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BluMiu
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Hello! BluMiu here and I'm no stranger to RM as I've been around some years now, off and on due to life and work outside. I'm an artist that's recently gotten back into doing commission work for game makers as well as on my own. Eventually I'd like to work on game after finish writing book and putting together art book, but for now I'd like to explore the other artists on the forums, learn new things for the future and share my own works :)
Hope to see you around!
Hope to see you around!
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BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
Under Sun
Even here where there’s nothing new
Constantly searching for a place under the sun
Like the fowl called to flight in timely season
Aimless and without direction
With a weary cry
It is to you I fly closer still
Watching as your distant smile
Burns my wings to ash
Caught between you and my reflection
A hastening plummet into this realization
Only the heavens sever and keeps us apart
Formless and without direction
Selfish, repetitious thoughts
Never tired of the endless search
Constant, ceaseless dreaming
I return this flame in which you gave birth
With a final cry
It is to you I call for still
Watching as your distant smile
Turns this form to ash
Even here where there’s nothing new
Constantly searching for a place under the sun
Even here where there’s nothing new
Constantly searching for a place under the sun
Like the fowl called to flight in timely season
Aimless and without direction
With a weary cry
It is to you I fly closer still
Watching as your distant smile
Burns my wings to ash
Caught between you and my reflection
A hastening plummet into this realization
Only the heavens sever and keeps us apart
Formless and without direction
Selfish, repetitious thoughts
Never tired of the endless search
Constant, ceaseless dreaming
I return this flame in which you gave birth
With a final cry
It is to you I call for still
Watching as your distant smile
Turns this form to ash
Even here where there’s nothing new
Constantly searching for a place under the sun
BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
Promise to A Princess Pt.I
I stood in the small entrance that kept me from the steady drizzle of the opaque noon. Finding myself anxious didn’t stop me from worrying. Today is Miriam’s birth-day and would be unlike any held for her before. In fact, this might be the best gift I could ever give; I was finally able to fulfill my promise. However, that came at the cost of time away not just from her, but Dusk and little Mila. Rapping on the door in my usual pattern went unanswered.
“Dhorna dimeaţa” An approaching pair called to from the street.
“Dimeaţa.” I waved. It was a nice change as I would only receive suspicious glances. The uniform more than likely was to blame if they thought I had come for an inspection, but I’d frequented enough to reserve some other wariness. The Inquiry was never friendly and their presence a violation of the small freedom promised them within the city walls.
Miriam’s apartment was located just on the outer corner of the Penumbran district of the Underworld. The “Underworld” was a given term for Nisrian districts in Huema cities; added to the lower levels of the capital, they went generally unmaintained if not by the residents themselves. Small buildings huddled together along the foundations of North and even South Saggio, though the Penumbra themselves never went so far. The earliest migrants that stayed made their homes from the cast out mason stones, umber and slate built upon wooden framework of their own hands, or when that ran out, the plaster-mud technique of the Gitanon.
The few with some wealth left to them after coming so far pitched together, sold their valuables for materials in constructing storied buildings, all under a ribbed vault roofing. For where they lacked in customary height was made up for in ornamental detail; Piercing spire roofs and trim tracery windows. This community was my first exposure to the Penumbran culture, though I hadn’t been able to explore it as I wished.
Miriam’s current apartment originally was on the second floor, the bottom once belonging to a tailor. When discovered not to be registered with the magistrate, he left a number of his tools with Miriam before either being jailed or banished, to which I then rented for her own tailor. She had been trying to do more on her own and distance herself from the past. I still don’t know what to make of Viktoria becoming part of her again except Miriam is stable and happier for it.
I grab the olive crest knocker again, this time spying a little head pop up from the side window. A little voice then followed from the door.
“Hello~ May I ask who it is?” Mila asks gaily.
Playing along with the dear, I replied as playfully. “Someone who can make you cream cones~”
“I was told not to open the door for anyone unless they addressed themselves, and to never trust anyone that bribes.” she giggles, showing had taken Miriam’s rules to memory.
I beam from the other side in Mila taking to what she was taught. “It’s mama, bambiana.”
“Com e` dici.” Mila answered correctly. I also had been teaching her the dialect of the Nobile, since she spoke the rustic tongue as I growing up.
Finally she opens the shop door and her sallow oval face is all agrin. Such a tiny thing with eyes of deepest blue I’d ever seen. The faint light of the day and dim interior perfectly offset their luminescent quality. She jumped into my arms and I plant a kiss on her pillowy cheek.
Within the shop, rolls of fabric, spools, scissors, scraps and other instruments are left about on the work table. The counter lamp hasn’t been lit, meaning she’s closed. It wasn’t that unusual given the occasion, yet last year she insisted on working at least half working hours as she couldn’t afford less. Not only did that mean livelihood, but keeping the clientele she had gained satisfied.
Penumbra lived among their own and any that sold themselves to the Huema or Galite against their own or harlotry was outcast. Most still accepted her business because it was the best in the district if not Isalme (if I dare say so), yet no more involvement than that. If only they knew her contribution through Count Ambrose of their behalf, reception would be quite different. Her acquaintance and almost a father figure from how she made it sound, Count Ambrose, had made plans to visit and assess just what needed to be done in that underworld. He was the only real champion of the Nisrian within Huema society directly interceding on their behalf.
“Did I catch her before heading over?” I asked Mila.
“No, maerta closed early saying she had to go somewhere. She was going to drop me off at grandmama’s…” Mila answered discouraged.
