#peter dragonsbane

[apieters]

From my interviews with High Shepherd Yan: Some years after Peter Dragonsbane earned his name and slew the black dragon, when he was finally a man, he began raiding the coast of Heimar, freeing slaves in raids on the slave caravans of the ancient Thrallic Empire and scything down their captors with his terrible greatsword. Setting out in longboats, the Islanders of Peter's warband were able to sail far up the rivers of modern-day Centrevale, disembarking swiftly and outpacing all but the most elite of Thrallic cavalry. Over time, more and more longboats joined Peter's raiding parties and they began not just to free slaves, but attack the fortresses of the Thrallic nobility. This we know for certain. But a curious tale is so often told of the Dragonsbane by singers that many, even some of Peter's descendants, believe it. I myself don't know what to think, but given my own life experiences, I can say it smacks of a certain familiarity... It was said that as Peter grew up, he fell in love with a beautiful maiden. One day, the Prince of the Gods reappeared to Peter, and told him to rise up and lead a raid on a convoy of slavers that was prowling the Isles. While Peter was delighted to see the Prince of the Gods, he ultimately refused the Prince of the Gods' command. The stories differ on his motives, but I find it most plausible Peter simply thought that retreating to the woods and hiding until the raiders had past was more prudent--certainly, given what happened next and given his survival of the dragon-slaying, I very much doubt the versions that attribute it to cowardice. Yet I do suspect that a certain reluctance to take risk did accompany the love he felt for the maiden on whom his heart was set. But whatever the exact motivations, Peter did not obey the Prince of the Gods. The next day, as he was cutting wood for his forge, the Thrallic slavers raided his village. He ran down the mountain side, but he was too late--the village was burning, and his beloved was missing. Peter immediately snatched up Dragonsbane and jumped into the nearest longboat, sailing after the raiding party, but he could not catch up (he was either piloting the craft alone, or with a small crew of survivors). Only on the coast of Centrevale did Peter catch up with the raiding party. then attacked them and slaughtered the slavers to a man, slashing round and round with Dragonsbane in a mad fury like the wrath of a roused lion. But when he took stock of the captives as he lead them onto his longship, Peter's beloved was nowhere to be found. It was then that one of the villagers told him that his beloved had been captured and that the guards, seeing her beauty, had dishonored her. Unable to bear the shame and unwilling to return defiled, she had cast herself into the sea, swallowed up by the waves. Peter's grief was dark and terrible. He begged forgiveness of the Prince of the Gods, vowing never again to disobey his commands and to protect his people from the Thrallic slavers with all of his strength. It was only after the loss of his beloved that his regular raids began, and these he continued until the Thrallic Empire was driven from the continent of Heimar and the Free Kingdom of Heimar established. I know not how much truth is in this story, yet when I was chained in a slave caravan myself as a boy, I overheard, in jest, my Thrallic captors mention "the Raider from the Mists" who would come out of the darkness to "chop up your sorry corpses into mincemeat and stuff them into sausages." I assumed, at the time, that this figure was merely a sort of bogeyman, a story meant to frighten children. But having seen the wrath of Peter's descendant firsthand, I begin to wonder if perhaps the "Raider from the Mists" was more than the stuff of nightmares for the Thralls...

[urban-hart]

Doodles of Peter Dragonsbane for my half of an impromptu art trade with @apieters​!

Peter here is a man of heroic deeds who ascends into legend, and becomes the subject of many myths and much historical speculation in the world of Heimar. Such a Cool Dude TM, it’s almost unfair. Had great fun practicing digital coloring on him! :D

[kedreeva]

Any book recs? Fiction or nonfiction, personal favorites or books you think everyone should read (or both).

Personal favorites!

The Secret of Dragonhome by John Peele is a really awesome story about a young woman trying to play keep away from a draft to war between magical humans. She can talk to animals, and she spends most of the book on the run until she ends up at a castle called Dragonhome which is. Well. On the nose lol

The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle... It's not that long of a book but holy shit this story absolutely destroys me every time. The dialogue is something I can only ever aspire to. The way Beagle describes things is maybe the only thing in the world I've ever been truly envious of.

The Pit Dragon Chronicles by Jane Yolen... The basic premise is a world where breeding dragons to fight each other to the death in pits is a way of life and young boys are expected to try to steal eggs to raise and become trainers/breeders themselves, and our MC actually manages it but his dragon is mute (which would have gotten her culled), and in raising her he learns actually this is terrible we shouldn't be doing this to dragons, and starts the fight to end it.

Any of the Vladimir Taltos series by Steven Brust. Honestly I'm not sure these ones are good, but they're FUNNY. It's all first person, but it's literally first person because Vladimir is sitting in a room telling the author the stories, so all the stories feel like this snarky assassin telling you about his best shenanigans. Perfection. Also he has a pretty dragon named Loiosh who is the love of my life.

The first 2 (3?) books of Barbara Hambly's Winterlands series (Dragonsbane and Dragonshadow at least), before the author went through some things and took the series from high fantasy into dimension traveling sci fi out of nowhere?? Listen it was VERY strange. But it was the first fantasy book I ever read where the main character just was like. Actually kind of normal. Her name was Jennifer and she was a sort of a witch but really just a healer and there wasn't anything all that special about her except that she knew how to poison people and helped her husband (that was another cool thing she starts the series married with kids) poison some dragons, and then like 4 pages into book 1 he poisons Morkeleb, a very acerbic, snarky black dragon, and Jenny saves him and damns him in one go because he has to give her his true name for her to save him and he falls rather hopelessly and tragically in love with her, knowing full well she won't love him and that doesn't stop him from just... loving her. This book was my first taste of a lot of things, I will never forgive it for putting claws so deeply into my heart.

Highly recommend Stardust by Neil Gaiman. LOVELY adventure with a great voice.

The entire Dealing with Dragons series (the enchanted forest Chronicles) by Patricia Wrede is hilarious and SO GOOD. Cimorene was absolutely a character I looked up to so much as a kid. She's a princess, but she doesn't want to marry a price so she just fucking leaves, shows up in the dragons' mountains, and asks if one of them will let her in to cook and clean for them instead, and one of the dragons, Kazul, is just like sure sounds good and they eat an obscene amount of cherries jubilee because that's what cimorene knows how to make, and also Kazul is like best friends with the most wonderful witch, Morwen. Love it. Love everything about this series. They melt wizards temporarily with dish soap. Peak comedy.

