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rainbowfic2014-05-14 03:57 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2014-05-14 03:57 pm
Amaranth #1, Cinnabar #14, Xanadu #1
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Amaranth #1 (amaranth), Cinnabar #14 (distil), Xanadu #1 (utopia)
Styles/Supplies: Miniature Collection, Pastels (fororigfic_bingo prompt "traditions")
Word Count: 486
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: There had always been two types of people in the world.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
There had always been two classes of people in the world.
Jarol had never thought much about what that meant.
#
He'd always known he was special, destined for great things. He knew it as his mother beat him, as she called him names and threw his crude wooden toys into the fire.
He learned very young how to treat cuts and bruises and bloody noses. He never forgot that he was special. When the dionos finally came to take him away, it was no more than the next step of his great life.
#
"There have always been two classes of people in the world," said the dionosi. "Ischikothi, and eniffi. Same on the outside, but their places have always been different."
Jarol did not pay attention. There was no difference between ishikothi and eniffi. Both could be cruel and small-minded. Both could beat him and call him names, and neither would care whether he was one or the other.
There were special people and not. That was the only difference.
#
They tried to tell him he wasn't special. They tried to take away everything he had built, send him back to that leaky hut and his disdainful mother.
Only one thing kept him going during those darkest days: it didn't matter if he was a true ischikothi or not. He was special, and there was nothing the non-special could do to take that away.
#
In Artesia he learned there were two classes of people in the world, and he fit into none of them.
He fought on the side of the Jasmara because they were close enough. He was still special, special among them and among the humans, even if the latter hated him. He planned the battles and he won the day, and finally everyone else saw it, too.
In Artesia, that was. Ethilikos remained ignorant. Not for long.
#
During the journey to Ethilikos, he thought a lot about what he had seen and done in Artesia, and what he was going to do to his homeland. He thought that maybe the dionosi were right, that it was all about ischikothi and eniffi. Both were the same, but only one had the power. Artesia had tried to stamp out that power in its fear. Ethilikos knew the proper order of things.
The Jasmara were ischikothi but not.
#
There were two classes of people in the world: the normal people, of their varying talents and skills. And the Jasmara, rising up as a wave and crushing everything beneath them, all the cruelty and unkindness they had suffered for so long in Artesia, and which Jarol knew grew like a plague in Ethilikos. The Jasmara were the powerful ones, the special ones, the survivors who would stamp upon the rest and show them their place.
#
When the first explosion toppled the main mast of his ship, he still knew he was right.
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Amaranth #1 (amaranth), Cinnabar #14 (distil), Xanadu #1 (utopia)
Styles/Supplies: Miniature Collection, Pastels (for
origfic_bingo prompt "traditions")Word Count: 486
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: There had always been two types of people in the world.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
There had always been two classes of people in the world.
Jarol had never thought much about what that meant.
#
He'd always known he was special, destined for great things. He knew it as his mother beat him, as she called him names and threw his crude wooden toys into the fire.
He learned very young how to treat cuts and bruises and bloody noses. He never forgot that he was special. When the dionos finally came to take him away, it was no more than the next step of his great life.
#
"There have always been two classes of people in the world," said the dionosi. "Ischikothi, and eniffi. Same on the outside, but their places have always been different."
Jarol did not pay attention. There was no difference between ishikothi and eniffi. Both could be cruel and small-minded. Both could beat him and call him names, and neither would care whether he was one or the other.
There were special people and not. That was the only difference.
#
They tried to tell him he wasn't special. They tried to take away everything he had built, send him back to that leaky hut and his disdainful mother.
Only one thing kept him going during those darkest days: it didn't matter if he was a true ischikothi or not. He was special, and there was nothing the non-special could do to take that away.
#
In Artesia he learned there were two classes of people in the world, and he fit into none of them.
He fought on the side of the Jasmara because they were close enough. He was still special, special among them and among the humans, even if the latter hated him. He planned the battles and he won the day, and finally everyone else saw it, too.
In Artesia, that was. Ethilikos remained ignorant. Not for long.
#
During the journey to Ethilikos, he thought a lot about what he had seen and done in Artesia, and what he was going to do to his homeland. He thought that maybe the dionosi were right, that it was all about ischikothi and eniffi. Both were the same, but only one had the power. Artesia had tried to stamp out that power in its fear. Ethilikos knew the proper order of things.
The Jasmara were ischikothi but not.
#
There were two classes of people in the world: the normal people, of their varying talents and skills. And the Jasmara, rising up as a wave and crushing everything beneath them, all the cruelty and unkindness they had suffered for so long in Artesia, and which Jarol knew grew like a plague in Ethilikos. The Jasmara were the powerful ones, the special ones, the survivors who would stamp upon the rest and show them their place.
#
When the first explosion toppled the main mast of his ship, he still knew he was right.
no subject
Well done.
no subject