“Oh…” I replied in thought. “Good thing anyway, right? Grandmama is at my place helping cook for tonight.” I bounce Mila to my side and head toward the stairs.
“Rema?”
“Hm?” I respond distracted, my attention nosing about some papers laying open in a cubby behind the desk.
“I made maerta a present I was going to slip under her pillow, but didn’t get a chance this morning. Should I do it before bedtime or now?”
This would only be Mila’s second gift since living with Miriam, and this one all of her own accord. “Hold to it for until this evening. I was planning us all do it at one time so it’s special, just make sure you have it before heading out. I’ll buy some time for you.”
Seemingly satisfied with the idea after some though, Mila pointed my attention to the desk bell, to which I immediately fell in synch with a devious smirk. Four quick rings and we masked our giggling as we waited. No response so I rapidly tapped it repeatedly.
“Haven’t I said not to touch the bell?!” we heard her call down from the spiral stairs.
Ignoring this I kept going, its high-pitch ringing exasperatingly, drowning out the pattering rhythm of the roof shingles. The trotting of her heels over the boards above was a sign to retreat somewhere in the absently furnished shop, save a round table in a side room and large scrolls of fabrics. I wedged us between the latter as she made way down the winding stairs...
I stood in the small entrance that kept me from the steady drizzle of the opaque noon. Finding myself anxious didn’t stop me from worrying. Today is Miriam’s birth-day and would be unlike any held for her before. In fact, this might be the best gift I could ever give; I was finally able to fulfill my promise. However, that came at the cost of time away not just from her, but Dusk and little Mila. Rapping on the door in my usual pattern went unanswered.
“Dhorna dimeaţa” An approaching pair called to from the street.
“Dimeaţa.” I waved. It was a nice change as I would only receive suspicious glances. The uniform more than likely was to blame if they thought I had come for an inspection, but I’d frequented enough to reserve some other wariness. The Inquiry was never friendly and their presence a violation of the small freedom promised them within the city walls.
Miriam’s apartment was located just on the outer corner of the Penumbran district of the Underworld. The “Underworld” was a given term for Nisrian districts in Huema cities; added to the lower levels of the capital, they went generally unmaintained if not by the residents themselves. Small buildings huddled together along the foundations of North and even South Saggio, though the Penumbra themselves never went so far. The earliest migrants that stayed made their homes from the cast out mason stones, umber and slate built upon wooden framework of their own hands, or when that ran out, the plaster-mud technique of the Gitanon.
The few with some wealth left to them after coming so far pitched together, sold their valuables for materials in constructing storied buildings, all under a ribbed vault roofing. For where they lacked in customary height was made up for in ornamental detail; Piercing spire roofs and trim tracery windows. This community was my first exposure to the Penumbran culture, though I hadn’t been able to explore it as I wished.
Miriam’s current apartment originally was on the second floor, the bottom once belonging to a tailor. When discovered not to be registered with the magistrate, he left a number of his tools with Miriam before either being jailed or banished, to which I then rented for her own tailor. She had been trying to do more on her own and distance herself from the past. I still don’t know what to make of Viktoria becoming part of her again except Miriam is stable and happier for it.
I grab the olive crest knocker again, this time spying a little head pop up from the side window. A little voice then followed from the door.
“Hello~ May I ask who it is?” Mila asks gaily.
Playing along with the dear, I replied as playfully. “Someone who can make you cream cones~”
“I was told not to open the door for anyone unless they addressed themselves, and to never trust anyone that bribes.” she giggles, showing had taken Miriam’s rules to memory.
I beam from the other side in Mila taking to what she was taught. “It’s mama, bambiana.”
“Com e` dici.” Mila answered correctly. I also had been teaching her the dialect of the Nobile, since she spoke the rustic tongue as I growing up.
Finally she opens the shop door and her sallow oval face is all agrin. Such a tiny thing with eyes of deepest blue I’d ever seen. The faint light of the day and dim interior perfectly offset their luminescent quality. She jumped into my arms and I plant a kiss on her pillowy cheek.
Within the shop, rolls of fabric, spools, scissors, scraps and other instruments are left about on the work table. The counter lamp hasn’t been lit, meaning she’s closed. It wasn’t that unusual given the occasion, yet last year she insisted on working at least half working hours as she couldn’t afford less. Not only did that mean livelihood, but keeping the clientele she had gained satisfied.
Penumbra lived among their own and any that sold themselves to the Huema or Galite against their own or harlotry was outcast. Most still accepted her business because it was the best in the district if not Isalme (if I dare say so), yet no more involvement than that. If only they knew her contribution through Count Ambrose of their behalf, reception would be quite different. Her acquaintance and almost a father figure from how she made it sound, Count Ambrose, had made plans to visit and assess just what needed to be done in that underworld. He was the only real champion of the Nisrian within Huema society directly interceding on their behalf.
“Did I catch her before heading over?” I asked Mila.
“No, maerta closed early saying she had to go somewhere. She was going to drop me off at grandmama’s…” Mila answered discouraged.
“Oh…” I replied in thought. “Good thing anyway, right? Grandmama is at my place helping cook for tonight.” I bounce Mila to my side and head toward the stairs.
“Rema?”
“Hm?” I respond distracted, my attention nosing about some papers laying open in a cubby behind the desk.
“I made maerta a present I was going to slip under her pillow, but didn’t get a chance this morning. Should I do it before bedtime or now?”
This would only be Mila’s second gift since living with Miriam, and this one all of her own accord. “Hold to it for until this evening. I was planning us all do it at one time so it’s special, just make sure you have it before heading out. I’ll buy some time for you.”