There's probably more but I'm falling asleep!

[inclineto]

Books, January - February 2021

The Office of Historical Corrections - Danielle Evans *

Band Sinister - KJ Charles [mortifying certainty that the reason I like this one so much is because I want someone to tell me I’m lovely and then suggest some nice, affirming debauchery] *

The Dark is Rising - Susan Cooper *

The Once and Future Witches - Alix E. Harrow

Get a Life, Chloe Brown - Talia Hibbert

The Times I Knew I Was Gay - Eleanor Crewes

The Privileged Poor: How Elite Colleges are Failing Disadvantaged Students - Anthony Abraham Jack

Emotionally Weird - Kate Atkinson *

Well Met - Jen DeLuca [much like a Ren Faire, shamelessly enjoyable with only occasional moments of horrified second-hand embarrassment! (95% delightful; 5% the reenactors’ version of a kiss cam: hard no)]

The Knocker on Death’s Door - Ellis Peters

Rose Daughter - Robin McKinley

Kenda Mũiyũru = The Perfect Nine: The Epic of Gĩkũyũ and Mũmbi - Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o

An Intimate Economy: Enslaved Women, Work, and America’s Domestic Slave Trade - Alexandra J. Finley

Unfit to Print - KJ Charles

How Much of These Hills is Gold - C. Pam Zhang

The World Only Spins Forward: The Ascent of Angels in America - Isaac Butler and Dan Kois [what I learned from this book: I have never, not once, not even for a single day of my life, been well-rested enough to handle Tony Kushner; the man sounds exhausting]

Plain Bad Heroines - emily m. danforth

Death to the Landlords - Ellis Peters 

Well Played - Jen DeLuca [NO, STACEY, DUMP HIS ASS, OR AT LEAST TAKE A MORE SUBSTANTIAL PAUSE FOR SOME SERIOUS CONVERSATIONS ABOUT ETHICS (also, overall a very Second Book book: the world feels insubstantial, because it’s coasting on the settings and characters established in the first)]

Such a Fun Age - Kiley Reid [that last sentence, holy shit]

The King at the Edge of the World - Arthur Phillips

Take a Hint, Dani Brown - Talia Hibbert [awwwwwww <3]

Arctic Dreams: Imagination and Desire in a Northern Landscape - Barry Lopez [I kept thinking about what this book would be like if it had been written today, with the benefit of almost 40 more years of indigenous scholarship and decolonizing methodologies: you can feel it almost getting there...but not quite. And then there’s the accumulated data about climate change; it is wild to read a book about the Arctic where the presence of ice is assumed to be permanent, and the primary environmental concerns are very localized questions about the possibility of industry changing habitat. But then there are phrases like this: “The individual’s dream, whether it be so private a wish as that the joyful determination of nesting arctic birds might infuse a distant friend weary of life...”]

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab [manic pixie dream boy; AO3 house style; dnf]

In Winter’s Shadow - Gillian Bradshaw

Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters

Dragonsbane - Barbara Hambly

A Memory Called Empire - Arkady Martine [on rereading: my very favorite details are the nicknames, maybe Map most of all (Map!!)] *

Glass Town: The Imaginary World of the Brontës - Isabel Greenberg

Second Nature: A Gardener’s Education - Michael Pollan

World Made By Hand - James Howard Kunstler [White Men And Their Problems (Post-Oil Edition); very bad, not entertainingly; dnf]

The Liar’s Dictionary - Eley Williams *

A Taste of Honey - Rose Lerner [look, all I’m saying is that if you’re going to use your commercial kitchen implements in such a fashion, you’d better have made that a dedicated pegging pestle]

On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes - Alexandra Horowitz

City of Gold and Shadows - Ellis Peters

Temporary - Hilary Leichter

Bitter Orange - Claire Fuller

All or Nothing - Rose Lerner

Busman’s Honeymoon - Dorothy L. Sayers

Interior Chinatown - Charles Yu

The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting - KJ Charles

[rhetoricandlogic]

So, this was 2016 in terms of books (incl. December List)

I’m going to make a top-something-or-other separately, so I can dwell a little on my faves 2016 without making this post even longer than it is. 

Here’s what I read this year (as always, the links lead to the reviews, titles without links = the less said about them, the better):

The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet - Becky Chambers (December)

The Towers Trilogy - Radiant - Karina Sumner Smith (December)

The Towers Trilogy - Defiant - Karina Sumner Smith

The Towers Trilogy - Tower’s Fall - Karina Sumner Smith

The Lie Tree - Frances Hardinge

A Face Like Glass - Frances Hardinge

Cuckoo Song - Frances Hardinge

Alif the Unseen - G. Willow Wilson

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Madel

The Two of Swords (XII) - K. J. Parker

Servant of the Underworld - Aliette de Bodard

Harbinger of the Storm - Aliette de Bodard

Master of the House of Darts - Aliette de Bodard

Pantomime - Laura Lam (DNF)

Fly by Night - Frances Hardinge

The Invisible Library - Genevieve Cogman

Touch - Claire North

Dragonsbane (Winterlands I) - Barbara Hambley

Dragonshadow (Winterlands II) - Barbara Hambley

Just One Damned Thing After Another - Jodi Taylor

A Symphony of Echoes - Jodi Taylor

A Second Chance - Jodi Taylor

A Trail Through Time - Jodi Taylor

No Time Like The Past - Jodi Taylor

Patient Zero - Tananarive Due

What Could Possibly Go Wrong  Jodi Taylor

The Drowning Eyes - Emily Foster

The Two of Swords - K. J. Parker

The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell

The Seventh Bride - T. Kingfisher

City of Blades - Robert Jackson Benett

To Be Read Upon Your Waking - Robert Jackson Benett

Dreamsnake - Vonda N. McIntyre

Please Don’t Tell My Parents I’ve Got Henchmen - Richard Roberts

The Devil You Know - K.J. Parker

Fly Trap - Frances Hardinge

The Bullet-Catcher’s Daughter (The Fall of The Gas-Lit Empire I) - Rod Duncan

Unseemly Science (The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire II) - Rod Duncan

