"I've always enjoyed painting and writing. It started with animals and gradually worked its way to people. It's fascinating to watch a painting come to life from scratch to finish, or a piece of a story develop far beyond the normal complexity of snippets or poetry. Every painting has a story behind it. Every story has a picture to paint. So I'm just an endless beacon of stories for both worlds. The world of Art. The world of Storytelling. There's no living without either."
Bonnie’s background in illustration has earned a small reputation with several authors. Her works have been published in the form of book covers, such as Patterns in Silicon, Whispers of Glory, and Songbirds are Free.
Eamon Lorccán felt, rather than saw, the presence of the key approach the Temple doors. Behind him, a small chest perched in the center of an altar. A constant glow of pulsating crimson haze encircling the chest beat with each anticipated moment of Eamon’s heart. From around his neck, the silver medallion symbolizing his family’s heritage did nothing to console the young man’s doubts. Had he made the right decision?
It was the slam of entrance doors flung wide that readied his first spell. Faces mattered little, for his full attention was drawn to the key held in front of the one who entered. Rage boiled through the young man’s veins. His own hand lifted, and a string of flames sprang from his outstretched fingers. The Temple’s wooden pews disintegrated. Even after the flames extinguished, parts of the floor and stone walls continued to glow red hot.
Eamon stood breathless, hand still outstretched. Dark swirls of smoke lingered in the air. A single gesture could have cleared it. Yet he waited, and watched.
“A little hint of advice,” a voice spoke. “It’s hardly worth calling yourself Guardian... if everyone knows your secret!”
Eamon had hardly enough time to blink when he found himself tossed back like a rag doll upon the altar. He twisted, trying to determine which way to go. A hand at his throat made that decision for him, forcing the young man back down. Beside him, the chest’s crimson haze quickened its pulse.
“Give me the chest, Eamon. Or do you still prefer what mortals call you? Wick?” He flashed the key across the young man’s line of vision. “The lock will release its hold if you grant me permission to take it. Think carefully on this. I use the key, you die. I still get what I want. You give in, you live. “
Wick shuddered at the touch of key tap the metal lock protecting his heart but for a tiny slit, a slit meant for a special blade. A living lock, a legend and tradition descending all through his family’s bloodline, was about to be broken. He thought back to how it happened. Could it all have been prevented?
~ One Week Ago ~
It was a sense of duty that drew the young man to the Temple that windy morning. With a hand holding a cowl over his head and cape billowing behind, he approached the doors with difficulty and flung them open to be rid of the chill. Warm air greeted him with the promise of sweet-smelling incense and lanterns soon to be lit. As he removed the cloak to hang on the wall peg, amber eyes glowed with a fire within while he searched out each stand in the dim morning light.
He knew the place by heart now, knew each lamp’s location. A light touch to the nearest wick produced a crackling flame no normal person could hope to create. Wick, as the villagers nicknamed him for this talent, quickly set about to complete his daily tasks. He lit the remaining lanterns before burning a few sticks of incense at the Temple’s altar. The decor was not much these days. Stories of past wars could be heard from every corner of the village. It was even present on the Temple’s outside walls. Scars, rubble, even holes where explosions had taken place could not be missed. The Temple served as a symbol of Hope, for it had been the only building left in tact after years of battle, and now served as a place of communication between Wick and his family.
A descendent from a clan of Ember Mages, Wick was the only elemental-user known to the Englaed Isles. Upon the first day of his arrival, he knew the people must have thought it odd, for what interest in a series of islands surrounded by nothing but water could hold a fire-user’s attention? Though Wick himself was not entirely certain, he hoped the stories behind the islands’ development held the key to his travels.
There was still some time before the chaplain was due to arrive, so Wick set about building two more incense trays and placed them on the altar. After positioning them to his liking, he lifted his hands to ignite the wood. Eyes blazed with an intensity of the flames itself as it roared to life, dancing and popping with deadly radiance that could have scorched any other living creature within reach.
Calmly did Wick stand, never taking his gaze from the fire. An Ember Mage had no fear of heat, having been raised in the fiery pits of the Wastelands. It was a place said to be so unbearably hot that the only other creature to endure it was the elusive Fire Bird. Rare though they were, Wick was not interested whether one had been spotted as the flames gathered in a ring to create a window. In this opening did a picture begin to materialize, and soon his parents were in plain sight as though they were standing in the room with him.
“Kali-mora,” he greeted in their tongue.
“Greetings, Eamon,” his father replied, using his true name. “Always a blessing to hear from you. What news from the Englaed Isles?”
“The stories are so many, and so vast. There are so many viewpoints, and yet no secret worth becoming Guardian have I found. I often fear my journey may have been in vain. I do not know why the pull, and yet I still feel as though I’ll find something...somewhere.”
His father smiled with the patience of an understanding parent. Presently, two other siblings joined the view alongside his mother, and they waved in recognition.
“No secret for me yet?” his older brother asked. “You’ll find something. Just don’t take it for yourself when you do,” He laughed than moved from the window’s view.
“I could.” Wick held his chin up with pride. “Ethan knows I could do it.”
“But you must remember, son,” his mother said, “Ethan is of proper age and has gained the council’s approval. All he needs is a secret. Be patient. Our family line has always been the most successful Guardians. You will find what you seek, and in return will gain honor toward your appointed time when you become next Guardian.”
“I will make you both proud.” Wick bowed his head.
“We know you will,” his father answered. “Be well, my son, and take care.”
The image died with the flames releasing the circular form. When at last it was extinguished, Wick quickly cleared the ashes from the altar and went to open some of the doors to let out the heat. A fresh breeze swept through the place before the shutting of entrance doors announced the chaplain’s arrival.
“Phew!” Wick heard, and he turned at the approach of a middle-aged man. “You aiming to roast the congregation this morning? I hope the pews are still in tact.”
Wick laughed. “Sorry. Morning mass with the family.”