Seemingly satisfied with the idea after some though, Mila pointed my attention to the desk bell, to which I immediately fell in synch with a devious smirk. Four quick rings and we masked our giggling as we waited. No response so I rapidly tapped it repeatedly.
“Haven’t I said not to touch the bell?!” we heard her call down from the spiral stairs.
Ignoring this I kept going, its high-pitch ringing exasperatingly, drowning out the pattering rhythm of the roof shingles. The trotting of her heels over the boards above was a sign to retreat somewhere in the absently furnished shop, save a round table in a side room and large scrolls of fabrics. I wedged us between the latter as she made way down the winding stairs...
BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
Trails Pt.II
Grey mounted his faithful Sauren and raced from Nuefrost from the east passage. Directly overhead as he came into the pale morning light hissed and roared the engines of an air-car. A trade type from its bulky body and yellow sails.
Bergho was a bordering town between the realms of Nuefraust and Midwan. Formerly the main route of trade ten years before Veronica Hope was built. A question arose from this because what the letter said and the different between Veronica Hope and Bergho. Bergho had no air cars or aerial transports.
Since the Unified Pact, the Huema kingdoms formed a treaty with the Aerolite of Gale and Ariem of Aludra. Benefiting greatly from Gale, their advancements and understanding in mechanization were beyond them. Veronica stemmed from this while Bergho was faded from memory.
Arriving at a pasture known as a marker three miles of Bergho, he felt this good a place as any for an encounter. The fold was empty just a ways down into the stony plain, while a shack and old stone remnant of the past scattered to the right of the path. Traveling light, he wore a blue vest with chain links worked beneath the fabric and an old pair of leather trousers and boots. The only real armor he allowed himself was for his shield-arm. Cloaked over by a thick fur cape to protect from the wintry heights.
Aside from the old shepherd there was none else until descending midway down the mountain where Bergho rested. From here he had eye-level view of the magnificent silver thrones whose peaks shine like polished steel in the golden light. He wondered if all he beheld now would be choked out with black towers of smoke, the steam of ammunition ships and echoes of steel and battle-cries. Even though beauty was before him, Grey knew such things had come to pass before his time.
“By which way ye go, noble one?” Grey suddenly heard.
Startled, he nearly went for his dagger. Catching the figure of a man in his peripheral, it was hard to hide his alarm at being snuck up on at such close range. His manteen stood firm, snorting in contention at his master’s riling. Grey clenched down hard on his teeth as he faced the stranger.
“Was I to me you here?” he snapped.
The man held his peace, holding out an extended hand. Between his fingers was another slip of paper similar in off-tone color to the one found on his desk. There was no doubt, but…
Grey examined the man further for a moment. He did not recognize him of course, but bore all the features of a Nuefrolian from his keen, thin shaped nose and dulling beryl hairs of his head; countenance was unmistakable of a mountain dweller from his blistered cheeks from the north winds, wool attire that carried the scent of salt ore. A young miner, perhaps.
However, his eyes stayed fixed upon Grey before he noticed they had not blinked.
Unsure what to make of it as he sensed no threat of danger, he steered his manteen closer. This was only a messenger paid coin for their part. “Let’s have it then.” Grey muttered, his left eye still locked with the strange fellow. As started to snatch away the letter, the image of Cecilie’s eerie old dolls in her mother’s house came to mind. It then became obvious to Grey once he paid closer attention. Trained in magik artes to combat Isalme’s knights, squires are taught to sense the life force of all things in order to measure levels of exposure to the abyss. This man had none.
It was too late to let go now. In a moment’s breath, Grey saw the thin glimmer of a string snap from the man’s index.
“Ho!” he shouted to his steed, but in vain. In a vaporous cloud the man was consumed and the force of the trap bomb lifted even Sauren from his hooves. He had just enough time to free his right leg and roll clear of the large animal, saving him from a crushed leg. He felt no real harm done. He’d been through worst blasts in his experiences. He had a permanent reminder, after all.
Quick to his feet, Grey steadied himself on knee and threw back his cloak as his broadsword sung into the highland air. White drags of steamy breath pumped from his lungs. The only movements before him were that of Sauren dragging himself to his feet, also relatively unharmed and the powdery smoke lifting into the air. That wasn’t meant to kill him, but what was coming next may well be.
His ear caught wind as it cut through the air, its steel vibrating a low pitch as it quickened toward the back of Grey’s head. Spinning about, he guarded what vital parts he could with his shield-arm and struck forth with the flat of the blade. The object struck and ricochet off, now leaving seconds before Grey expected the actual assault. He felt the heat within his tight grip as the blade began to hum louder as it coursed to the tip.
As the fire splintered forth from his sword, he plunged the blade into the ground. He felt the solid earth splinter and melt away and heat writhe about him in a ring of scorching fire. He heard someone cry out, licked by the flames before they could pause their strike. Behind! Grey drew his dagger dagger in a flash in a whirl of black ash as he came face to face with the attacker.
Clad in strange, black garbs from head to toe, he was able to lock gaze with the shocked assassin. Bright green eyes flashed as his dagger sought a place in his throat. To Grey’s astonishment, the blade was caught just before piercing through fabric between the palms of the masked assailant’s hands. Quickly letting go as a swift boot was about to be planted in his gut, Grey reach back for the grip of his blade and sent it splintering with earth and fire in hopes to catch them before getting to their feet.