Custodian of Marvels (The Fall of the Gas-Lit Empire III) - Rod Duncan

The Two of Swords (XIV) - K. J. Parker

Heaven Thunders the Truth - K. J. Parker

Against a Dark Background - Iain M. Banks

Verdigris Deep - Frances Hardinge

Gullstruck Island - Frances Hardinge

The Masked City - Genevieve Cogman

The War - D. Rus

The Things We Do For Love - K. J. Parker

The Bridge - Iain M. Banks

The Mirror Empire - Kameron Hurley

The Algebraist - Iain M. Banks

Way Station - Clifford D. Symak

The Folding Knife - K.J. Parker (reread)

A Halo of Mushrooms - Andrew Hiller

the princess saves herself in this one - Amanda Lovelace

The Two of Swords (XV) - K. J. Parker

The Dungeoneers - Jeffrey Russel

Adulthood is a Myth - Sarah C. Andersen

The Slime Dungeon - Silvia Lew

Fellside - M. R. Carey

Sharps - K. J. Parker (reread)

The Goblin Reservation - Clifford D. Simak

The Book of Strange New Things - Michel Faber

The Boy Who Drew Monsters - Keith Donohue

To Say Nothing of The Dog - Connie Willis

Who Killed Sherlock Holmes (Shadowpolice 3) - Paul Cornell

The Doomsday Book - Connie Willis

Leviathan Wakes - James S. A. Corey

The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K. LeGuin

Dark Orbit - Carolyn Ives Gilman

Cold Hillside - Nancy Baker

Downbelow Station - C. S. Cherryh

Song for the Basilisk - Patricia McKillip

Ombria in Shadow - Patricia McKillip

Od Magic - Patricia McKillip

Solstice Wood - Patricia McKillip

The Changeling Sea - Patricia McKillip

The Riddle-Master of Hed - Patricia McKillip

Heir of Sea and Fire - Patricia McKillip

Harpist in the Wind - Patricia McKillip

Planetfall - Emma Newmann

God’s War - Kameron Hurley

Hammerfall - C.J. Cherryh

The Vagrant - Peter Newmann

The Malice - Peter Newmann

The Bees - Laline Paull

In the Forests of Serre - Patricia McKillip

Hunters & Collectors - Matt Suddain

NineFox Gambit - Yoon Ha Lee

The Wrath & The Dawn - Renée Ahdieh

The Philosopher Kings - Jo Walton

The Bell at Sealy Head - Patricia McKillip

The Alphabet of Thorn - Patricia McKillip

The Bards of Bone Plain - Patricia McKillip

The Tower of Stony Wood - Patricia McKillip

The Race - Nina Allen

The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet - David Mitchell

The Prestige - Christopher Priest

The Sorceress and the Cygnet - Patricia McKillip

Between Two Fires - Christopher Buehlmann

Dark Matter - Blake Crouch

The Lost Child of Lychford - Paul Cornell

The Man Who Was Thursday, a nightmare - G. K. Chesterton

The Affirmation - Christopher Priest

The Inverted World - Christopher Priest

The Book of the Unnamed Midwife - Meg Elison

The Glamour - Christopher Priest

Lexicon - Max Berry

The Library at Mount Char - Scott Hawkins

Kill Process - William Hertling

Avogadro Corp - William Hertling

A.I. Apocalypse - William Hertling

The Last Firewall - William Hertling

Nickel Plated - Aric Davis

[apieters]

*

This roughly captures a few of the general looks I imagine when I think of my character Peter the Marshal—with and without helmets, since that is one of the most important pieces of armor and one of the first to be traded away by main characters of movies everywhere for what I can only assume is Plot Armor.

The farthest left is how I imagine the ancient armor of the Isles, in the era of original Peter Dragonsbane—mail shirts over a padded gambeson, but not much else. It’s supposed to be reminiscent of the early medieval period, from the fall of the Western Roman Empire to the Crusades, the era of figures like King Arthur, Charlemagne, the Vikings, William the Conquerer, and Somerled. This style of armor would still be worn by the relatively backwards forest clans in Peter the Marshal’s day.

The middle kit represents the more “modern” armor of Peter the Marshal’s day that would typically be worn by an average Islander, or by the Marshal when engaged in naval warfare or raiding. The main protection is a jack-of-plates and a few armored pieces on the upper body, but not much else. Even the plaid is draped across the heart and belted in place to add a bit of extra protection, but mostly it’s to keep the plaid from getting tangled.

The right represents Peter the Marshal’s full pitched-battle harness. A short surcoat bearing Peter’s coat of arms (a lion or on a field of azure) is worn over a cuirass, with full plate protection on the arms and legs.

The bascinet helmet without a visor is favored by Islanders as it allows greater field of view and breathability.

Like all Islanders, Peter always carries a large dirk. He is armed also with his ancestral great sword, Dragonsbane.

[apieters]

From my interviews with High Shepherd Yan:

Peter the Marshal? Of course I knew him! And oh, how I miss him to this day.

Many years have gone by, and I am no longer the little boy of 12 or 13 that I was when I met him—as you can plainly see. I see nothing plainly anymore, not in front of these dim old eyes. But I still see him, plain as day. “He is more real to me than you are,” I still remember an old master saying once, or something to that effect. I understand him now—would that Peter had gotten the chance…

The Kingdom of Heimar remembers well the great warrior-prince, charging dismounted with his men, his greatsword Dragonsbane in hand. The Lord of the Isles, they called him by right of birth; the Marshal of Heimar he became at Torin’s proclamation; the Lion’s Cub, they call him in some of the ballads—he was never fond of bards and troubadours, but never seemed to mind that particular moniker. Everyone remembers the stern, strong warrior, the man who exercised the authority of a king, with his auburn beard and red-gold hair, girded in dented armor and a tattered surcoat, ready to lead the charge at the decisive moment of a battle, with Dragonsbane whistling through the air, ready to cleave its way to victory.

But that is not the face I see now. No, before my mind’s eye I see a round-faced youth, with smooth cheeks and shaggy red-gold hair, his shoulders broad from hammering at a smith’s anvil, armored only in a heavy leather apron. I remember his tattered old plaid that he wore in defiance of the bans whenever he could, the pride and the gravity that came over him when he placed his lordly circlet of red gold upon his brow.

