Anyhow, here it is. Rhia is the main character of my novel series, and the subject of a great deal of my art. Well, at least she used to be. A quick warning, it's moderately graphic in a blood and guts sort of way.
Killian
Most people would think that black, jeweled sword to be a valuable ally. Most people never dealt with Drow finery. The concept of a sword having a bad temper and a terrible attitude was foreign even to Surface Elves. Sure, Wood and High Elves had enchanted weapons, but none created with so much hate as to come alive with it.
Rhia drove that sword into the belly of another Goblin. She was drenched in the blood of thousands, the majority of which she’d killed with her own hands and with Killian’s help. She felt numb, the minutes blurred into the hours, the hours into the days. When all of this was finally over, she’d be shocked to learn the war had lasted ten years, her involvement encompassing the final three. How had it taken so much time?
A Drow wielding a large battleaxe rose up from behind the fallen Goblin. The sight of that woman’s black skin and ice-white hair enraged Rhia. She jerked her sword free from the Goblin, and as she reared it back, the blade extended, changing its shape. By the time she had her arms fully extended Killian was no longer a sword, but a scythe, which cut with ease through the Drow woman’s waist like a shaft of wheat.
It wasn’t so long ago that Rhia had looked much like that woman. Her skin had been as black as charcoal, her hair like the moon. She had her father’s red eyes, a colour that ran in his side of the family. It was that colour that had caused the current Queen to choose him as her King; red eyes were lucky to the Drow. Sure, all of them could have red eyes in the dark, with their infrared clicked on, but it was rare that the actual colour of the eyes were red.
A Dragon screamed up above, one of the bombers carrying large boulders in its claws. They’d been trying to incapacitate her for the past three months, never succeeding. The pitch black scythe changed in her grasp, extending into the shape of a long bow. As she drew the string back, and arrow formed, and Rhia whispered a quick spell into its tip. Within seconds of hearing that Dragon’s war cry, Rhia loosed the arrow. It flew silently, the accuracy deadly. It landed deep in the Dragon’s throat via a joint in its armor, and immediately exploded.
Killian had been forged by her father’s ancestors and passed down from mother to daughter. When her father had been his parents’ only child, his mother had designated the sword to go to her niece, but when he became King, his mother gladly gave the sword as a gift to the Queen, to be given to the future Queen, whether she was daughter of this King or not. It was that sword’s proudest day to sit on the throne at the Queen’s hip. It had been its worst day when the Queen died, leaving a daughter too young to assume the throne, and no other female heirs to take her place; the sword was forced to adorn the hip of a man.
It had no trouble cutting through the ranks of Drow that Rhia stood against. It had been forged to do precisely that, to cut its owner’s way onto the throne. It held no remorse for cutting down the people responsible for giving it life, for the same people were responsible for its current predicament. Another Dragon threw himself at her, wielding two broadswords. It was one of the higher classes of Dragons, one of the breeds that could assume a humanoid shape – a Dragoon. They were supposed to be smarter than the larger, permanently scaly Dragons, but Killian never had much trouble cutting them down, and this time was no different.
Two hundred was how old a Drow woman had to be to take the throne. It was the year before that Rhia’s father had passed the sword onto her, instructing her to learn to use it, to grow close to it, to establish her authority over it so that it would serve her well. It had been more than eager to serve her. She was a true Drow woman, bad-tempered, powerful, and ready to take on the world. Even growing up under a pacifist father and being taught by a like-minded cousin, Rhia was still Drow, and Killian was eager to rule the Colony in her hand.
Rhia never celebrated her two-hundredth birthday.
An arrow whistled through the air, aimed for Rhia’s chest. The moment she heard it, even before her own instincts could act, Killian melted from her hands and surrounded her chest and face in armor. The arrow clanged as it hit the chest plate, the shaft shattering and dropping to the ground at her feet. It fell away from her again, splitting in two and gliding down into her hands. It formed into two scimitars, and Rhia descended the hill to overcome the company of Elves and Dragons below.
It was discovered the night before her birthday that she was not, in fact, a full-blooded Drow. She was half Wood Elf. No one cared that she wasn’t the daughter of the old Queen; but to be ruled by Wood blood, the blood of the people the Drow so passionately despised, was unacceptable. She was exiled. And Killian was dragged along with her, since Rhia had decided to grab it during her flight out of the Underground and onto the Surface. It was the second disgrace for Killian, the sword that had once ruled at the Queen’s hip. It would not be the last.
The blades never ceased to move, the nickname of Typhoon well-earned by the bountied half-breed. No move was wasted, each twist and flick of the wrist having a purpose. Nearly every move felled another soldier. She took on her share of injuries, but every potentially lethal blow was immediately defended against by Killian, which shifted from sword to armor and back to sword as quickly as one could blink. It would be minutes before that entire company was destroyed by that woman.
Despite the plethora of disgraces Killian would endure over the years, it obeyed. It had been passed on to Rhia, bonded to Rhia, needed her magick to exist. It needed her, too, to give birth to a child it could be compatible with, if it ever wanted to escape her grasp. Something it was absolutely sure of was that it was far better off with her than it was anywhere else. It had spent centuries in the custody of one of her enemies, forced to live out its days on a shelf or tucked away in a box – a few of which it had set fire to out of sheer boredom. While Rhia might not be the ideal wielder, at the very least she used it. She didn’t have to. She’d survived her years without it, using other, unenchanted weapons. She could have buried it or tossed it into the ocean where no one would ever find it. But she didn’t. Maybe it was only because of sentimentality, memory of her father; Killian didn’t care what it was. What mattered was that she used it. For that, alone, it protected her, and would continue to protect her, for as long as it was stuck with her.