Again they proved too fast. Another plume of white smoke erupted where they crouched and a gust of wind sent heat and debris back into Grey’s face. Keeping his foot planted as he retreated back, he knew it was over as he cursed beneath his breath. It was a brief distraction, but enough for the assassin to make their escape. At least this was twice they had failed in their objective.
Grey stood before the deep gash in the road and inhaled deep of the scorched soil. Only the peaceful howl of a mountain breeze that cooled his sudden exertion. He brushed back his disheveled length of hair and searched about for his mount. Ran off down the path more than likely. It wasn’t going anywhere he wasn’t. Sheathing his arms, Grey searched about the ground for the letter lost in the fray. He did happen upon a star shaped object lodged in the pasture fence.
Same as what was left behind Herron Pass. He glanced over at what had been the puppeteer body of the poor soul. Nothing left but tatters and blasted dirt. Someone got to the messenger first; it made little sense to attack him upon following direction. Now he knew two forces were at work here besides his own.
Grey mounted his faithful Sauren and raced from Nuefrost from the east passage. Directly overhead as he came into the pale morning light hissed and roared the engines of an air-car. A trade type from its bulky body and yellow sails.
Bergho was a bordering town between the realms of Nuefraust and Midwan. Formerly the main route of trade ten years before Veronica Hope was built. A question arose from this because what the letter said and the different between Veronica Hope and Bergho. Bergho had no air cars or aerial transports.
Since the Unified Pact, the Huema kingdoms formed a treaty with the Aerolite of Gale and Ariem of Aludra. Benefiting greatly from Gale, their advancements and understanding in mechanization were beyond them. Veronica stemmed from this while Bergho was faded from memory.
Arriving at a pasture known as a marker three miles of Bergho, he felt this good a place as any for an encounter. The fold was empty just a ways down into the stony plain, while a shack and old stone remnant of the past scattered to the right of the path. Traveling light, he wore a blue vest with chain links worked beneath the fabric and an old pair of leather trousers and boots. The only real armor he allowed himself was for his shield-arm. Cloaked over by a thick fur cape to protect from the wintry heights.
Aside from the old shepherd there was none else until descending midway down the mountain where Bergho rested. From here he had eye-level view of the magnificent silver thrones whose peaks shine like polished steel in the golden light. He wondered if all he beheld now would be choked out with black towers of smoke, the steam of ammunition ships and echoes of steel and battle-cries. Even though beauty was before him, Grey knew such things had come to pass before his time.
“By which way ye go, noble one?” Grey suddenly heard.
Startled, he nearly went for his dagger. Catching the figure of a man in his peripheral, it was hard to hide his alarm at being snuck up on at such close range. His manteen stood firm, snorting in contention at his master’s riling. Grey clenched down hard on his teeth as he faced the stranger.
“Was I to me you here?” he snapped.
The man held his peace, holding out an extended hand. Between his fingers was another slip of paper similar in off-tone color to the one found on his desk. There was no doubt, but…
Grey examined the man further for a moment. He did not recognize him of course, but bore all the features of a Nuefrolian from his keen, thin shaped nose and dulling beryl hairs of his head; countenance was unmistakable of a mountain dweller from his blistered cheeks from the north winds, wool attire that carried the scent of salt ore. A young miner, perhaps.
However, his eyes stayed fixed upon Grey before he noticed they had not blinked.
Unsure what to make of it as he sensed no threat of danger, he steered his manteen closer. This was only a messenger paid coin for their part. “Let’s have it then.” Grey muttered, his left eye still locked with the strange fellow. As started to snatch away the letter, the image of Cecilie’s eerie old dolls in her mother’s house came to mind. It then became obvious to Grey once he paid closer attention. Trained in magik artes to combat Isalme’s knights, squires are taught to sense the life force of all things in order to measure levels of exposure to the abyss. This man had none.
It was too late to let go now. In a moment’s breath, Grey saw the thin glimmer of a string snap from the man’s index.
“Ho!” he shouted to his steed, but in vain. In a vaporous cloud the man was consumed and the force of the trap bomb lifted even Sauren from his hooves. He had just enough time to free his right leg and roll clear of the large animal, saving him from a crushed leg. He felt no real harm done. He’d been through worst blasts in his experiences. He had a permanent reminder, after all.
Quick to his feet, Grey steadied himself on knee and threw back his cloak as his broadsword sung into the highland air. White drags of steamy breath pumped from his lungs. The only movements before him were that of Sauren dragging himself to his feet, also relatively unharmed and the powdery smoke lifting into the air. That wasn’t meant to kill him, but what was coming next may well be.
His ear caught wind as it cut through the air, its steel vibrating a low pitch as it quickened toward the back of Grey’s head. Spinning about, he guarded what vital parts he could with his shield-arm and struck forth with the flat of the blade. The object struck and ricochet off, now leaving seconds before Grey expected the actual assault. He felt the heat within his tight grip as the blade began to hum louder as it coursed to the tip.
As the fire splintered forth from his sword, he plunged the blade into the ground. He felt the solid earth splinter and melt away and heat writhe about him in a ring of scorching fire. He heard someone cry out, licked by the flames before they could pause their strike. Behind! Grey drew his dagger dagger in a flash in a whirl of black ash as he came face to face with the attacker.
Clad in strange, black garbs from head to toe, he was able to lock gaze with the shocked assassin. Bright green eyes flashed as his dagger sought a place in his throat. To Grey’s astonishment, the blade was caught just before piercing through fabric between the palms of the masked assailant’s hands. Quickly letting go as a swift boot was about to be planted in his gut, Grey reach back for the grip of his blade and sent it splintering with earth and fire in hopes to catch them before getting to their feet.