He didn’t smile much then, for then he had little to smile about. When I first met him, it was perhaps the darkest point in his life—seven years he and Torin had hidden themselves as itinerant laborers, wandering all over Heimar to remain unrecognized and undetected by Tiberian and his spies after the cowardly assassination of Peter’s father, Claas Perseyn, the Red Lion. We mustn’t be too harsh when we judge him in that era—the sole survivor of an ancient and noble lineage, living in fear for his life everyday, unable to mourn the death of the one who meant the world to him. What is truly the miracle—and he and I later thanked Torin every day for this—is that when I met him, he had any human compassion left at all.

And yet, after I had been kidnapped from my home in Pushta and taken north to Alpan, there to be sold as a slave in the mines, it was Peter who noticed me crying on the auction block. It was Peter who bartered away a precious dragonsteel blade—worth twice its weight in gold, if one was a miser and a cheat—that he had forged in secret in order to buy back our lives. I only latter learned the great danger he exposed himself to, for only the Lords of the Isles could forge such blades, and in trading such a blade would have alerted anyone with any sense that the Red Lion’s cub was still alive. Fortunately, the slaver’s avarice outweighed his common sense, and he sold us all to Peter on the spot—and Peter freed us right then and there, in front of the slaver’s face.

Like all slaves, I was stripped to the waist (so that the slave drivers could flog us at a moment’s notice), even in the winter. After freeing me, Peter singled me out and wrapped his plaid around me and lead me to his smithy to warm up. He did not show me any other particular affection, and certainly did not smile. Yet we have a saying here in Heimar—perhaps you have a similar saying in your distant land—which says, “The heart lies in the hands.” Some foolish minstrels say that the eyes are the window to the heart, or other such nonsense. They are wrong. A man’s heart is revealed by what he does with his hands, not with his eyes or his tongue. Peter’s face betrayed nothing to me that cold late winter’s day of the noble character that made him almost a king later in life. His tongue, dare I say, was gruff and harsh. But his hands—his hands were gentle and tender, the hands of a father or a skillful craftsman.

And so he proved to be.

[apieters]

My half of an art trade with the talented @urban-hart , who drew the lovely sketch of Peter Dragonsbane I reblogged earlier https://urban-hart.tumblr.com/post/688237822524669952/doodles-of-peter-dragonsbane-for-my-half-of-an. I hope it properly expresses my appreciation.

This is her wolf character, Alex. According to @urban-hart , Alex grew up poor in a broken home in a rough neighborhood and is an abrasive, functioning alcoholic. He works as a mechanic and is trying to unlearn some of his unhealthy coping mechanisms, but has some loyal friends and a tough mechanic mentor to help him along the way. I guess he’s still at the beginning of his journey here, though, judging by all the clutter.

Don’t worry, buddy—we all believe in you, and in everyone struggling with addictions of all kinds.

[apieters]

Nightfall

“Tristan,” Peter the Marshal said after the trestles and tables had been put away. 

“Sir?” Tristan Martel asked. The 15-year old boy finished replacing the table bench along the side of the great hall and ran to his foster-father’s side.

“Come with me,” The Marshal of Heimar and Lord of the Isles said. “I want to speak to you in private.”

“Ooh, someone’s in trouble,” Michael Agrippa joked in a sing-song voice. Tristan shoved his foster-brother playfully, then trotted up to the great warrior’s side. 

“Is everything alright, Father?” Tristan asked.

“Yes,” the Lord of the Isles said. “I just wanted your personal opinion on something. Come with me.”

Peter lead his foster son down into the vaults of the castle of Aesirert, to the armory. 

“Why are we here?” Tristan asked.

“I had a question that only you can answer, and it concerns something in the armory,” the Marshal said. 

Tristan was puzzled. What could the Marshal of Heimar, the commander of the kingdom’s armies against the Thrallic Empire, not know that Tristan would? Tristan understood many things about war—hand-to-hand combat, troop deployments and maneuvering, logistics, seige warfare and even the use of cannons. But everything he knew, he’d learned from Peter. Again, he wracked his brains—what could the Marshal want to know from him? Perhaps there were some blueprints to look at, Tristan decided, and he needed a second opinion.

He looked up at his foster father, trying to read his face. Peter the Marshal was usually a serious man, a soldier and general who did not smile without reason. But Tristan, in the light of the candles that the Marshal used to light their way, saw Peter’s lips bending upwards, his cheeks firm and set, as if trying to hold his composure.

Peter unlocked the armory doors and the two walked inside. Tristan took in the sight. Ballista bolts, spears, and arrows lined the walls of the vaulted, cavernous stone hall. Down the center were large tables full of iron scrap and bars and pieces, but every so often, there was the satin sheen of a dragon scale—the raw materials of the Lords’ of the Isles legendary dragonsteel. The Marshal’s sons by blood, Reikert and Hendrick Marshal, had learned the secrets of making dragonsteel since their youth. It was an arduous process that took patience, skill, and even—so it was whispered—magic from the Prince of the Gods himself, but none could deny that the metal wrought by melting a dragon scale and iron together produced the finest blades in the world. They were nigh indestructible, never rusted, never needed sharpening, and never lost their temper. Only a dragonsteel blade could pierce or cut a dragon’s armor, not to mention steel plate.

Tristan noted that the bolts, arrows, and spears all had heads of dragonsteel. The Marshals’ legendary ancestor, Peter Dragonsbane, had gained his name by slaying a dragon with the first dragonsteel blade, the greatsword also named Dragonsbane. His descendants too, had made names for themselves slaying dragons—including the Marshal himself—but the ancient Peter’s exploits were unique, and his descendants turned to more pragmatic means of subduing the great beasts that occasionally flew out from the volcanic mountains of the northern Isles. That mean ballistas, arrows, hooks, chains and pikes. 

While Tristan was busy thinking about the ordinance standing in racks along the walls, Peter the Marshal did not pay them any mind at all and strode down the hall to another locked set of doors. Tristan wanted to ask why they were not stopping to talk about the ballista bolts, but he figured that he would learn the answer soon enough and scampered after his foster-father.

