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once you master these 3 shapes you have the power to draw guys everywhere and anywhere in your hands

#dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon #cave scribbles #toshiro nakamoto #laios touden #kabru #kabru has like. the textbook example of a heart shaped face #gorgeous asshole.#i hate him (affectionate)

Memories Shared with my Son

They told us we would be fighting for freedom, changing the world for the better. We would be heroes, loved by all. They would teach us discipline, self control, leadership. We were going to be the greatest of the great. The arch-mages in the first colonial mage army. They were wrong, liars, every last one of them. We flocked to their every word like moths to the flame. It was the third turning in the first lunar phase of the second equinox. He came at mid day, the liar in his perfectly flowing purple robes. I remember the robes more than his face. I remember the robes more than anything. To a boy of mere seventeen circlings, those regal robes were the embodiment of his hopes and dreams. The velvety silk flowed majestically down his long figure. Various gold moons and stars reflected on the night time skyscape. A thin line of gold traced the entire fabric. Not a hint of dirt graced the robe, not even on the large portions trailing the ground. This man was rich and powerful. The robe signified his class, the royal purple his upbringing, and the moon and stars his specialty. The army recruiter offered us entrance into his carriage, and offer hard to deny by peasants of our caste. His carriage was quaint, small, wooden. Vastly disappointing next to the robe, on the outside at least. The horses stood at the ready as the mage walked toward the carriage, his long hood flowed drifting in the wind that wasn't blowing. It wasn't a long trek, from our step to his carriage, his office. Inside was an entirely different story. the specialty told from his robe spilled over into his traveling home. What from the outside had been a cramped stuffy carriage, the space mage had stuffed his entire castle. Several handmaidens waited to serve as he lead us through his wheeled complex. My mother looked scared and confused. I felt lost and enamored at the majesty of the place. He played off my love, weaving a web of lies set to inspire courage and longing in the heart of any young lad. My mother was compensated for the cost of my life, and then some for my new caste. That night I went from peasant, to mage, from poverty to riches. My old life was left behind, never to return again. Instead of sleeping in a cramped leaking shack with my mother and the several siblings I had needed to fight for food I slept in a bed larger than my family could have filled, with five maidens to serve my whims. Serve they did for the next week. I don't think I have ever lived as gloriously as I did then. Fruits and meats I had never heard of were summoned up and hand fed to me. They bathed me, they dressed me in the finest clothing, they even served my more devious whims. Exotic women, domestic women. Every day brought a new set of five. Silent unless spoken to. Reserved unless told to let loose. Their peculiar behavior of complete obedience didn't peak my interest at the moment, though now there is no doubt of their forced slavery, and possibility of mind control. The tortured girls bore no mark of their servitude on their flawless skins. I had seen enough of them to know that much. Like all 'good' things that week had to come to an end. I was released from the care of the robed man. Given boarding at a school of magic. The facility was unlike anything I had seen before. Time mages bent the rules of reality. Several circlings could take only one turn. Classes seemed to go on forever, maybe they even did. They compounded years and years of lessons into only two. They taught us all we needed, and none of it all. They spent ages on the history of magic, how everyone owns a little piece of it in their ancestry. The first born humans were being of complete magic. Colonies made by the dragons, crafted to end the warring genocide of their own species. A civilization made for war. The dragons used us as familiars to fight with. Summoning our kind and waging vast wars to settle their disputes. Eventually we turned, forced our combined magicks back on the creators. Enslaved the dragons, as pets, as tools of war. The wars in our history are countless, a dizzying infinity of bloodshed and conflict. The first born spent ages warring amongst themselves. Slaughtering each other, raping, pillaging, spreading destruction. They crafted the second born shortly after. Made to serve. Human's with no magic familiarity. But even they were touched at some point. Raped, molested, or even loved by a first born the children would inevitably have the power two-fold. That is where I stood. The son of a first and second born, and Arch-mage. All of us stood on this rim. We learned the several school of magic; Time, Space, Creation, Control, Fire, Water, Earth, to name only a few. We learned the way they interacted and merged together, our various strong points and weak comings. We learned the ways the old wars were fought. Battle tactics, great historical victories. We even learned the spells and tricks the old ones used to win the various old wars. None of that was information useful in the war to come. My roommate, a woman by the name Regalia Larion, studied laboriously. We arrived on the same day, spent classes together, spent every waking hour together. Paired off by fate. Her