Again they proved too fast. Another plume of white smoke erupted where they crouched and a gust of wind sent heat and debris back into Grey’s face. Keeping his foot planted as he retreated back, he knew it was over as he cursed beneath his breath. It was a brief distraction, but enough for the assassin to make their escape. At least this was twice they had failed in their objective.
Grey stood before the deep gash in the road and inhaled deep of the scorched soil. Only the peaceful howl of a mountain breeze that cooled his sudden exertion. He brushed back his disheveled length of hair and searched about for his mount. Ran off down the path more than likely. It wasn’t going anywhere he wasn’t. Sheathing his arms, Grey searched about the ground for the letter lost in the fray. He did happen upon a star shaped object lodged in the pasture fence.
Same as what was left behind Herron Pass. He glanced over at what had been the puppeteer body of the poor soul. Nothing left but tatters and blasted dirt. Someone got to the messenger first; it made little sense to attack him upon following direction. Now he knew two forces were at work here besides his own.
New Artist BluMiu!
author=Caladium
Nice character art.
May be just my taste but kinda want a bit more volume to the top of the head.
Will look forward to seeing more~
Hmm, maybe that was something I was thinking about, but unsure of. I was thinking of changing the shoulder armor since they seem a little off, so maybe I could make that change too~
BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
author=MadJak91
You were not kidding about the language, haha. Cannot get a word but I bet that is intended so far because you should also feel like a stranger as well. Although the girl gets it.
Usual segregation. Makes sense. Humans needs to know their level of magic because they fear it. A smart Penumbra would still lie and keep their magic under control and strike at the right time. Unless there are trained humans who can smell it...
Also, edit your OP.
Yeah, that is one thing it goes for without making the changes yet (unless someone knows Romanian), feeling at a loss as the characters in it adds that foreign atmosphere as the girl's experiencing.
Then you have the reverse where she can understand what they cannot, putting her on the opposite side of her own people, though the realization has not hit her quite yet.
Yup~ Proficiency in magic can be measured through the wavelengths or aura the abyss gives off from them; the better they are, the more the abyss taints them. Other practitioners can sense this and tell, which they will be screened anyhow once into the city. It's also how the plot will move along in the next piece with Sorrow.
BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
Trails Pt.I
Grey and Garland Theofoar had been sent out to Herron Pass and surrounding areas the day after the attack, a three days ride with no trace of the prince fallen from the high road. This left the Queen in despair, but as Garland had put it, gave some hope of the young heir’s survival. Grey could not disagree, but being whisked away without evidence was too fanciful to put hopes in.
Even so, these last few years had put considerable strain on Grey at this point. Sleep was tiresome and the days past without fruit for his labor. Even his betrothal to Cecilie had been delayed on account of time away, but out of some madness of her own, she remained patient. And here it was now, this letter left on his desk without messenger.
“To Bergho by steed, continue hence to find thy Prince.” It read in Olde Dalorian, writing only learned would understand.
The young prince. It need not say more. Grey bolted out his office for the nearest envoy. His feet had to be restrained from carrying him straight to his manteen while his mind instructed him the proper course. This was urgent, dire, and he felt time of the most essence.
“Sellen!” Grey called to a fellow knight, engaged in conversation through an open door.
“Yes?” he replied, noting the urgency in Grey’s voice.
“Who’s the envoy?”
“I believe Gwendle. Last I saw she was by the commissary—”
Grey was already gone before Sellen could finish.
Even with hope literally in his grasp, something did not sit well with him. Not that a furtive letter speaking of the prince was clue enough, but the timing as well.
The commissary hall held few during the hour save those taking a spell from their duties. It did not take long before Grey’s sharp eye found Gwendle engaged with an official, parting a message before heading on.
He waited about shortly before urgency overtook him and thought to politely as possible interrupt, but thankfully she broke away just as he approached.
“Gwendle.” Grey addressed, catching her attention.
“Ah, Ser Patrick. How can I help you?” asked the freckled dame.
“A letter was left for me earlier. I need know who delivered it.”
The girl thought a moment, nudging a finger beneath her lip. “Hm, all I can recall Ser is that it was already left to be delivered. No one made mention of the deliverer.”
It seemed a small chance then that anything amiss could be learned. Just as easy to pay a currier or merchant to deliver it without knowing. The trail of the recipient ended cold, all there left to do was follow the trail they left him.
“Grey!” he heard called out as he hurried to the stables.
Upon looking back, Garland headed his way. Impeccable timing, this man had.
Before Garland could put in a word, Grey was quick with the tongue. “I’ve a lead on the prince.” he whispered to his friend.
It was all that need be said for Garland to freeze in his tracks, his face stripped off character before the shock released him. “How?”
“I cannot explain now, but here.” Grey passed on the letter to which Garland examined it quickly before closing it.
“You will go alone.” he confirmed first with his steely blue eyes.
Grey nodded. “Too little time to make a plan. See what you can learn of this letter. If I can send word, I shall. If you don’t hear from me in reasonable time, you know what need be done.”
Garland withheld his hesitance, understanding the risk to not outweigh his comrade’s skill. “I will speak to Cecielle for you then.”
And then there was that matter. Without a word Grey smiled, patting Garland on his pauldron and continued on.
The two men understood one another well; howbeit it was through the sword of rivalry, Grey could find no other more worthy of trust and respect he had earned at his age. They knew one another through their fathers growing up, possibly would have been good friends if Garland had not spent so much time in study. That was the kind of person he was though and earned where he stood...
