#shoutout to raven and people who gave me the idea to turn this art very bloody

[mechanicalinfection]

My blood runs red but my body feels so cold.

[schleierkauz]

The Color of Revenge: Chapter 10

Surprise! :3

For some reason (I have to assume as a birthday gift, for me, specifically,-) two chapters were uploaded last friday! Sooo here’s the second one! Enjoy!!

Shoutouts go to @bluejayfiredancer and their art textbook and @firejugglinghobo who both make my life much easier by Speaking English

Chapter 10: Death has the Color of Ash

The last book the Great Balbulus worked on had been commissioned by Violante of Ombra for her 32nd birthday.  It was meant to celebrate the natural wonders of Ombra in words and vision. The nymphs in the river, the fire-elves in the nearby woods, the giants in the mountains that could be seen from the highest tower of the castle when the weather was clear, and the unicorns in the holly oak groves east of Ombra.

The writers had delivered the pages with the finished text to Balbulus the evening prior. He was, as always, less than thrilled with the ink quality and the arrangement of words, but he had given up on trying to convince Violante to hire new writers. She would just give him the same answer over and over again:

“Balbulus, these men have families to feed.“

So what? Did that excuse that they might be tainting his posthumous fame with carelessly placed letters and ink that was too pale? Art didn’t care about a few hungry brats. Great art demanded sacrifices to be made!

He used a few color pigments that were left over from the other book.

The other book…

He was glad that the filthy troubadour with the sly smile would take it away soon. Ombra was filled with dark rumors and lamentations. The Bluejay had disappeared, alongside his family. And it wasn’t just him. Where was the Inkweaver? Where was the bookworm woman Loredan? Where was the beautiful Roxane?

It was said that the Fire-Dancer had gone all the way to the White Women to ask about her.

He would not find her.

Balbulus hurried to take his brush off the parchment. His fingers were shaking. He thought he could hear them all from between the pages since the book had come back from the new bookbinder, who really couldn’t compare to the Bluejay.

Finished books were always sent to Balbulus first, in case he needed to make any last corrections. But this one? To hell with it! He had wrapped it in a brocade bag and put it in the chest where he kept used parchment and his linseed oil.

When the screaming in the streets had started, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of opening it and looking at the faces of those who had disappeared. How they had looked at him… Thanks to his mastery it seemed as if they were breathing on the pages, and maybe they were. Anything was possible when it came to magic.

With shaking hands he had pushed the book back into the bag and wrapped it tightly before putting it in the chest again. It was made of oak wood and the lid was so heavy that he could barely open it. But still, he thought he could hear them screaming between the cover, between the pages of parchment he had trapped them on.

What had he done?

Stop it! You practiced your art, Balbulus! That’s it!

He clenched his fist to stop his fingers from shaking. Dusk was beginning to fall outside and the troubadour, if that unsavory character deserved to be called that, would take the book and everyone trapped within it away. Yes.

Forget it and focus on the work, Balbulus.

How could he have known that he would be made into a tool for such demonic magic? He dipped the brush into the silver which he used to make the nymph’s scales glow. They lived in the river which flowed through Ombra and Violante loved to watch them from the castle’s crenellations. There were rumors that she regularly left them cakes and grapes at the river bank because she believed that the nymphs brought good luck to the city.

Superstition!

Balbulus cleaned the brush and dipped it into the dark green he had mixed for the nymph’s hair. He painted a wisp of hair, floating on the water. Exquisite! Yes. No one could match his brushstroke.

Balbulus looked up and out of the window. Outside, the day was dying.

… Maybe he should throw the bewitched paints away. He stood and stepped to the shelf where he had put the glasses in which he had filled them. They really were one of a kind. He had never seen such brilliancy before. No.

No, he would keep them and use them for Violante’s birthday book. It would spread the word of Balbulus’ mastery all the way to Venetia. No, he had to think bigger – people would talk about him in Lutici, in Nuremberg, Metachirta, yes, even in Constantinople, where the great Bihzad was illuminating the sultan’s manuscripts so wonderfully that they allegedly spawned golden camels and birds of paradise.

So what? The pictures painted by the Great Balbulus would make the world with all its wonders pale in comparison and everyone who looked upon them would yearn to get lost in his landscapes. The blue of the sky would seem washed out compared to his own. His red would put the most beautiful rose in Violante’s garden to shame and his yellow would outshine the sun.

With a smile, Balbulus stepped back to his desk.

Magnificent Balbulus. Glorious Balbulus. Immortal Balbulus.