Rhia drove that sword into the belly of another Goblin. She was drenched in the blood of thousands, the majority of which she’d killed with her own hands and with Killian’s help. She felt numb, the minutes blurred into the hours, the hours into the days. When all of this was finally over, she’d be shocked to learn the war had lasted ten years, her involvement encompassing the final three. How had it taken so much time?
A Drow wielding a large battleaxe rose up from behind the fallen Goblin. The sight of that woman’s black skin and ice-white hair enraged Rhia. She jerked her sword free from the Goblin, and as she reared it back, the blade extended, changing its shape. By the time she had her arms fully extended Killian was no longer a sword, but a scythe, which cut with ease through the Drow woman’s waist like a shaft of wheat.
It wasn’t so long ago that Rhia had looked much like that woman. Her skin had been as black as charcoal, her hair like the moon. She had her father’s red eyes, a colour that ran in his side of the family. It was that colour that had caused the current Queen to choose him as her King; red eyes were lucky to the Drow. Sure, all of them could have red eyes in the dark, with their infrared clicked on, but it was rare that the actual colour of the eyes were red.
A Dragon screamed up above, one of the bombers carrying large boulders in its claws. They’d been trying to incapacitate her for the past three months, never succeeding. The pitch black scythe changed in her grasp, extending into the shape of a long bow. As she drew the string back, and arrow formed, and Rhia whispered a quick spell into its tip. Within seconds of hearing that Dragon’s war cry, Rhia loosed the arrow. It flew silently, the accuracy deadly. It landed deep in the Dragon’s throat via a joint in its armor, and immediately exploded.
Killian had been forged by her father’s ancestors and passed down from mother to daughter. When her father had been his parents’ only child, his mother had designated the sword to go to her niece, but when he became King, his mother gladly gave the sword as a gift to the Queen, to be given to the future Queen, whether she was daughter of this King or not. It was that sword’s proudest day to sit on the throne at the Queen’s hip. It had been its worst day when the Queen died, leaving a daughter too young to assume the throne, and no other female heirs to take her place; the sword was forced to adorn the hip of a man.
It had no trouble cutting through the ranks of Drow that Rhia stood against. It had been forged to do precisely that, to cut its owner’s way onto the throne. It held no remorse for cutting down the people responsible for giving it life, for the same people were responsible for its current predicament. Another Dragon threw himself at her, wielding two broadswords. It was one of the higher classes of Dragons, one of the breeds that could assume a humanoid shape – a Dragoon. They were supposed to be smarter than the larger, permanently scaly Dragons, but Killian never had much trouble cutting them down, and this time was no different.
Two hundred was how old a Drow woman had to be to take the throne. It was the year before that Rhia’s father had passed the sword onto her, instructing her to learn to use it, to grow close to it, to establish her authority over it so that it would serve her well. It had been more than eager to serve her. She was a true Drow woman, bad-tempered, powerful, and ready to take on the world. Even growing up under a pacifist father and being taught by a like-minded cousin, Rhia was still Drow, and Killian was eager to rule the Colony in her hand.
Rhia never celebrated her two-hundredth birthday.
An arrow whistled through the air, aimed for Rhia’s chest. The moment she heard it, even before her own instincts could act, Killian melted from her hands and surrounded her chest and face in armor. The arrow clanged as it hit the chest plate, the shaft shattering and dropping to the ground at her feet. It fell away from her again, splitting in two and gliding down into her hands. It formed into two scimitars, and Rhia descended the hill to overcome the company of Elves and Dragons below.
It was discovered the night before her birthday that she was not, in fact, a full-blooded Drow. She was half Wood Elf. No one cared that she wasn’t the daughter of the old Queen; but to be ruled by Wood blood, the blood of the people the Drow so passionately despised, was unacceptable. She was exiled. And Killian was dragged along with her, since Rhia had decided to grab it during her flight out of the Underground and onto the Surface. It was the second disgrace for Killian, the sword that had once ruled at the Queen’s hip. It would not be the last.
The blades never ceased to move, the nickname of Typhoon well-earned by the bountied half-breed. No move was wasted, each twist and flick of the wrist having a purpose. Nearly every move felled another soldier. She took on her share of injuries, but every potentially lethal blow was immediately defended against by Killian, which shifted from sword to armor and back to sword as quickly as one could blink. It would be minutes before that entire company was destroyed by that woman.
Despite the plethora of disgraces Killian would endure over the years, it obeyed. It had been passed on to Rhia, bonded to Rhia, needed her magick to exist. It needed her, too, to give birth to a child it could be compatible with, if it ever wanted to escape her grasp. Something it was absolutely sure of was that it was far better off with her than it was anywhere else. It had spent centuries in the custody of one of her enemies, forced to live out its days on a shelf or tucked away in a box – a few of which it had set fire to out of sheer boredom. While Rhia might not be the ideal wielder, at the very least she used it. She didn’t have to. She’d survived her years without it, using other, unenchanted weapons. She could have buried it or tossed it into the ocean where no one would ever find it. But she didn’t. Maybe it was only because of sentimentality, memory of her father; Killian didn’t care what it was. What mattered was that she used it. For that, alone, it protected her, and would continue to protect her, for as long as it was stuck with her.
I liked it. I like good fantasy stories. Is this just a stand-alone?