Grey and Garland Theofoar had been sent out to Herron Pass and surrounding areas the day after the attack, a three days ride with no trace of the prince fallen from the high road. This left the Queen in despair, but as Garland had put it, gave some hope of the young heir’s survival. Grey could not disagree, but being whisked away without evidence was too fanciful to put hopes in.
Even so, these last few years had put considerable strain on Grey at this point. Sleep was tiresome and the days past without fruit for his labor. Even his betrothal to Cecilie had been delayed on account of time away, but out of some madness of her own, she remained patient. And here it was now, this letter left on his desk without messenger.
“To Bergho by steed, continue hence to find thy Prince.” It read in Olde Dalorian, writing only learned would understand.
The young prince. It need not say more. Grey bolted out his office for the nearest envoy. His feet had to be restrained from carrying him straight to his manteen while his mind instructed him the proper course. This was urgent, dire, and he felt time of the most essence.
“Sellen!” Grey called to a fellow knight, engaged in conversation through an open door.
“Yes?” he replied, noting the urgency in Grey’s voice.
“Who’s the envoy?”
“I believe Gwendle. Last I saw she was by the commissary—”
Grey was already gone before Sellen could finish.
Even with hope literally in his grasp, something did not sit well with him. Not that a furtive letter speaking of the prince was clue enough, but the timing as well.
The commissary hall held few during the hour save those taking a spell from their duties. It did not take long before Grey’s sharp eye found Gwendle engaged with an official, parting a message before heading on.
He waited about shortly before urgency overtook him and thought to politely as possible interrupt, but thankfully she broke away just as he approached.
“Gwendle.” Grey addressed, catching her attention.
“Ah, Ser Patrick. How can I help you?” asked the freckled dame.
“A letter was left for me earlier. I need know who delivered it.”
The girl thought a moment, nudging a finger beneath her lip. “Hm, all I can recall Ser is that it was already left to be delivered. No one made mention of the deliverer.”
It seemed a small chance then that anything amiss could be learned. Just as easy to pay a currier or merchant to deliver it without knowing. The trail of the recipient ended cold, all there left to do was follow the trail they left him.
“Grey!” he heard called out as he hurried to the stables.
Upon looking back, Garland headed his way. Impeccable timing, this man had.
Before Garland could put in a word, Grey was quick with the tongue. “I’ve a lead on the prince.” he whispered to his friend.
It was all that need be said for Garland to freeze in his tracks, his face stripped off character before the shock released him. “How?”
“I cannot explain now, but here.” Grey passed on the letter to which Garland examined it quickly before closing it.
“You will go alone.” he confirmed first with his steely blue eyes.
Grey nodded. “Too little time to make a plan. See what you can learn of this letter. If I can send word, I shall. If you don’t hear from me in reasonable time, you know what need be done.”
Garland withheld his hesitance, understanding the risk to not outweigh his comrade’s skill. “I will speak to Cecielle for you then.”
And then there was that matter. Without a word Grey smiled, patting Garland on his pauldron and continued on.
The two men understood one another well; howbeit it was through the sword of rivalry, Grey could find no other more worthy of trust and respect he had earned at his age. They knew one another through their fathers growing up, possibly would have been good friends if Garland had not spent so much time in study. That was the kind of person he was though and earned where he stood...
BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
The Unfamiliar Pt.II
Embarrassed, the child turned to see the other children had noticed her. Red, yellow, and green bright eyes stared back her with equal inquisitiveness. Shyness overcame her as she turned away and began to blow on her hot cake.
The other woman, less gaunt, but near identical to the other, came forward for a look at the child. “Vorbesti Preluvian?” she asked, this time the tone of her voice insinuating a question.
“Numai ea pare să vorbească limba lor.” said the slender woman.
The girl wasted little time in examining the lightly golden coat of the thick cake. Bun-shaped with vent holes in the top, an even more delicious aroma was allowed to escape. Engulfing a third of the freshly baked cake, the meat and fruit filling, along with rich juices, filled the child’s mouth. There was nothing that could match the expression she must have made as the two women laughed.
The tall woman pointing to herself and slowly began to pronounce, “Mi—ru—na.” She repeated this until the girl swallowed her fill and repeated easily,
“Mi-Mir…Miru…na.” she repeated with a smile.
“Bine! Foarte bine!” Miruna clapped. This time she pointed to the girl and asked, “Ce este numele dvs?”
In truth, the child was not familiar with names. Her caretakers never gave her one, but did address one another at times by ‘Roi’ and ‘Meloise’. She recognized when they called her something offensive from their tone, but closest to a name she was given was, “you there”, “child”, but the closest seemed to be “moroi”.
“Moroi?” she replied, more a question than answer.
Miruna was familiar with this phrase, unfortunately. Downhearted, she gave a faint smile and gently stroked her head and shoulders. “Espere aquí.” Leaving her, the girl focused on her meal while avoiding the stares of the children close by.
Not an hour passed before the men by the road shouted for everyone to gather. Two of the men who were not clothed in shining raiment wore something simpler, one in a strange apron while carrying a scroll in hand. The other she saw to be kin to herself and the others, but in clothing similar to the man that raised her. She only now noticed the difference in the en-camped group. Many in dark, fine attire with only wear from their travels.
One of the young boys bid the girl join them as they hurried passed and an older girl took her by her side.
“Tell them to line up male then female, oldest to youngest.” ordered the robed man to his subordinate, extending forth his reed pen.
