Artists and Warriors

The grounds were barren as we walked around, not a student in sight. Only the vague mummer of classes taught behind closed doors gave any signs that people were even around.

“Leo’s Flame, did they have to put me against someone like that?” The second we left the classroom, Mai wasted no time spilling her thoughts out. “She wasn’t even skilled, to the holy fucking flames.”

“Wasn’t skilled? Don’t let anyone around here hear that.” Calypso was a lot of things, but skilled was undoubtedly one of them.

Professor Silver wouldn’t have bothered treating her as a personal pet otherwise.

“That cunt just tosses random spells out and expects things to go her way,” Mai said, unconsciously rubbing her palm against her blade’s hilt. “People like that never last long. You call her skilled, I call her a liability.”

“Reckless magic is the Mikin way.”

“Dumbass way.”

I rolled my eyes. The second combat got brought up any hope of my following along got absorbed away into my black void of a brain.

“What are combat classes like in Arhonia then? I’m assuming you don’t start the year out with gladiatorial fights?”

“They’re boring as hell. Combat classes don’t really start until the second half of every year, and even then it's nothing like what goes on here. Half the shit we did in that fight would get the fight suspended in seconds.”
“Really? What’s the point then?”
“Great question,” she shrugged. “I couldn't even bring my sword into half my fights back home…” Mai’s ears perked up as she looked around the school. “Where are we anyway?”

Around us was a small dingy hallway. A soft shuttering of stone rumbled like an army of mice under us. There were doors on either side of us, yet unlike most of campus the signs of disrepair were clear as day.

At the end, a single wooden door resisted the overall degradation of the building. Its oak was meticulously painted with a mix of red and gold. The stone surrounding the wood was clearly recently cleaned, shining just as bright as the school’s exterior.

I knew firsthand; it was my blood, sweat, and tears that had kept this place from completely falling apart.

“The art room…” I muttered. In listening to Mai I must have unconsciously wandered back here. “This is where the fine art clubs are supposed to meet, but well, most students around here don’t see much use for those.”

“Sounds like you’re talking from experience.” Mai slowly walked forward, placing a soft hand on the painted door. “Whoever did this must be an expert… The lines here are all expertly drawn, the brushstrokes elegant and refined. Someone must care enough for them to keep this up.”

“You give me too much credit, it’s just a sketch,” I said, pushing the door open–face more flushed than I’d like to admit.

“Give you? You’re saying you drew that?”

“Yeah. I got a bit depressed walking into the same empty hall every day, and a small splash of color doesn’t hurt anything.”

“A splash of color? To the flames, this is amazing Rio!” Mai’s face broke out in a grin, and she slowly ran her fingers over the fine oak grain. “How did you get this good? Who taught you?”

“No one. When I was little, I’d always buy as many art tools and references as I could from the wandering traders that came to the palace. I sort of just… reverse engineered everything and took it from there.” Most of the time, the merchants were more than happy to sell everything they could for whatever I asked. We were the last stop on the traditional road. Better to sell it here than worry about lugging everything back home. “Anyway, come inside if you want, it's still a bit dreary out in the hall.”

With my invitation, we stepped into the room together.

Half finished canvases and gallons of paint covered the walls. People, animals, cityscapes-if I’d thought of it at one point there was a representation of it somewhere in here.

“You made all of these?” Mai asked.

“Throughout the years, yeah.” I took a seat near one of the very few empty canvasses proposed up on a birch wooden easel. “A lot of my earlier stuff is stuffed away in some closet.”

“How are you this fucking good!” Mai’s eyes shone like diamonds as she walked around the edge of the room. “In Arhonia, our fine arts clubs are some of the busiest in the entire school, to the point half of them have a waiting list. But, in our art club, I’ve never seen anything this consistently good.”

I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “You give me too much credit.”

“Well it doesn’t look like anyone else in Mikin has bothered to give you any.”

I signed, picking up my brush from the stand. “You’re not wrong there.”

“You know,” Mai said, softly brushing her fingers against a watercolor painting of Mikin castle. “I think we're kind of in the same boat.”

“How?”
“The fine arts are everything in Mikin. And to be fair, the things they do are fucking increadable. The beautiful art galleries, dramas in the grand theater, poetry read allowed in the center of campus. But, anything remotely aggressive is treated the same as your art club.

I love art, but my passion has always laid with the sword. Yet that's always been seen as barbaric and cruel.”

I scoffed. “Tell that to half the city and they’ll show you firsthand they view those as positive traits.

“There's more to swordplay than just finding the nearest moron to beat up though!” Mai fell back against the wall and slid onto the floor. “It may be more utilitarian, yeah, but is swordplay not an art unto itself? At least unlike the cunts in Arhonia, the cunts here respect it.”

“You? Giving Mikin a bit of praise?”

“Don’t expect any more,” she sighed. “Then again, it's that same swordplay that sent me over here in the first place.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sure you should be telling me this?”

“You chose to believe in me, and now you’re mad I’m choosing to do the same? Cunt.”

Oh holy breeze I deserved that one. “Fair.”

“My family’s not completely stupid. They wanted someone who could escape if worst came to worst, and I happened to fit the bill.”

“Are your siblings not fighters?”

“Hardly,” a mocking laugh came from her mouth. “They’re a lot like you, actually, more artists than warriors. We're both the black sheep.”

“Lucky us,” I sighed, turning towards may still relaxed on the floor. Her brown tail dragged back and forth, ears falling to either side as she happily looked over each piece of art one by one.

“What a good reference,” I muttered, turning towards the blank canvas again as I began to paint.