strong points were Mind, Control, Creation, and Earth. She was cold, harsh, and hateful toward me and my original caste, She had been born from a baroness, and a previous arch-mage. Magic was, and had been her life from birth. She taught me how to spell craft, when the school had not. She taught me respect, of self and others, and how to hold my head high. Nearing the end of our schooling she taught me love, and how to let another into your heart. Regalia was my first Girlfriend, and lover. A year later we were shoved into the field of battle. All of us young arch-mages. Shoved isn't the exact term for what they did to us, we were teleported. Transplanted right into battle. This is the moment the folly of their education became evidently clear. Technique, always technique, never application. I remember the battle like it was yesterday. I will never forget my first taste of war, and every time I look back on it I will cry. I held Regalia's hand as we were forcefully moved from the school to the field. A large hill known as 'Jelion Hill.' It was named after the first born that supposedly formed the hill around himself after the death of his lover. The first thing to grace our ears after the subtle pop from changing location was the screaming. Spells and throaty cries of pain, merged together. Regalia was quick and eager to act. Her black and brown robes billowed as she made everyone painfully aware of our location atop the hill. A large black bolt forced its way out of her forehead. She conjured a mental nightmare. A trick from the old ones. It flew quickly through the air landing in the heads of our enemies. A group of imperial mages, bent on crushing our freedom and ruling our colony for longer than we thought just. The man stopped and turned to look at Regalia. He face drained of color before me. "I've made a mistake." She whispered, as tears began to stream from her eyes. It wasn't the first time I had seen her cry, but it was the last. Blood poured from her nose, and soon followed from her mouth. The other man stared intently at her, their minds connected from the nightmare. Slowly, weakly she turned to me, squeezed my hand one last time. A harsh scream emitted itself from her lips, blood graced my face as I stared at her in shock. The black bolt hissed through the air as her tainted nightmare back lashed toward her finally. With a final loud crack Regalia's scream ended, and her body ripped itself into several shreds. My white robes were painted with her blood and guts. I became a canvas for her expired life. Alone I stood on the hill, her hand still clenched mine. The last piece of her. That was the first time I felt a shift. Shifts are what we call it when we let the magic flow freely from our centers. Shifts are usually very rare, and have various effects. Jelion Hill was a shift from an Earth mage. My specialty remained unconfirmed. As it turned out I was equally talented in all field a jack of all trades. A White Mage, the rarest of the rare. As you should know Jelion Hill no longer stands, and the proof of its mythos was revealed. Both of these are my doing. In my shift the irony of moving a hill that honored a deceased lover in honor of another deceased lover enacted itself. My mind was clear during the act, I didn't even think on it myself. My mind had shifted, magic was in control, and magic was angry. The hill tore itself apart and merged down on the mage that killed my lover. I remained floating in the spot I stood previously. Other have since described me as glowing like a beacon of justice, or more appropriately a beacon of death. I razed parts of the army, and brought back those I razed under my own control to raise more of the army. Jelion himself came back to aid me, in the form of a land golem. The battle lasted for five more turnings, me going through various phases of shifting. Even now I can't control the shifts that come to me. That was something they never told us. That we would break, become slaves to the magic. With a broken mind the shift fills the cracks. Several of us shifted during the next four circlings of the great fire. Those that didn't shift either lost their lives, or were carried by the shifters. I am still trying to piece my life back together child. thirty-five circlings later I have found a wife again, settled down. Ironically it was the first of the handmaidens to serve me. A woman I found again while shifting and destroying the Purple Robed Liar. I still have flash backs, but she stays with me, she subdues me with her patience and love. I have created a few beautiful children with her, one of which is you my son. Do not look to my war days like the masses. I am not a hero, or a savior. I am not a god in a man's body. I am a broken old man with a cracked psyche. There is one thing I have learned from war son. Magic is evil, and men are even more evil. Do not pursue the arts, cause they lead to one thing. They lead to war, and war is not a pretty thing. Promise this to me son, promise me you will not pursue war.

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Wrote this back in one shot in September of 2011. Finally got a home computer again and can transfer this over. I ended up liking how it came out and my fiance found it again a few months ago and adores it. Have no idea where i got the idea from. But I’ve always felt fantasy world under use their mages in war time and that mages never seem to have much magic based PTSD. The things you can see when you control the cosmos and nothing scars anyone? I dont buy it.

#Writing #creative writing #Cave Scribbles