Peter unlocked the great set of doors and said, “In here.” Tristan followed his foster-father through the doors and saw a sight that dazzled his eyes—a room full of dragonsteel swords and daggers, the finest weapons of their kind. Blades of every shape and size rested in tall racks or hung mounted on hooks on the wall. Some sat in their scabbards, richly tooled in fine leather and decorated chapes, and some were bare. The bare blades ranged in color from dark and smokey to bright and shiny, tinted with the color of dragon’s scale from which they’d been forged, black and red and blue and green and gold. The hilts were often richly decorated, encrusted with gold and silver and copper filigree and jewels of every color, though some were plain in form and devoid of jewels, but the hilts were themselves made of precious dragonsteel.

“The weapons of my ancestors,” Peter said, in reverent awe. “Each one has a story—tales of deeds that shaped our kingdom, tales of glory and tragedy, tales of heroes and villains.”

Tristan stood in stunned silence. The swords seemed to be alive with the souls of the Perseyns, the Lords of the Isles and their sons and daughters. Peter the Marshal closed his eyes, whispering a prayer to Torin, Prince of the Gods, as he touched several blades reverently. 

Tristan followed his foster-father’s movements, not daring to move a muscle lest he disturb the sanctity of the place, when Peter took down one particular sword from the wall.

It was a longsword, a knightly sword that reminded Tristan of the swords popular amongst Centrevalian knights—a long, slender cut-and-thrust blade gracefully tapering to a wicked point. Its hilt was long enough to fit two hands, but it was short enough to use comfortably single-handed. Tristan knew it would be balanced accordingly, light and graceful and responsive to its wielder. But most striking was the hilt—a dragon wrought in red gold, whose long, outstretched wings formed the gently down-swept quillons, its neck the grip, and its head the pommel, with two small rubies set as the dragon’s eyes. It rested in a scabbard of fine black leather, with red-gold chapes and a red dragon twisting its way around the scabbard.

Tristan looked at Peter. The Marshal clenched the hilt and scabbard so tightly his powerful arms shuddered, and suddenly Tristan realized exactly what his foster father was holding in his hands.

“Is that...Nightfall?” Tristan asked in a whisper.

Peter nodded. The Lord of the Isles said nothing for a long time, though in his solid frame Tristan detected that same hidden, roiling passion and tumult that makes the sea dangerous even on a calm and sunny day.

The history of Tiberian the Wicked, the Red Dragon, persisted in infamous memory; the valor of Peter’s father—Claas Perseyn, the Red Lion—was now told in song; and the great drama of Peter the Marshal and Torin Capintyre...all of it was well-known across Heimar, but seeing the dead traitor-king’s sword in the hands of Claas Perseyn’s son reminded Tristan just how personal the conflict between the traitor-king and the Lords of the Isles was to his foster-father.

“I helped my father forge this sword,” Peter finally said, quietly. “He taught me the secrets of dragonsteel as he forged this blade. I brought him food and drink as he worked tirelessly, day and night, for months. I helped him pump the bellows as he sang the Song of the Forge. He even let me hammer the dragonsteel as it burned hot on the anvil. He poured his soul, his heart, into this blade...”

Peter paused. What passed through his mind in that moment, Tristan could only guess. Was he thinking of Tiberian slaying his father with that blade? Did he imagine the Red Dragon sweeping through the Isles, cutting down the rebellious Islanders? Did he think of the sword at Tiberian’s hip as he watched the death of Torin Capintyre? Or perhaps Peter thought back to the Seige of Aesirert, when he swung the ancient greatsword Dragonsbane and knocked Nightfall out of the Red Dragon’s hands as Tiberian fell back, blinded by Torin’s glory?

Peter suddenly drew the sword. The blade was dark and smokey, almost black even in the cavernous armory, yet the light of the candles glinted off the metal, setting it almost ablaze. He twisted the sword in his hand, looking it up and down, then offered the blade, hilt-first, to Tristan. “Feel it,” he said.

Tristan reached out and grabbed the sword. It was magnificent, truly a blade fit for a king. The boy had never felt anything like it. It was everything a sword should be—light, swift, yet strong and commanding. He tested the balance and heft. It had an energy to it, a liveliness—it wanted to move, to swing and fly from guard to guard in the motions of combat. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly. 

“Do you like it? The balance, the hilt?”

Tristan pondered. “The balance is flawless,” he said. “But the hilt seems too beautiful to use in combat. This blade was made for the battlefield. It should have a hilt to match.”

“A plainer design, perhaps?”

“That would be my personal taste, yes.”

Tristan sheathed the sword and offered the sword back to Peter, but Peter gently pushed it away, back into Tristan’s hands. 

“This sword carries the spirit of its maker, a spirit of goodness and greatness. But it is tainted by a dark legacy.” He closed his foster-son’s fingers around the grip. “My father’s sword needs a strong hand to guide her. An honorable heart to wield her. And I cannot think of anyone more worthy of the task than you.”

Tristan gasped. “Me?”

“You risked your life to save Reikert. Your brother. My heir.”

“But, this should be Reikert’s, or Hendrick’s—your blood-born sons’.” He pushed the sword back again toward Peter, but the Marshal resisted, pushing it back toward Tristan.

“Reikert will inherit Dragonsbane,” Peter said, “Don’t be jealous on his part. As for Hendrick...” He shook his head. “I stand by what I said. I trust your hand to wield it. Yours, Tristan.” He knelt in front of his foster son, his great hands clasped about the boy’s. Tristan felt his foster-father’s hands trembling as he looked Tristan square in the face, his sea-green eyes moist and glassy. “Tristan Martel,” he asked quietly, “will you bring honor back to my father’s sword?”

Tristan held Nightfall in his hands, trying to convince himself it was real. “I...I’m not worthy...” he said. “What if I fail?”

“You won’t fail. Because you’re a good man, Tristan Martel.”

Tristan knelt before his foster-father. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“I know, my son,” Peter said, letting go of the sword and embracing the boy. “I know.”

——————————————————————

A couple weeks later, in front of the whole court, Peter the Marshal knighted his four sons, tapping each on the shoulder with Dragonsbane. When he came to his Centrevalin foster-son, he presented his father’s sword to Tristan Martel, buckling it around the teen’s waist himself. The dragon hilt was no more—the new hilt was a simpler, rugged design made of dragonsteel, a soldier’s weapon. Only Tristan and Peter could detect, vaguely, the shape of the old dragon’s head and wings. As Tristan drew the new sword for the first time, a cheer arose from the court, and his brothers Reikert Marshal and Michael Agrippa cheered loudest of all. And behind them all stood Peter the Marshal and his Lady Katerina, silent and smiling. 

