The Wielder of Death Magic

Chapter 870

Chapter 870: First Blood [8]

“The nerve on some people,” narrowed Minerva, “-she speaks as if art is her main subject of interest. Dressed like that, I’d assume her mouth couldn’t be far from being dirty as her garden-”

“Enough,” interjected Igna, he took many accounts on the faces the students held, “-they don’t need to understand the graphic details just yet.”

“Majesty, that lady is amusing,” snickered one within the group, “-lady, what’s your name?” asked others, the group shortly pushed Igna from Minerva’s side. A symphony of praise and laughter bellied. Stood still, the petrified Thomas sneaked till Igna’s shadow, the act of looking to and fro, paranoid in gesture, wasn’t much noticed by the passing crowd of few visitors.

“What happened?” he exhaled, “-who’s the lady?”

“My friend, Thomas, here I present the next best thing to brace L’atelier d’ Exsque.” Words of recommendation, Thomas watched, baffled and bemused at the energetic persona. By her wave of the arm, the authoritative points at tableaus, her light grey pupils splashed across the floor, drew interest from the appraiser.

“She’s amazingly pretty.”

“I’d hold my tongue, dear friend. Dressed as she is; the robe of Athena sure befits her figure.”

.....

“Igna, Igna,” the tongue clicked, “-you say hold my tongue and follow to compliment her outfit. Just what is it about her charm,” they watched, similar to eyeing an unseen commodity.

“Divine?” added Igna.

“Perfectly summarized the persona,” they watched in awe. On matters of acquisition, Igna chose to forgo the thought of purchasing a gallery. The trio soon found themselves strapped to the car seat and pulled along the asphalted roads. Traffic wasn’t all the much pleasing, rush hour settled, tired and slumped office workers dragged side to side – many dug their heads into the smartphones. Reflection of massive advertisements reflected against the shiny new car. Motor enthusiasts watched as the very expensive transport passed. Minerva who’d laid claim upon the front seat, had the side of her head slumped over the window. Refraction of the lights and passing of airships set the scene for the journey.

L’atelier d’ Exsque soon muddled through the light shows. Her focus widened, Igna pulled shy of the academic district’s edge, the intersection split into the four cardinal points, north headed to the castle, east and south to the city center, as for west, it simply headed towards academic buildings; schools, universities and the likes. A corner building, made beautifully with the Ardanian architecture, sprawled akin to a lotus upon muddied water, the latter represented the blank, rectangular offices. From cozy colors to a modest and peaceful interior, they stepped onto stone-brick pavements. No sign of trash or the casual flying bag, the area truly was wondrously immaculate.

Directly in front of the entrance laid a small patch of land, herein harbored plants of culinary properties. Spices, vegetables, and whatever the owner might have wished to see grow. Retirement rested peacefully on the shopkeeper’s faces; a little stand held the bounty.

“Where are we?” inquired Minerva, her focus drawn onto the garden, “-looks fun,” she stopped under the building’s casted shadow and smiled.

“Peaceful,” said Igna pulling behind, “-come on,” he motioned and skipped up the stairs, “-I have to show you something,” the darken interior told of the shop’s closure, a tap on the phone revived the whole area, lamps flashed into light – the cooling systems toggled, went so far as opening windows. Before laid a bastion of an emotive piece, never seen works of apprentices and masters, regardless of rank or status, the deserving held center spot in catching the visitor’s focus. Her jaw dropped, a bubble of speechlessness hovered, “-beautiful,” the lingering smell of solvent and paint, misplaced colored clothes and jars filled with dirtied brushes. Contrary to the first few steps, the interior was less in way of a showroom – the paintings were hung, and tis the extent of the actual ‘showing.’ Further one walked, the deeper and more chaotic grew the workspace.

Igna rushed upon a few stairs and laid underneath a tall ceiling room, ” welcome to L’atelier d’ Exsque,” he said proudly, “-here lays the fruits of the seed thee sowed so many years ago. I never forgot the impression left by the paintings – recent years were tough and disallowed the commencement to any hobby. Between earning money and hanging on dear life, I finally say, I’ve made it. L’atelier is a place of sweat and tears, the hard work of masters and the tears, the sorrow of disapproval, the pain of unfulfillment in one’s work, the building harbors it all.”

“Smells like it,” exhaled a giggle, “-tell me, Igna, why are we here?”

“Plan B,” he firmed, “-I honestly thought purchasing Mosia’s showroom to be a great way of fulfilling my promise. Seems I was wrong, Thomas’ poured sweat into his craft, who am I to pull the rug?” he rested against a desk and watched, “-like what you see?”

“Love it,” she says, “-I feel the spirits and the emotion. No price tags either, why?”

“The tableaus are for the artist to convey what he wishes. L’atelier is but a medium for the masters to express their craft. Understand,” he moved to a rack and pulled onto covered canvases, “-see, the signatures are often d’Exsque’s insignia. Granted, they also add the initials.”

“I want to know more,” she browsed a half-open book, “-what is this?”

“A record of all the material to come out of the brushes. Some good, many bad, it’s an amazing journey to go along. It’s artist by artist, anyone deemed worthy by the mentors are granted the privilege to catalog all their work into the place’s chronicle. Improvement and the divergence into their own styles. So, tell me, would you like to work here?”

“Work?”

“Yes, it’s considered work. You could teach students,” reference drawn to the gathered crowd of earlier, “-if thee hates how art’s been smudged by the stain of greed and money, why not take up brushes and fight the tide. Attack the disturbance from the source.”

