The Citadel loomed above me, its towering spires reaching towards the sky like jagged teeth, casting long shadows that stretched across the courtyard below. For generations, it had served as the seat of power for the Scholars, a mysterious and enig...
The Alabaster Bashiri is a rare and awe-inspiring creature. It possesses a sleek and sinuous form, its scales shimmer like polished ivory in the light. Its piercing eyes, the color of frost-kissed diamonds, gleam with an otherworldly intelligence. Its venom holds the icy chill of the highest mountain peaks, capable of freezing even the mightiest of foes in their tracks. But, if the venom is used in tiny increments, the magic can be harnessed for human use.
—from the Journal of Al'vala
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
You'd think we'd have grander fates, but there were just too many of us. War orphans were mishandled and displaced. Some became soldiers themselves, while others became inkers—while some chose more unsavory paths. I was shaking from hunger as I inked one of the most formidable soldiers of the Elythrian realm–or at least it seemed he was with the amount of white tattoos he already had on his body. He was the last soldier I had to ink before I could be done for the day.
Amidst the oppressive atmosphere of the old medic's chamber, the scent of blood and ink hung heavy in the air. With each one of my brush strokes, the Bashiri's white venom seared into the man's skin. His jaw was clenched, but he didn't flinch or make any sounds. He had done this many times before. The promise of apples and stale bread scraps had me moving clumsily. My vision blurred. I hadn't had a break at all that day. Even my practiced precision was at odds with myself.
Concentrate.
The room was filled with soldiers in beds getting inked by young and scrawny inkers. Guards flanked the entrance. Only eligible soldiers were allowed a weapon of the Bashiri, and no inker was allowed to enter or leave without permission. I was usually grouped in with Emmanuel, but today we were apart. I hoped he was doing better than I was.
With a final stroke of my brush, I relaxed my aching muscles. "It's finished," I said.
The soldier stood to admire the dagger I had just tattooed on his forearm. He had a formidable physique. He was bald with a great yellow beard and sunkissed skin. His eyes were unnaturally bright, a side effect from the Bashiri venom.
Weapons of the Bashiri lived inside the user's skin. The soldier pulled the dagger from his arm. A white aura accompanied by emerald sparks emitted from the tattoo as he pulled out a long dagger. The dagger was momentarily hazy before taking on a more physical form. Weapons of the Bashiri always had a slight glow to them. He tested the weight of the dagger in his hand before sneering.
"This blade is unbalanced," he said, turning his gaze towards the closest guard—as if addressing me directly was beneath him. "It's useless to me."
My stomach turned. I had been an inker for about two years. It had been awhile since I produced such a lousy weapon—but never on such a high-ranking soldier.