His father’s sword was in good hands, Peter thought to himself as he gazed upon his sons. At long last, his father’s sword was in good hands.

[apieters]

The Duel on the Beach

From my interviews with High Shepherd Yan

After nearly two years of war, Tristan Martel and Reikert the Marshal had fought each other to a bloody standstill. Then came the cruel Siege of Abysombre. Cut off from land and reinforcements by the Low Tide Causeway, nearly half of Reikert’s army was wiped out, trapped between the high castle walls of the besieged and the stormy seas, where naval reinforcement or escape was impossible.

It was in the wake of this disastrous defeat that Reikert and his brother, Hendrick, met on a nearby cove for a secret meeting. The two sons of Peter the Marshal needed peace and quiet in order to discuss their next moves. And it was here that Hendrick made a bold and desperate proposal—broker for peace. Hendrick may have been the son of Peter the Marshal, but he was not his father. His gifts were in politics and negotiation, not war. And in that moment, war had done all it could do, and failed. Now, Hendrick argued, it was time to pursue peace his way. What was the point of fighting on and on if it only lead to death? What was honorable about dragging out the inevitable?

This was untenable to Reikert. Perhaps a younger version of him would have agreed with his brother. But Reikert had seen too much suffering at Tristan’s hands to tolerate him any longer. His noble compassion been hardened, forged in the fires of war into an iron-willed determination to bring his foster-brother to justice, and here the spirit of his father and grandfather shone through. Reikert swore that he would continue to fight, to join his foster-brother Michael in rescuing as many as he could from Tristan’s clutches, even if he had to follow the Dragonsbane’s way and become a hounded outlaw. He commanded his brother to consider how best it might be accomplished, but never to consider surrender.

But alas, the discussion progressed no farther. For who had scaled down the bluffs but Tristan Martel himself! The Black Knight was alone, unarmored, carrying only his cursed black sword and a long dagger, but these he drew, ready to cut off his enemies’ army at the head.

Only the duel between Tristan and Michael could have been more violent, more fierce, but never had the Black Knight fought with such wrath. Reikert and Hendrick attacked him at once, but he swept his black blade from side to side, parrying the flurry of strikes from the two Marshal brothers with sword and dagger, then launching furious attacks of his own. The Black Knight did his best to separate the two brothers, bearing down on one while the other was a few extra steps off, but the Marshals always rallied to each other’s defense.

Until it was that Reikert knocked Tristan’s sword out of his hand. Tristan threw a fist-full of sand in Reikert’s eyes and rushed in, grabbing his arm and wrenching it back, dislocating Reikert’s shoulder. But before he could kill Reikert with his dagger, Hendrick ran up behind him, ready to strike the Black Knight down. Quick as a lighting, Tristan parried with his dagger and grabbed Hendrick’s arm, twisting his sword out of his hand and grappling the younger Marshal.

When Reikert had managed to recover his sword, Tristan had Hendrick on his knees, his dagger at Hendrick’s throat.

“Surrender now, Reikert,” Tristan said in that horrible growl that made him sound more like an animal than a man, “or I cut his throat.”

Hendrick knelt, frozen, in the sand. His eyes were wide. His hands trembled. Tears fell from his eyes as he lingered on the edge of death—death, which he regarded as the greatest of evils—in the hands of a brutal and ruthless killer.

“Brother…please…” Hendrick whispered.

Reikert and Hendrick’s relationship had been contentious for many years, but in that moment all Reikert saw was his little brother, begging for his life.

Reikert surrendered, and within hours was chained in the dungeons of Abysombre as Hendrick escaped to the Isles.

Behind the Scenes

This is one of the tent-pole scenes of my story about the Black Knight and his Reign of Terror. It’s a very clear scene in my mind—the characters, the setting, how everyone got there, everything. It’s also the first of three key scenes with Tristan in the last act. I’ve actually drawn the second scene, but I’ll leave it a mystery which one of my old drawings that is…

This was one of those rare moments when I knew exactly what to draw, and the result ended up being almost exactly what I imagined (it’s never perfect, but that’s just life).

A note on Tristan’s eyes. It was difficult to give him that Kubrick Stare, but again, I was able to get it exactly how I wanted, including the dark circle under his eyes. They aren’t just there to make him look evil, there’s actually a plot justification for those-Tristan can’t sleep. Or rather, he won’t fall asleep unless he has to, because when he does he has nightmares about all the people he’s murdered and tortured.

It is my contention that evil is not fun or pleasurable in the end, though it always promises to give us the happiness we crave most. By this time, Tristan does not enjoy his life, not one bit. He knows he’s doing the wrong thing, and that all it’s lead to is isolation and the hatred of every living soul in Heimar. He’s just so far down the path of evil, he figures he’s got nowhere else to go but forward. If he can’t be happy, he might as well be victorious.

[apieters]

Katerina Marshal, Lady of the Isles

From my interviews with High Shepherd Yan:

Katerina Marshal, Lady of the Isles...ah, another dear friend I miss. I first met her when she was Princess Katerina Bender of Alpan, the daughter of Prince Otto Bender, one of the six Princes of Heimar. Oh, I'm sorry, you are a stranger here, you don't understand: the Lord of the Isles is a Prince of Heimar, equal to the Princes of Alpan, Centrevale, Eastan, Costa and Pushta. But Peter Dragonsbane and his descendants never took the title of Prince, only styling themselves "Lord" of the Isles. But Katerina Marshal was one of Torin's followers, and the love of Peter the Marshal's life. The children were betrothed by their fathers as a peace treaty, ending the war caused by Lord Claas's father, Magnus the Black. Such marriages are rarely happy, but Claas and Otto were kind men and attentive fathers, and they raised their children as childhood friends who visited frequently, and Katerina and Peter grew to love each other deeply. When Claas was assassinated and Peter went into hiding, Katerina's heart was closed to every suitor but Peter, and those who did not know her found her to be as cold and icy as the mountain crags of her native Alpan--but that was only to those who knew her not. As she followed Torin across Heimar, Katerina's wisdom in matters of judgement and her practical planning made her invaluable. We were never without food, nor did our purses run dry, thanks to her prudence. When Tiberian the Wicked attacked the great castle of Aesirert, it was her preparations that allowed the garrison to withstand the siege, and Aesirert became the rock on which the Red Dragon was finally and forever broken. When Peter became Lord of the Isles and Marshal of Heimar, Lady Katerina was in every way his equal. No decision was made without consulting with her, and many a summer campaign saw Lady Katerina ruling the Isles in her husband's name while he drove the Thrallic Empire off the continent. Just as many campaigns, however, saw her in Peter's tent, holding audience with lords and ladies and forging the diplomatic alliances necessary for Peter to continue the Reconquest of Heimar and set up the peace we now enjoy. She was an attentive mother to her children, Reikert and Hendrick, and when Peter all but disowned his younger son, Katerina did not. When she finally succumbed to the plague, the entire Kingdom of Heimar mourned for her. Some say that it was not the same plague which killed Peter the Marshal, but a broken heart. I was one of the few who knew them best--I cannot say, this time, that the minstrels are entirely wrong.

