Commissioned Visual Records

This record contains visual materials produced under commission for representational and archival purposes.
Images are retained as sanctioned depictions of persons, locations, or events referenced within primary source texts.
Quoted excerpts are included solely to identify the originating source and contextual relevance of each record.
No interpretive commentary is provided.
Inclusion in this archive does not imply endorsement, accuracy beyond representational intent, or narrative authority.

The Dragon Box

Excerpt from primary source text.

Pietas closed his eyes, recalling the bustling marketplace where he'd purchased the shirt. His gift of Dreamweaving dropped him into the memory as if he'd portaled there.

Late afternoon, that hazy time before dusk when the world slowed, creatures returned to nests, and the smell of soothing, sun-warmed earth filled the air. On his left, a merchant shut down a shop of body-sized stringed instruments. A random twang rang out as he wheeled items inside. On the right, the shirt kiosk took down items that hadn't sold. The aromatic spice of cedarwood, sacred to natives of this world, wafted to him.

Pietas rubbed his thumb across the place where the dragon ring had once sat. He'd purchased its precious dragon box here. The storefront appeared as clearly as if he once more stood before it. The name Dratar arched over the door, the letter D decorated with dragons. Promising indeed.

This world celebrated dragons, even though fossils of the animal did not exist. With no effort, he brought up the faces of the shopkeepers, a married couple. Though other shops closed around them, the couple indulged his curiosity. Each showed him item after item, explaining its design and telling him the history of its creation.

He chose several small boxes as gifts. Upon spying a large rectangular one, he set the boxes with his stack of other purchases, and lifted it. An ornate brass dragon stretched its wings across the top of the case, covering its diagonal width. Alien symbols peeked out from beneath.

The couple assured him they could create any design he liked, and after a few quick sketches, they created the pattern gracing the box in his possession now. Inside, the lid bore his motto: "Pain is a warrior's ally."

Drachensturm Dagger

Artist Nano-Core

Excerpt from primary source text.

Pietas tossed back the tan leather hide covering his ceremonial dagger. Stones the same turquoise as his eyes filled the eyes of the dragon carved into the silver hilt.

His sister caressed the blade as if it were a lover. "This is new."

"It could all but split hair when I bought it. But I sharpened it."

"Of course you did."

"Everything is ready."

She picked up the dagger and angled it back and forth, peering at the hilt. "More dragons."

Charon's Boat

Artist Nano-Core

Excerpt from primary source text.

Built to hold a million Ultras, the ship's bulk filled the sky. A gangway sealed the ship to the opening ahead. The name of the vessel showed through the vast windows.

Rheault slowed and then halted, transfixed by the sight.

Vash-T stopped and came back. "Sir? Is something wrong?"

"Are you aware of the significance of this ship's name?"

Vash-T glanced at the giant letters in white against the black hull. "One moment, sir, while I access historical references. Shall I explain it to you?"

"I understand already." Long-stifled emotions within Rheault fought to rise, but he drove them back. "Let's do this, shall we?" He walked with Vash-T.

Outside, in the cold of space, spotlights traced the hull of Charon's Boat.

Gates of Life

Artist Nano-Core

Excerpt from primary source text.

I went to where the child lay and lifted the wee creature in my two hands. He was not quite the length of my forearm and dark red, his eyes closed in sleep, two fists held against his pudgy chin as if ready to fight the world. He won a smile from me without so much as a whimper. He looked far from early. I opened the blankets wrapping him. Perfect, head to toe.

"He's a fine boy." I knelt. "You do want his father to see him. Don't you?"

"Aye, but not yet. He has to go through the Gates. It's our custom." She put out a finger and touched his cheek. The babe sought it with his mouth. Dahr smiled. "No Kellindahrii babe may see his father before he's passed through the Gates of Life. If he does, he'll die."

"Posh! Myth. Ungodly superstition."

"Ungodly, aye, but true." She held out her hands for the babe. "All of us are cursed with it. We've got to pass under the Gates as soon after we're born as possible. Before we see our fathers. It's law in Kellindahr. It's custom. It offends the Faerii not to."

"We had Gates of Life in Qarth as well, hundreds of years before. We tore them down without ill effects from the Faerii." Still, there were those who believed.

Mortay Wahn (Eaters of the Dead)*

Artist Jamin Allen

Excerpt from primary source text.

The sun beat down on Khyff's head and shoulders. Steam rose from the damp grass. Only the light breeze made the humidity bearable.

"Now we give him to the sky." Mehfawni led him by the hand as they followed the rest of the family toward a distant rise. "Kin don't put their dead in the ground, Khyffy. You're the first human to see this among our clan."

They walked up the small hill and stopped on the crest. Below them stretched a valley filled with what looked like cots on long stilts, each with tatters of cloth attached and floating from them on the breeze. What took Khyff's breath was the sight of bones atop each cot.

Not skeletons. Bones. Something had torn the bodies apart without destroying the cots.

His stomach rolled.

Several males went to the closest cot and reached up to uncover it, exposing a young Kin male with fair furskin and hair the color of honey.

"He's naked."

Mehfawni slipped her arm around him. "That's so the birds can feed on him."

"Feed?" A grating caw drew his attention to the sky. Huge black birds circled overhead. The meaning of her words sent a chill through him.

They gave their dead to the sky. To the birds of the sky. Birds ate them.

All at once Khyff was running, running, anywhere, somewhere, away from the sight of those birds and the bones. Bones that had been picked over and stripped of every last bit of meat.