“Igna,” her tone wavered into sternness, the joyful expression slumped to a dull stare, “-are you manipulating me?” she blinked, “-showing Mosia’s gallery, the sudden argument against that lady and the children, now this... what I wish I could be doing. Tis all a part of thy scheme, is it not?”

“Why draw such a conclusion? The coincidences were too frequent?” he gave a half-smile, “-worry not, Minerva, I simply wish to honor the conditions set. Part-time teacher and apostle to the goddess of arts and craft. Imagine the growth influence...”

“Know what?” her arms crossed, “-I’ve spent too much time doing nothing. I’ll accept your offer, consider me a guide to the lost lambs.”

“Art is a serious topic, many students bet their lives on the matter. L’atelier is also a place for examinees to horn their skills in eventually enrolling at a prestigious university. We welcome people of all age groups; you’ll see kids playing with fingers and teenagers trying to get laid through the medium of expression. To each their own I suppose,” he exhaled.

Dusk crashed on the horizon, a mixture of pink and orange constituted the sun’s setting hue. Bystanders perched yonder, away from the in and out showers of Rosespire, gasped at the breath-taking sight, especially from Rotherham and the Azure Wall. Time advanced, the moment arrived for a soiree in remembrance of Laura, the event would be hosted at the Rosespian manor. Unknown to Igna and close family members, Loftha, ambassador in representation of Alphia during council meetings, found herself pulled backward, the chair toppled, her head smacked, and sent jabs of white across her sight. Muffled footsteps stormed inside, one moment her attention laid on overseas news, the next, a half-conscious princess gasped for air.

“Ready to report,” said a monster of a man.

“Mercenaries of the northwest, the people of Sadian. I bid thee a fine welcome into Hidros, the land of heretics.”

“It’s a good place as any,” large hands wrapped about the door and pulled into the living room, “-the princess survived our last attack,” the helmed outline of Erak, “-nice to see you again, princess.”

“Now,” thundered Ziu, “-Erak, gather your forces to the front, I’ve made arrangements for transport and weapons. Today’s insult will not go unanswered – I will make sure they pay if tis the last thing I do.” Below, hidden in the shadow of the slum’s district – trucks arrived in full. Cargo unloaded and thrown inside, whereby; the locks clicked to reveal rifles by the dozens. The strong stature of Erak stared his men, “-choose thy weapons. Be one with the weapon, people may fail you, a weapon must and will never betray its master. Such is the way of the true dragon-kin. Bear us the sun and the moon, from the east rises first light, to the west sets the knife, pulled from mother earth’s heart, we gather under the blessing of Formle, God of War.”

“To Formle,” echoed.

Ziu’s unhampered nature bore truth, “-Erak, I’ll pay double, if not triple. Allow me a few minutes in private with the princess.”

“Lord Ziu, we took on the request on behalf of the church. If not for the Lord Paladin’s blessing, we’d never dare set foot into the heretic’s continent. We answer to only our superior. Compared to the lord Paladin, Ziu, thee stands as nothing save a bug in the greater picture, a bee with the urge to sting. I advise caution,” he stepped from the door, “-lest thee wish to die,” the door pulled ajar, a tempest of highly volatile objects exploded across the walls and windows, “-what’s that?” he blinked.

“The princess’s psychic powers are strong.”

“I heard men brag about defeating-”

“-No,” he interjected and tapped his belt, “-I won, her powers to me are nothing. To an ordinary person, deadly. With all means, go ahead,” he pushed the door further, a lamp flung across and ended on corridor’s-stained walls.

“Feisty,” he gulped, “-no matter,” he reached for the pocket, “-the harder they struggle, the greater my fun,” an alarm tinkled, time was nigh.

“Lord Ziu,” said Erak, “-join us after the fun is over. I must attend to my men – keep the princess alive, alive enough for me to have my go.”

“I knew we were the same,” the door locked – objects flung to and fro, the unconscious body of Loftha hovered above the bed, a tornado of mess swept violently, “-looks like we have a pretty thing on our hand,” a bottle crashed, powder-filled the room in a glitter pink, she inhaled and instantly dropped. The weight of a stuffy man pushed the mattress, her half-unconscious state blinked mindlessly, “-I got you now,” he whispered and leaped, he tore her clothes and forced his hands into her skirt, “-look at me,” the other grab and pulled on her jaw, pushing the mouth open, “-I own you, princess. The deal we made isn’t over until I say it is. Poor little old you wanting to get back at Igna, reality check, he dumped you, as he did to Alicia. The king isn’t worth shit,” belts unbuckled, “-meanwhile, me,” he dove onto her exposed chest and inhaled loudly, taking in her aroma and desperation, “-squirm, struggle, it only makes me stronger.” *Snap,* a hardcover book flung across and knocked Ziu in the head, *GASP,* she stood straight and panted, ‘-holy mother,’ her hands trembled, ‘-thank god for the warning.’

It happened a few hours ago during the funeral, after Ziu was ousted, Igna pulled Loftha aside and said, “-be careful, I don’t wish to pry, Ziu isn’t sane mentally or physically. I’ve lost a friend to him, I wouldn’t wish the same thing on another. Keep your wits about, don’t lower thy guard, not until the embassy is satisfactory.”

“I’m old enough to take care of my own,” she replied curtly, “-I’m not a damsel who’s in distress. Mind your own business,” the last resounding of her attitude bounced, engines roared downstairs, a radio said, *-we’ll be at the gathering in half-an-hour. Be on guard, Lord Ziu, today’s the day Phantom’s eradicated.*