[apieters]

Reikert the Marshal

Marshal of Heimar and Lord of the Isles

From my interviews with High Shepherd Yan:

Reikert was the oldest son of Peter the Marshal, my close friend, and if ever there was a worthy successor to the Lion of the Isles, it was his son. Reikert was born in the midst of the Reconquest of Heimar and spent his childhood attending to his father as his personal page and squire, learning the ways of leadership from first-hand observation. A tall, handsome, strapping youth, Reikert made friends easily and won hearts wherever he went—unlike his rather cold, calculating younger brother Hendrick. While he enjoyed the favor of all who met him, his closest companions were his brothers—Hendrick, his brother by blood, and his foster brothers, the Centrevalian Tristan Martel and the Costian Michael Agrippa. The four sons of Peter the Marshal were instrumental in ending the Reconquest, for Reikert, having been taken captive as an anonymous slave, opened up the gates of Laguna, the last stronghold of the Thrallic Empire in Heimar, from the inside, with the help of his brothers. Such was his lordly grace that he even managed to win over the hearts of his owners, Lucius Vespasian Valerius, and his daughter Serena, whom he married after his victory and who was to be the love of his life.

Alas, happiness was to be fleeting throughout his life. A plague swept across the land of Heimar, and among its victims were Reikert’s mother, Lady Katerina of the Isles, and his father, Peter the Marshal, not a fortnight after. The great warrior died not in the battlefield but in his bed, not even fifty years of age, his life cut short at the height of his powers. But he died having completed his life’s mission to drive the slave-based Thrallic Empire out of Heimar, and as he passed the ancestral sword Dragonsbane to Reikert, he charged the young man to keep the hard-won peace, as he assumed the mantle of Marshal of Heimar.

Yet the task Reikert was charged to uphold would prove perilously difficult, and danger would come from the most intimate of betrayals—the civil war known as the Reign of Terror would prove his first and greatest test of leadership, and its instigator would be none other than his own foster-brother, Tristan Martel, thereafter known as the Black Knight.

[apieters]

Writing Journal, 15 June 2022

Thought I ought to keep a writing journal—I mean, it’s right there in my description.

Writing is a hobby, so I only do it when I’m not busy with work, study, social life, church, etc. I am choosing to be okay with this.

That being said, I’m making some progress.

Swashbucklers of the Magic Kingdom

This is my main project right now, my Disney fan fiction project that I’ve been working on since 2015. It’s doing it’s job of teaching me how to write. The story ran out of steam a little more than halfway through—too many loose ends, important plot points weren’t set up, some parts just weren’t carrying much story weight when they needed to, etc.

I rewrote the first episode/installment, and I think it’s setting things up a little better. Now, I’m taking a break from being a pantser, and trying to be a plotter. Outlines don’t work for me, but synopses do. I also realized I have to write the endgame first in order to write the first half of the story—basically, I need to figure out what each installment in the first half needs to set up to pay off in the second half. And since it is pretty neatly divided by a major action sequence involving The Hunchback of Notre Dame’s Palace of Justice, I find this a surprisingly easy task. I’m writing the synopsis in my Notes app, so I can punch out a few ideas here and there before bed.

I also divided this outlining by subplot, which in my story is divided up by certain characters. Right now, I’m working on the main subset of characters—Chris, André, and Kopa and the former two’s mission to protect the latter. A second subplot involves Mufasa reaching out to Scar to try and mend their broken relationship as brothers, which does play a key role in furthering the main plot. That’s probably all the story should handle in terms of actions with lasting character consequences—like I said, trying to trim down unnecessary plot threads.

Peter and the Dragon

The founding legend of the Perseyn/Marshal family of Heimar. I decided a while back to embed Heimar creation myth within this story in the form of a song, since I tend to view the Abrahamic creation story in much the same way—a true story, but highly stylized and formatted to the point where the movie playing in your head is almost certainly not what the hypothetical video camera footage of the events would have looked like. But that was never the point anyway—the accounts are clearly a joyous celebration of the creation act, not a dry administrative report.

Which means I have to write a poem.

I am stuck.

And need to practice more writing.

The Sons of Peter the Marshal

Jumping ahead several centuries in Heimar’s history, Peter Dragonsbane’s descendant Peter the Marshal is arguably the most central figure of my fantasy mythos. But I know the life stories of his sons a lot better. And yes, that’s because I am stealing plot points from my Swashbucklers of the Magic Kingdom project—I’m working darn hard on that plot, I’m not going to waste it.

I started hammering out a scene from the four brothers’ youth, where they come up with a plot to break a siege before their father can order a costly assault. I realized I’m going to have to start drawing maps.

Drat.

[apieters]

“Il s’est battu comme un maelstrom”

[apieters]

Peter the Marshal, Lord of the Isles, depicted normally and personified (fursonified?) as his heraldic animal—the Islandic lion. In the background is his ancestral castle of Aesirert. He carries Dragonsbane, the dragonsteel greatsword of his ancestor, Peter Dragonsbane.

The Isles are home to a still-healthy population of Islandic lions. They are among the top predators on the Isles, rivaled only by dragons. But while dragons are considered the most powerful animal of Heimar, the lion is considered the most noble. Islanders respect the lions’ living in prides, believing that it mirrors their own strong commitment to family and clan, and they are not generally considered the threat to humans that dragons are. It is also the heraldic symbol of the Prince of the Gods, ever since the days of Peter Dragonsbane, who appeared as a stranger wearing a badge with a golden lion.