And so he did. Relying this information in their tongue, everyone began to file in line. Miruna, taking responsibility for the child, approximated her age by appearance. She was just before the smaller girls, one of which bore the biggest frown ever known.
She could see at least in the children how tired they were. They smelled like the wild, like herself, so their journey had been for some time. How far, she did not know, but their little shoes were bound to keep them together.
Down the line the bald, robed man escorted by his five guard came, his words at least understandable to the child. “State your name, age, members of family, proficiency in the mystic artes, and ancestry—"
This did not bode well. These were questions she had no answer to give.
“If any of your children be present, please give their name, age, and proficiency if any. Be informed that if this information does not match what is given at later periods, you will be punished and or exiled from these lands. If you are found returned and refuse to give identification or resist, you will be put to the sword. Tell them.”
His subordinate complied and great murmuring went through the people. Some looked
unnerved while others expected no less, cynicism in their glares. The man began the census with his lackey translating the information. Dark fell steadily and the guardsmen struck strange rods on their tip against the plated skirts and they were aflame instantly. The girl was not sure what was told concerning herself, but the count came to an end with-out incident.
“Gather your personal belongings and be at the gates. You will be escorted to your holdings until the morning. There you will be evaluated and processed before sub-residency is granted. Tell them.” he instructed the translator.
Once they knew what to do, the travelers dispersed to their respected families and hastily undid the camp and gathered up their few belongings. The child then began searching for Miruna, but she had found her first. There was a man with her this time. Tall also and broad in the shoulders with black hair.
“Aceasta este fata am vorbit de,” she spoke in hushed words. “Am sustinut ca ea ca al nostrum—“
Before her husband could respond in alarm, the robed man shouted over the camp.“ A moment!”
“Încă de voi!” echoed his interpreter.
He appeared just as nervous as the sojourners as a dead silence came over the camp. Miruna’s husband looked back to her in agitation.
“I was told there were forty-five among you. Why then do I count forty-six? Where was there error?” The official scanned the camp as his words were relayed, their beady fixtures bearing down on each soul.
Presumably the eldest of the group came forward to speak with the translator, hastily trying to explain there was a mistake.
Miruna’s grip tightened on the child’s hand as she appealed to her husband with a pleading gaze. His chest puffed out in a deep breath and heavy sigh. It did not take much to understand that the child’s presence had caused a problem more severe than she understood.
“C-Care ar fi noi!” Miruna’s husband shouted, his hand raised.
The official homed in on him instantly and spied his company. Signaling the guard, they moved with purpose toward the three as the rest of camp watched with stifled dolor. Considerably stouter than the slack postured official, it did not keep the Huema from trying to bolster his superiority by not making eye contact; a sign of disrespect to Penumbra. This were customs and prejudice the girl was unaware, but easily assessed from the tension.
The man’s unpleasant sights rested on her before turning away once her velvet stare quickly stared back. He did not have a good presence about him, more than back in the glen.
“And why was she not counted among you afore?” he asked blankly.
Before his translator could relay, the official quickly threw up his hand and silenced him. Miruna’s grip tightened as her husband stood clueless, unsure how to respond.
After his patience wore thin enough, he followed with an aggravated, “It is strongly being considered none of you be allowed admittance into the city before learning a basic modicum of the language,” slightly shifting his head toward his nervous attendant he bid him to finally speak. “Tell them they are to remove themselves from the land.”
Before Miruna’s husband could protest, the little one spoke up.
“I can understand.” she stated, much to those within earshot surprise.
Embarrassed, the child turned to see the other children had noticed her. Red, yellow, and green bright eyes stared back her with equal inquisitiveness. Shyness overcame her as she turned away and began to blow on her hot cake.
The other woman, less gaunt, but near identical to the other, came forward for a look at the child. “Vorbesti Preluvian?” she asked, this time the tone of her voice insinuating a question.
“Numai ea pare să vorbească limba lor.” said the slender woman.
The girl wasted little time in examining the lightly golden coat of the thick cake. Bun-shaped with vent holes in the top, an even more delicious aroma was allowed to escape. Engulfing a third of the freshly baked cake, the meat and fruit filling, along with rich juices, filled the child’s mouth. There was nothing that could match the expression she must have made as the two women laughed.
The tall woman pointing to herself and slowly began to pronounce, “Mi—ru—na.” She repeated this until the girl swallowed her fill and repeated easily,
“Mi-Mir…Miru…na.” she repeated with a smile.
“Bine! Foarte bine!” Miruna clapped. This time she pointed to the girl and asked, “Ce este numele dvs?”
In truth, the child was not familiar with names. Her caretakers never gave her one, but did address one another at times by ‘Roi’ and ‘Meloise’. She recognized when they called her something offensive from their tone, but closest to a name she was given was, “you there”, “child”, but the closest seemed to be “moroi”.
“Moroi?” she replied, more a question than answer.
Miruna was familiar with this phrase, unfortunately. Downhearted, she gave a faint smile and gently stroked her head and shoulders. “Espere aquí.” Leaving her, the girl focused on her meal while avoiding the stares of the children close by.
Not an hour passed before the men by the road shouted for everyone to gather. Two of the men who were not clothed in shining raiment wore something simpler, one in a strange apron while carrying a scroll in hand. The other she saw to be kin to herself and the others, but in clothing similar to the man that raised her. She only now noticed the difference in the en-camped group. Many in dark, fine attire with only wear from their travels.
One of the young boys bid the girl join them as they hurried passed and an older girl took her by her side.
