Daily artwork #407 // Pandora's box: A Gift from Many Hands (Patreon)

Hey guys,

Today I will be submitting a few artworks, as I got a few done that I want to show you! Starting the day with a nostaligc piece for Aksan <3 Feautring our monthly Tower. This time reminescing the old times.

Accompanied by a lovely story, as usual! Written by Aksan. I invite everyone to give it a read! He's a real gifted story teller <3

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“You summoned me, my lord?” Jonina asked softly, conscious of intruding upon the dragon’s private moment.

The fresh scent of the ribbon filled The Thane’s lungs once more before he gently placed it back in the ornate box it had arrived in. “You know you don’t need to call me that out of court,” he assured his guest.

“What would you have me call you instead?”

“Whatever you like,” he chuckled, “But I think father works well, and suits why you're here.”

Warranting a subtle tip of her head, the comment drew his daughter further into the room. “And why would that be?”

“For a solstice gift,” the dragon said with a smile. Even seated he was looking down on her as she came into his embrace. “Don’t worry,” he assured, feeling a moment’s panic, “From me to you.”

“I was about to say, I didn’t think to prepare anything.” She chuckled against his chest. “I don’t know what I’d even get for you.”

“Something with meaning,” he suggested, resting his brow against hers. “Not that you have to, all your work, you’ve done so much this year. But if you are wondering. Things of meaning, of emotional value, are the kind of gifts that suit.”

“Thanks, that’s . . .”

“Not an easy brief?”

“One way of putting it.”

“Well, I must confess this gift does not originate with me,” he said to a quizzical raising of brows, “Hard to strictly say where it does I guess.” Confusion turned to suspicion as Jonina settled leaning against one of his legs, still gently cradled by his huge hand. “I’m sorry, I’m not meaning to obfuscate,” alongside the apology, came the ribbon, offered and taken.

“For me?” the Krinaale managed as she blinked in confusion.

“For you, from me. And Lady Vassagrey, and in a way Passantra.” His eyes glistened as he saw her examine the strip of fabric. “Silk, traditionally, and in this case no doubt, from the Ferflod hold who’d bred the worms since before Emergence. It’s coloured by indigo dye, extracted from the woad plants that grow in the south-east of Dentre. Woven by Parchmenter and Children in the Blue Quarter of Kytmouth, who have most certainly earned their council assent with this.”

Leaning into her fathers huge leg, Jonina clasped the ribbon to her chest and turned to watch him as she listened.

“The pattern, the subtle asymmetrical herringbone, was a modification of Dentre Twill that came to be seen all over Queensthrone. We really did think it might have been gone forever with everything that was lost from Dentre, but the weavers of Cotton Street in Castine reverse engineered the method from the ribbons the refugees wore.”

“How do you hold all of that knowledge in your head?” Jonina asked in astonishment, prompting a smile from them both.

“Because it has meaning, because it forms stories,” the dragon almost purred the words, painfully fond of them, “I saw these ribbons in the hair of every child of Passantra, but before that I walked and spoke with the weavers that would come to make them, with the traders who would bring the silk. And when we lost it all, I remember being called to Cotton Street to be told what they’d managed. I know you haven’t had a huge chance to actually live with your heritage, but “refugee ribbons” as they came to be called. For better or for worse. They are still common in the hair of Krinaale in Castine. Every few years Queen Pareth will have one made for her to wear on Dentre Memorial Day. Apparently it’s a dreadful effort and she can barely pay the weavers enough for them to want the order.”

“Because of all her hair?”

“Because of all her hair.”

Far too proud of herself, the smith laughed, eyes drifting shut as the hand on her shoulders idly scrubbed. “I have tried to read about the Krinaale, but the books never mention anything like this.”

With a bittersweet smile, The Thane let the implicit question hang for a while as his hand settled to gently fussing his daughter. “Because, even with the dragons keeping it alive, it’s too easy for the subtleties of our history to be lost. When you see them everyday, when the idea of a world without them is unthinkable, why would you document it?”

Jonina’s eyes had joined his in glistening now, a soft sigh followed by a deep breath inhaling the fresh, herbaceous scent of the ribbon but unable to place it.

“The one place you might find it, the stories, the diaries and all the art of our people, we lost so much of that.” As his head dropped softly, his daughter's hand reached out to touch his cheek. “There wasn’t a child in the Green Palace without a ribbon in their hair. You could even spot who were Passantra’s dearest because she’d always grab a ribbon that was far too long and have to use it all up tying extra loops until her knots looked like flowers.”

“Does Queen Parreth do hers like that?”

“She does!” the dragon declared, lifting his head, “Part of what troubles the weavers.”

“And whoever prepares her hair, I’m sure.”

“I think Anne enjoys it, I’ll be honest,” he said to a blank response, “She is the one who handles all of that for Pareth.”

“Must be nice to be queen.”

“It has its benefits and costs,” The Thane mused, “But she’s made life very good for herself with how she built her inner circle.”

“Her inner circle?”

“A topic for another day,” was all the answer the dragon was willing to give as he extended his hand to take the ribbon. “This was a gift from Lady V, but, if it’s not too presumptive of me, I’d like to give this to you, on the basis that you wear it in your plait.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Jonina said with a deep blush, “Won’t Lady Vassagrey mind?”

“Not at all.” The gold-crowned head shook. “It was a gift to remind me of days passed, to keep certain memories alive. And there is no better way than to integrate them into our lives as we live them.”

“I best get good at braiding a ribbon into my hair,” she joked in the face of the haunting, bittersweet smile.

“I’m more than happy to help,” he offered, gesturing for her to turn.

“Are you sure?” the Krinaale asked, with a little tremble as she shook out her hair. “Even I find it fiddly; I was a bit surprised you said Passantra did this all the time.”

“We can be dextrous when we need to be,” the big dragon rumbled, “Alexandria had me helping her gather samples for years, takes a delicate touch.”

“Braids though, really?”

“Passantra was very keen that we all engaged with the children.” He stopped and snorted, hot breath ruffling Jonina’s hair as he chastised himself. “I say ‘the children’, any Krinaale born under her rule were called the children.”

“The True Krinaale,” the smith muttered.

“It’s an unfortunate term to have stuck, but hard to shift it now,” he sighed, regretting it this time as he had to regather her hair. “None are truer than any other, and you have just as much right to call yourself Krinaale as any of them. I’ve braided ribbons into the hair of the children in Queensthrone. And refugee ribbons in the Krinaale creches Celestia gave patronage. Goodness, if it wasn’t for that I think I’d have to look up the pattern. But all of them, all are Krinaale, and you are no less than any of them, no matter your distance, no matter your upbringing.”

Wordlessly, Jonina let herself be turned now her braid was done, and felt the huge brow of her father come gently to rest on hers.

“You are my daughter, nothing that they did could possibly change that,” he asserted, waiting for her to nod with him. “And I promise you, even if time and place means you are not strictly a Child of Passantra, she would gladly call you her daughter.” With another shared nod the rumbling dragon came to smile. “I have no doubt that Vassagrey had you in mind when she gave me this. My dear, dear Jonina, I am sorry that we took so long to find you, but you have the biggest family in the world.”

Krinaale tears ran on Old Blood scales as her breath hitched and struggled. “I– I think I need to go check Iggly is settled in before the Solstice,” she managed eventually, drawing reluctantly back.

“Of course,” the dragon rumbled, “Go make sure he can cope the two weeks without you.”

Nodding in a trembling fervour, his daughter fled the room, trailing the flower-knotted ribbon behind her.