The lion was also the heraldic badge of Peter’s father, Claas Perseyn, the previous Lord of the Isles. When Tiberian I united the free Kingdom of Heimar with the slave-holding Thrallic Empire, Claas painted a red lion on his shield and banners, symbolizing his allegiance to the Prince of the Gods but also the unworthiness he felt to bear the Prince of the Gods’ own golden lion, due to his role in supporting Tiberian (albeit before his treacherous nature was revealed). Claas was nicknamed the Red Lion due to his coat of arms and his prowess in battle. 

After Claas’s assassination, Peter was adopted by Torin Capintyre, the Prince of the Gods, and in Torin’s honor adopted the golden lion as his coat of arms. The golden lion head on a blue field is the coat of arms of the Marshals of Heimar to this day.

[apieters]

I posted 80 times in 2021

39 posts created (49%)

41 posts reblogged (51%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 1.1 posts.

I added 215 tags in 2021

#sketch - 36 posts

#cartoon - 33 posts

#cartoon characters - 32 posts

#character art - 28 posts

#original character - 25 posts

#sword - 15 posts

#anthropomorphic lion - 14 posts

#anthro lion - 12 posts

#leo king - 10 posts

#rapier - 10 posts

Longest Tag: 54 characters

#almond milk lattes will now be named “crusader lattes”

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

In another universe, Dr. Chris Carnovo is older, wiser, and a professor of Renaissance history at the local university. He’s also the maestro of the local historical fencing club. One of his colleagues, Audrey King, has a teenage son named Luke whom Chris has decided to teach the art of 17th century Italian rapier. Luke just so happens to be the cousin of Leo King, the boxing Lion character I created. So yeah—my characters all know each other and are related to each other.

Here, Chris demonstrate to Luke the geometric principles of the inquartata. Luke is now a little more motivated to trust Chris’s instructions.

9 notes • Posted 2021-06-17 06:41:13 GMT

#4

See the full post

10 notes • Posted 2021-08-18 05:57:25 GMT

#3

Peter the Marshal, Lord of the Isles, depicted normally and personified (fursonified?) as his heraldic animal—the Islandic lion. In the background is his ancestral castle of Aesirert. He carries Dragonsbane, the dragonsteel greatsword of his ancestor, Peter Dragonsbane.

The Isles are home to a still-healthy population of Islandic lions. They are among the top predators on the Isles, rivaled only by dragons. But while dragons are considered the most powerful animal of Heimar, the lion is considered the most noble. Islanders respect the lions’ living in prides, believing that it mirrors their own strong commitment to family and clan, and they are not generally considered the threat to humans that dragons are. It is also the heraldic symbol of the Prince of the Gods, ever since the days of Peter Dragonsbane, who appeared as a stranger wearing a badge with a golden lion.

The lion was also the heraldic badge of Peter’s father, Claas Perseyn, the previous Lord of the Isles. When Tiberian I united the free Kingdom of Heimar with the slave-holding Thrallic Empire, Claas painted a red lion on his shield and banners, symbolizing his allegiance to the Prince of the Gods but also the unworthiness he felt to bear the Prince of the Gods’ own golden lion, due to his role in supporting Tiberian (albeit before his treacherous nature was revealed). Claas was nicknamed the Red Lion due to his coat of arms and his prowess in battle. 

After Claas’s assassination, Peter was adopted by Torin Capintyre, the Prince of the Gods, and in Torin’s honor adopted the golden lion as his coat of arms. The golden lion head on a blue field is the coat of arms of the Marshals of Heimar to this day.

14 notes • Posted 2021-10-04 00:25:03 GMT

#2

So I just discovered “Beyond the Western Deep” (drawn by @kobbers ) and OMGoodness I love this webcomic! It’s like Game of Thrones with talking animals, rated PG-13. It has great characters with complex motivations, great worldbuilding and character design, an art style I love, and a gripping series of interlocking plot lines. It’s a rare treat to find a story that I have to read compulsively, but this story was one of them.

One of my favorite characters is Hardin, an ermehn warlord whose morally questionable decisions kick off the events of the story. He’s a mysterious character, with an undisclosed plan to help his people take back their land and dignity from the warlike canid, who can really rock the cape and kilt look. I decided to draw him as he appears in Chapter 2, overlooking the pass guarded by Deltrada Garrison as he plans his assault on the fortress—an assault which marks a major turning point for the other main characters.

I drew Hardin freehand, and used a screenshot of the comic to get the right colors.

32 notes • Posted 2021-06-17 06:20:21 GMT

#1

The Phantom of the Opera was one of my favorite novels growing up, and I think I am the last person alive who fell in love with the novel before ever hearing about the musical. This is how I imagine Erik, the eponymous Phantom of the Opera, looks according to the book’s description.

Growing up nerdy and socially awkward, Erik became a particularly special literary friend to me. I think everyone at some point or another has felt like there was something good they could offer the world, like they could be something special for someone—a lover, or even a friend—but has felt like there was some quality about themselves that holds them back. Some feature of themselves that, if seen, would make the world recoil in horror. I don’t think I’m particularly special in having felt this way. I think it’s a universal human feeling—only the details are unique to our own little stories.

But that is why we need characters like Erik. That is why we need novels like The Phantom of the Opera. We need the exaggerated pathos of a Gothic novel to put a magnifying glass to the feelings we feel but do not notice that we are feeling. We need the grotesque face of Erik to haunt us because underneath his mask is not merely a death’s head, but that feature of ours that holds us back. We need Christine and Raoul and the Persian to show us that when we give in to our self-loathing and defeatist attitudes and make that feature of ours our identity, we become the very monsters we fear that others see.

What was Erik, truly? Was he a disfigured monster? Or was he a musical genius who just wanted someone to love, into whom he could pour his heart? Isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that what makes us human? As Gaston Leroux said of his creation, we must pity Erik, because he was the one who couldn’t see his worth behind his face, and he was the one who hid it from the world.

That is what a well-written character is—they are like us, blown out of proportion until we can see all that we are, good and bad, and who can take us by the hand and say, “I understand. But now it is time for you to live, and have the happily ever after that I could not.”

53 notes • Posted 2021-08-23 08:17:18 GMT

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