only one man would be able to find them.

The King sighed and stood up from his chair. He hooked his sword to his hip, placed three poisoned daggers in his belt, and got his crimson cloak from the closet. He double checked to ensure the five alchemical potions were hidden within the cloak and stepped towards the door. Unconsciously, he glanced at the otherworldly painting hanging above his desk. It had been painted with the same colors as his heraldry, a way to celebrate his ascension to the throne. Paid for by his advisors, they had commissioned it from the most renowned painter in the land.

Which explained why it was a picture of a three-headed monster emerging from a bleeding cog, while black ooze dripped from its six limbs.

He sighed, opened the door and stopped as he saw one of his couriers. The cloaked man had a message held in a gloved hand that he gracefully presented to the King. The ruler dismissed the young man and swiftly opened the rolled-up parchment. He gazed upon the wording, then smiled as he beheld the seal upon the bottom left of the paper. He rolled the parchment up with his spirits lifted higher than they had been in years. He closed the door behind him, thoughts of the event already filling him with glee.

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The Providers

Three people stood on the porch of the old, red, two-story abode. Smoke rose from its chimney with the smell of meat being cooked inside. The porch was barren, save for the curtained windows and tall door set into the front of it. A single window stood out on the second level, hidden from prying eyes by a thick curtain.

The three people kept their eyes glued to the front of their fenced in property. White snow covered every part of the ground, leaving no trace of the greenery underneath. Nearby the family’s black dog barked as she tossed snow into the sky with her nose. Her tail wagged happily as she jumped around the front yard.

The front-most person, a young man carrying numerous scrolls in his arms, kept sweeping the entire horizon with his eyes. His red boots stomped away at the porch in regular intervals, making his plain, black jerkin wrinkle at the movement. His face was a mask of worry, brows furrowing around his black eyes as they searched for something far away.

He felt a firm, gloved hand grip his shoulder and turned to see the kind, wrinkled face of his father. The old man smiled warmly in reassurance, waving a hand towards the bundle of scrolls in his son’s arms. The father stood tall as he gazed upon the white hills beyond the house, wearing his age with pride in his eyes. He began to cough slightly but waved his hand when his wife started to move to his aid.

To the young man’s left stood his mother, standing with a dignity befitting a noble despite her humble attire. Her calloused hands matched her husbands, the hard work they had done through the years written upon their palms. Her eyes were sunken in and black with bags from sleepless nights, but the same pride her husband felt burned brightly behind them. She smiles up at her son, nodding to him to calm his nerves.

The young man’s brow was still furrowed, but then he heard the dog bark loudly. He turned his head, and a huge grin burst onto his face as he saw two men on horses coming up to the house. They were side by side with one horse carrying a long, cylinder-shaped parchment, while the other was covered in barding with the blazing cog heraldry upon its flank.

The young man tossed his scrolls into his father’s arms as he took off towards the approaching riders. His dog barked as she joined him in racing through the thick snow at his feet. His boots crunched the frozen water as he ran to the two in front of him. His face was split by a smile that revealed all the elation he had been suppressing since he left his house this morning.

As he drew close the soft sound of whispering came to his ears. His pace slowed as he beheld the King and the Painter in a quieted discussion over something. The two men kept gesturing with their brows furrowed. Even as their dog reached their horses, they hardly paid her any attention. Their mounts were trained to keep calm no matter the circumstance and simply whinnied at the yapping hound.

The Writer began to feel very small, slowing down as his head looked towards his feet. His face lost the smile it once had, giving way to a feeling of inadequacy. Then he saw the snow at his feet and a determined look crossed his features. He kneeled and packed together a good-sized snowball. With a smirk on his face, he took careful aim and tossed it.

The snow hit the King in the shoulder, crashing against him with a soft, wet sound. The Painter had seen the ball coming and leaned back far enough so that the snow wouldn’t hit him. He smirked at the King as the snow stuck to his royal garb. The King took in a deep breath, got out of his stirrups, and slid off his horse. The Writer backed up with a nervous look on his face, as the King kneeled by his horse. He patted the dog’s head as she started to lick the melting snow off his face. When he stood back up his hand moved in a whip-like motion, as he threw a snowball right at the Painter.

The ball hit the Painter square in the chest making him lose his balance. If not for the discipline of his horse, he would’ve hit the snow with a thump. The King and Writer began to laugh heartily until the Painter got off his saddle. With revenge in his eyes and a wicked smile on his face, he started to pack the snow together for his own use.

The mother and father stared out at their sons with proud smiles, as the three threw snowballs at each other for a long time. The smiles on the men’s faces were genuine and stayed with them even when they got tired. Then, they all walked towards the modest cabin where the father hugged them all while the mother started to dote on the King and Painter. The Painter brought the parchment with him, ready to show everyone his latest piece. The Writer carried the dog inside as all five humans chatted about what they had done for these past years.

The sun shone high behind the cabin as the family was reunited once again. They ate a modest dinner of caught game, but it tasted like a royal feast. They spent the entire day talking and enjoying each other’s company.

For no matter what happened, no matter how far away they may go, they would always be family.