Daily artwork #364 // Pandora's box: Vows (Patreon)

Hey guys!

Here's the last elegant artwork of the thane before my break! And accompanied by another lovely short from Aksan that truly makes this piece come to life.

It's always a pleasure to be able to work with you, dear and I am so satisfied each time we get to do this little collaboration!

I encourage everyone to read this story, as well as all the others that go along with the Pandoras done for Aksan!

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The Tower stepped out onto the floor of the throne room as he was called, the awkward use of that epithet nearly at an end. Around him the thanes, or their delegates, gathered, filling all but one of the council positions marked upon the floor of the vast chamber. This walk had been over three years in the making and it was with a sense of relief that he finally crossed the mosaic tiles towards the smiling countenance of his queen.

Upon her head sat the three-pointed, platinum crown of the New Federation, echoed in the throne, the floor and the pillars behind her. Descent from the royal line of Dentre, assent from the thane’s council around them, and the consent of his kind. Glittering white metal to distinguish it from the golden crown of horns upon his head. She stepped forward, descending the steps with the help of handmaidens, carrying the vast swathes of cloth that followed her and the braid that was nearly five metres now.

He’d seen the soft, coppery hair grow from barely reaching the floor when she came of age and took the throne at twenty to more than two decades later needing three staff to carry it. Her fashions had changed little over the years; long flowy dresses, only made possible by the dozens of hands that served her every moment. The necklines no longer did so much work to show off her chest, perhaps she’d realised how little effort was needed.

Familiar beauty, the flowing jaw, bright eyes, and notable cheekbones of the Krinaale, elevated by skincare and makeup refined over at least thirty years. The federal monarch had long been positioned as the aspirational pinnacle of their people and Queen Pareth took this to its aesthetic conclusion. Even the soft and subtle scent of her was a masterfully crafted delight that filled his huge nostrils as he knelt and let her draw close.

He watched her struggle a little with the fine Queen’s Blade, silently wondering which of the three nearly identical blades it was, knowing when he saw the layered steel catch the light of the high windows. Her head tilted, seeking his eye, and smiling when she got it. Three years of unofficial meetings, unmarked letters from Princer Jaspet, and gathering his delegation in sworn secrecy. He spared a glance over to them in the assembled crowd, getting unnecessary encouragement in the process.

“Few have given so much to The Federation,” Queen Pareth addressed the crowd, “And even before that The Alliance, and the Krinaale Kingdom of Dentre. It was by his blade that this nation was built and by his blade that it perseveres. Few in our great nation cannot trace their ancestry to this great sire of the continent, but not one cannot credit him with their safety. The North have shown once more their intolerance and aggression, despite this recent peace. I would see my people safe and the recent war has shown that the time for soft borders has long passed. In returning the Caerulean Hold to its historical place in the hands of such a noble and dutiful servant of The Federation we will reinforce our northern border for generations to come. The strength of dragons runs through the blood of our nation, and the resilience of their scales will once more guard our walls!”

Cheers erupted from the assembly, with more reserved reactions from the council, though many gave in and joined the crowd behind them in jubilance. The Tower glanced sideways, ignoring the council to pick out Matthias from his delegation. Without a hint of celebration the young man hawkishly watched the council, picking out a potential ally in a cheering Thaness here, or a hurdle in a solemn Thaner there. No doubt, the dragon would be getting a full report later. His gaze returned to the Queen as the room settled to quiet murmurs, happily letting it slide down to her feet as he saw her prepare herself to take up the sword.

“Do you swear to keep the peace within the hold?” her clarion voice rang out.

“I do,” rumbled the reply, silencing the few in the crowd who still spoke.

“Do you swear to keep safe all in your care?”

“I do.”

“Regardless of their birth, their love, or their need?”

He paused for a moment, like so many taking the oath, though his consideration differed from their nerves. “I will welcome all, celebrate all, feed the hungry, clothe the cold and nurse the sick.” For the second time he took this oath, adding ineffable concepts from more than two centuries of reflection.

“Do you swear to take on the mantle of ruling?

“I do.”

“To act without ego, to guide your blade with compassion?”

“I do not rule alone, I am the peer and pinnacle of my people. For them all my heart bleeds, for them all my will bends, but for them all my resolve is absolute.”

“And do you swear to serve the crown, the council and the federation?”

“I do.”

Manicured hands lifted the royal blade, bringing it to rest on his shoulder, and with an effort, lifted it over his horns to the other. He caught his head before it instinctually lifted, the call for him to rise absent. With a flick around of his eyes he saw the blade tip at the queen’s feet, watched them kick the dress out so she could step forward and bring her head over to his. Her brow against his, silver metal and gold horns meeting as she took his true promise.

“I do,” he promised in the softest tone he could, still drawing noises of excitement as it drifted to the crowd.

Slowly, perhaps a little reluctantly, Queen Pareth broke away, her handmaidens rushing to her side to sort her skirts and braid, and allow her those few backwards steps. With a delighted smile she finally gave the call, “Then rise Thane Caerulea, by the will of your queen, and to the need of your people.”

He spared no glance to his delegation this time; he knew Matthais would have been in his element and intensely focused, dissecting the reactions to such a gesture, but that could wait. Filled with joyous purpose he drank in the noise behind him, the olive eyes of his queen holding his gaze as they fell away below him. She followed almost all the way, her neck refusing to in the end. Even at one metre eighty in the unseen heels, even up the steps from him, she found herself on eye level with the purple scales of his belly as The Tower earned his name.

“To your station,” she commanded, the smile she wore audible in the words.

With a warm smile and a renewed sense of purpose, Thane Caerulea turned and walked across the floor to fill the empty position on the council.