He reached for his finest brush and painted another strand of nymph hair onto the water when a noise made him flinch. Cursing, he dropped the brush and looked at the ruined page. How many times did he have to tell those idiot servants that no one was allowed to step into his workshop unannounced? He had even put up a sign which threatened to throw any unauthorized visitors into the dungeon.

“I will ask Violante to withhold your p-“

The words died on Balbulus‘ lips. The troubadour stood in the door. He pulled it closed behind him and gave the illuminator an oily smile. Balbulus always saw the color black when he was face to face with Baldassare. A worrying association. Black, and a poison-green yellow. Yes, those were the colors he would choose to portray Baldassare Renaldesci.

“I was visiting one of Violante’s maids. She would do anything for my verses, the stupid little thing, so I thought, Baldassare, do Balbulus a favor and go fetch the book now. He’s probably in his workshop.”

His dull eyes looked at Balbulus‘ possessions as if he were estimating which would be easiest to sell to Ombra’s fences. Baldassare Rendaldesci’s eyes were always dull, whether it was due to wine or elf dust, Balbulus couldn’t have said. He didn’t know much about the intoxicants that were popular in Ombra. His art was the only drug he was addicted to.

When he turned his back to his visitor, Baldassare locked the door to the workshop. The latch was slightly rusty but Balbulus was struggling to open the lid of the chest and didn’t hear anything.

“Here it is,“ he said, reaching for the bag with the book. Once again Balbulus thought he could hear the prisoners whisper inside. If only he had listened. Maybe they were whispering “Watch out!” or “Don’t turn your back to him, Balbulus!“

“This Walter von Vogelweide,“ he said with his glum voice for which he was just as known as for his art, “does he have a famous library?”

“I have no clue,“ Baldassare answered. “He’s not really the one who commissioned this book.”

Balbulus thought that was a very mysterious answer, but Baldassare didn’t give him time to solve the mystery. He plunged the dagger into Balbulus’ chest as soon as the other man turned around. Right into his heart, just deep enough that it stopped beating without spilling too much blood. Orpheus surely wouldn’t have liked splatters on the book.

Oh yes, Baldassare was a master as well, though not of the art of rhyming like he would have wished to be. He had a lot more talent for murder. Destruction is so much easier to learn than the creation of beauty.

Balbulus slumped down with a surprised expression on his face. Surprise, pain and a hint of indignation that his talent was being snuffed out so soon. Baldassare pulled the bag with the book from his weakening fingers and admired the shimmering brocade. The bag alone was probably worth more than everything he owned.

Oh, the treasures he could earn if he sold the book in Venetia or Mantova instead of leaving it in Violante’s library like Orpheus had ordered… He leaned down and pulled Balbulus’ rings off his lifeless fingers.

No, it probably wasn’t a good idea to steal from Orpheus. After all, he was allied with a witch, a devourer of children if the rumors were true, but maybe he would get rid of his glass man. Even just the thought of carrying him on his shoulder for days and listening to his chatter all over again… Not to mention that he would probably tell Orpheus all sorts of unflattering things about him.

Oh, what a disaster, a raven picked him off my shoulder…

Of course, the Shard Head had wanted to come with him to the castle, but Baldassare had told him in great detail what the maid’s cat liked to do to glass men. Baldassare smiled as he imagined feeding Ironstone to a few hungry rats. The glassy flesh wasn’t very tasty, but apparently those pipsqueaks had a delicious core that even human gourmets valued greatly. In Ombra it was unfortunately illegal to sell glass men for that purpose, so… that treat had to wait.

Baldassare stepped closer to Balbulus‘ desk and looked around, wondering where the sticks were that had served the illuminator as references. He eventually found them in a big casket, alongside a bag of gold coins, silver cutlery and a necklace that Balbulus liked to wear during official events and distinctions. Baldassare took all of it, even though the payment for this murder had been much better than he was used to. He looked at the parchment which his victim had worked on.

Not bad, no. Not at all.

For a moment he regretted that he hadn’t given Balbulus time to finish the page. After all, his death would make his work even more valuable. Well… Nothing could be done about it now. Even a master couldn’t think of everything. Baldassare stepped over Balbulus’ cooling body, a bloody red flower blooming on its chest, and unlocked the door.

Violante’s library was empty when he snuck inside. The maid has assured him that her mistress spent only her mornings in there. Then he left the castle the same way he had gotten in: Through the courts and corridors used by servants and maids. The guards who saw him simply nodded and let him pass. He had spent many evenings entertaining them with his songs and some of them had bought elf dust of excellent quality from him.

Balbulus‘ corpse wasn’t discovered until the next morning.

(Next chapter)