“Tell them to line up male then female, oldest to youngest.” ordered the robed man to his subordinate, extending forth his reed pen.
And so he did. Relying this information in their tongue, everyone began to file in line. Miruna, taking responsibility for the child, approximated her age by appearance. She was just before the smaller girls, one of which bore the biggest frown ever known.
She could see at least in the children how tired they were. They smelled like the wild, like herself, so their journey had been for some time. How far, she did not know, but their little shoes were bound to keep them together.
Down the line the bald, robed man escorted by his five guard came, his words at least understandable to the child. “State your name, age, members of family, proficiency in the mystic artes, and ancestry—"
This did not bode well. These were questions she had no answer to give.
“If any of your children be present, please give their name, age, and proficiency if any. Be informed that if this information does not match what is given at later periods, you will be punished and or exiled from these lands. If you are found returned and refuse to give identification or resist, you will be put to the sword. Tell them.”
His subordinate complied and great murmuring went through the people. Some looked
unnerved while others expected no less, cynicism in their glares. The man began the census with his lackey translating the information. Dark fell steadily and the guardsmen struck strange rods on their tip against the plated skirts and they were aflame instantly. The girl was not sure what was told concerning herself, but the count came to an end with-out incident.
“Gather your personal belongings and be at the gates. You will be escorted to your holdings until the morning. There you will be evaluated and processed before sub-residency is granted. Tell them.” he instructed the translator.
Once they knew what to do, the travelers dispersed to their respected families and hastily undid the camp and gathered up their few belongings. The child then began searching for Miruna, but she had found her first. There was a man with her this time. Tall also and broad in the shoulders with black hair.
“Aceasta este fata am vorbit de,” she spoke in hushed words. “Am sustinut ca ea ca al nostrum—“
Before her husband could respond in alarm, the robed man shouted over the camp.“ A moment!”
“Încă de voi!” echoed his interpreter.
He appeared just as nervous as the sojourners as a dead silence came over the camp. Miruna’s husband looked back to her in agitation.
“I was told there were forty-five among you. Why then do I count forty-six? Where was there error?” The official scanned the camp as his words were relayed, their beady fixtures bearing down on each soul.
Presumably the eldest of the group came forward to speak with the translator, hastily trying to explain there was a mistake.
Miruna’s grip tightened on the child’s hand as she appealed to her husband with a pleading gaze. His chest puffed out in a deep breath and heavy sigh. It did not take much to understand that the child’s presence had caused a problem more severe than she understood.
“C-Care ar fi noi!” Miruna’s husband shouted, his hand raised.
The official homed in on him instantly and spied his company. Signaling the guard, they moved with purpose toward the three as the rest of camp watched with stifled dolor. Considerably stouter than the slack postured official, it did not keep the Huema from trying to bolster his superiority by not making eye contact; a sign of disrespect to Penumbra. This were customs and prejudice the girl was unaware, but easily assessed from the tension.
The man’s unpleasant sights rested on her before turning away once her velvet stare quickly stared back. He did not have a good presence about him, more than back in the glen.
“And why was she not counted among you afore?” he asked blankly.
Before his translator could relay, the official quickly threw up his hand and silenced him. Miruna’s grip tightened as her husband stood clueless, unsure how to respond.
After his patience wore thin enough, he followed with an aggravated, “It is strongly being considered none of you be allowed admittance into the city before learning a basic modicum of the language,” slightly shifting his head toward his nervous attendant he bid him to finally speak. “Tell them they are to remove themselves from the land.”
Before Miruna’s husband could protest, the little one spoke up.
“I can understand.” she stated, much to those within earshot surprise.
BluMiu's Quill- Writings and Poetry
author=MadJak91
How deep are going to be with the language? Romanian like is a pretty good fit!
It is not easy. Some people can do it though. And I do not mean changing letters but using English or exchanging words but still using English grammar and such.
I guess the characters are only going to speak it in situations like here so you as a reader also feel lost and talking to a stranger and to differentiate but still. Creating or constructing a language is tough even with a base.
Time to study Romanian... :D
As far as I can lol! It's going to be as hard as you say and I'm (slowly) teaching myself basics of Romanian, in so much that I can at least learn its grammar properly enough to adjust to a fantasy language and be believable. We'll see how far that goes ^^;
I don't think I have to learn the Romanian alphabet since if I ever make the Penumbran characters, it won't be similar. Just when translated into English will do (as I don't know how to custom insert letters into Word).
BluMiu's Art Dump
Another WIP completed and and one of my taxing illustrations at that. Almost free...not really.
Requiem Song "Arcturus"
"And to the Blood we condemn the Self, living through the Spirit of righteousness. The Moon is our pact, the Stars our witness."- 7th recital 3rd vow, Book of Epitaphs
Requiem Song "Arcturus"
"And to the Blood we condemn the Self, living through the Spirit of righteousness. The Moon is our pact, the Stars our witness."- 7th recital 3rd vow, Book of Epitaphs
BluMiu's Art Dump
author=MadJak91author=BMPM me the details when you have the time. I have one idea and can see that it could be triggering, haha.
Somewhere Down the Crimson Sea, You and Me
That is a pretty creepy and cruel pic...
I wanted to mention Bathory but eff that.
author=BM
Resurrection of Knight
Dunno why I like this one so much. Out of anything you posted. Almost :D
I get a sad feeling from it :/
Probably because it's an illustration and has a story behind it ^^ I'd like to get around to working on this, but I'm restraining myself to chronological order lol!
Games - Tester
Games - Other
