Website powered by

Ink and blood

The market was stifling in the mid day heat, the air seeming to shimmer around those who wandered the market of the lower city. The people of the the great city seemed barely to notice, but Siggor longed for clear mountain air and later winter snows where he sat, the jabs of the tiny needle nearly lost in the rest of his discomfort.

The ways of ink, needle and blood was not new to his people. Every great deed would be recorded in flesh, and retold in song, that was the way it had always been, but the city dwellers, and his man in particular had made such an art of the patterns and depictions that his own people's work looked like that of children in comparrison.

He grimaced as he felt another drop of sweat work it's way down the inside of his arm, and he knew he had to hold still, or the little man would be furious with him, again...