Goon

[This missive is public knowledge and is meant to be accessible to all readers.]

 

TO THE FALL OF DRAGONKIN
A SUMMONS OF UNITY

 

 

To the denizens of Almaris:

 

In response to the Fall of Ando Alur, it is with immense vindication that this missive is penned;

That the crusade against The False Lord Azdromoth and his willfully ignorant followers is a divinely righteous undertaking.

 

The echous call of the tormented voidal creation stated just so; to make no mistake; that foolish descendants and those of Dragonkin have caused this ruination. Forget not that the tear beneath the Soaring City was only begun by practitioners of voidal manipulation, but it was ultimately deepened by corrupted servants of the malevolent dragon and their misguided meddling. 

 

To assume they had well-intentions would be unaligned to the land they have left scorned and scarred in their wake- typical of their kind.

Since their otherworldly creation, the Azdrazi have continued to be the bane of all of our peoples. Their shared sympathies with the world-consuming Inferi and the destruction left behind from their carelessness in Ando Alur both act as testament to such a plaguing existence.

 

Furthermore, it is with certainty that I assure you; they feel no remorse for what they have caused.

If you’ve the displeasure of perusal through their own missive regarding the incident, you will see that they openly mock you. They dare for you to admonish them or question the validity of their misaction; in fallacious elitism.

 

This missive is meant to call forth a uniting of all fronts; all fronts unaffiliated with the foul perversions of the afflicted dragonmen. All fronts to equal the same conclusion, and all fronts that seek the same victory; the complete alienation and eradication of the drake’s scourge.

 

The Men and Women of the Canonist Church, 

The Qualasheen Followers of Allah,
Worshippers of The Aspects and The Spirits,
The Forgotten Templars of Malchediael,
and to all other wrongfully-defined ‘Laymen’ of Descendants;

 

Let us raise banners with a common enemy in sight.

 

Allow this message to act as extension of the olive branch; to absolve all squabbles and differences of past between your people and These Champions of Xan- least until our shared draconic menace is spurned.

 

Allow this message to act as proclamation; that the Crusade against Azdromoth’s Scourge is inevitable and imminent. No longer should the taint of Azdromoth feel at home within our realm.

 

Cull your forces, and greet your neighbors in arms; and prepare for what is to come:

 

The PURGE of Darkspawns and all their affiliations.

 

Signed,
The Grand Justiciar of the Brothers of Virtue
Alicjo Verrana

 

The Commander of the Order of the Golden Flower
Aer’dir Mallos

 

Wyrmstalker of the Lions of Lorraine
Sister Shrike

 

Adjudicator of the Covenant of The Sunlit Path
Gaelûnduyn Ephoth

 

GOONART.

pixels of your pixels.

 

Greetings, Lord and Lordettes. 

 

My internet pseudonym is Motherchild, though maybe you know me better as Goon. 

 

I come before you now with an advertisement regarding the pixel art you may have seen floating around in one Discord server or another. I’ve been making pixel art on-and-off for a couple of years now, typically pro bono, but I’ve finally decided to officially put my work on the market. 

 

Each piece is done in my own style, but each piece is different, of course; so there isn’t ever really a set price for any piece, it usually varies depending on what is requested- but I try to keep it as low as I can. 

 

I’m in it for the love of the game, really.
(but money is cool, I need money)

 

So without further delay, I present my services:
*all prices vary, depending on complexity and expected completion date.*
 

THE STANDALONE CHARACTER

 

 

You could expect to pay anywhere from $10 - $15 USD per character.

You could expect completion anywhere from 1 day - 1 week.

 

THE GROUP PHOTO

 

THE FATHER CIRCLE 

(circa. 2021)

@WestCarolina

 

THE FALCONE FAMILY, 1820 

(circa. 2021)

 

THE BEAST TAMERS 

(circa. 2021)

 

THE LAST LIGHT 

(circa. 2020)

 

Typically offered at a discounted rate if you buy in bulk, though, 

you could expect to pay anywhere from $8 - $12 USD per character.

You could expect completion anywhere from 3 days - 2 weeks.

 

THE BACKDROP

 

UNDER THE WILLOW

@Excitedly & @Witchlore

 

ALPHA CARRINGTON & LORILEI MARIJKE

@peachcool & @devvy

 

An additional charge on top of the cost for characters,

you could expect to pay anywhere from $10 - $30 for an added background.

You could expect completion anywhere from 1 week - 3 weeks.

 

note: the addition of just a single-color backdrop is entirely free. c’mon now.

 

THE ANIMATION

 

An additional charge on top of any other inclusions;

animations take quite a bit of time and effort, especially depending on their complexity.

Inquire about your desired animation, though expect at least +$30 for animation*

You could expect completion anywhere from 2 weeks - 1 month [max].

 

When submitting your commission, be sure to: 
1) reach out and check if I’m available to take your commission.
If not, I’ll add you to the waiting list and get to you as soon as a slot opens. 

 

2) include your envisionment; characters, accessories, backdrops, animations. 

 

3) give me the deets
character heights, the skin/reference pics, how many emotes it takes to boot up your transfigured sword and the important trinkets you have hanging from it

 

4) (optional) add in your budget
if you aren’t super sure what you want/can afford, toss a number at me, I’ll make it work

 

 

To make a long story short, prices are flexible and vary based on what I think the finished piece would be worth.

I like ambitious projects but be mindful of the time spent. I'll try just about anything so lay your ideas on me.

 

I prefer money upfront, as it motivates me further and keeps me accountable for completing your art in the designated time; though, I do reserve the right to deny a commission if it is too complex or simply unmotivating. In such a case, I’d certainly pledge a refund- a man is only his reputation.

 

CASHAPP / PAYPAL / VENMO
In that order of preference.

 

you can comment here, but I mean...

Contact me on Discord: goon#8136

 

goonart for the artgoons.

[The events described in this post are not meant to be metagamed nor are they public knowledge in any way; only to be discovered through proper roleplay.]

---

EACH DAY WAS THE SAME

NOCTURNE BY TOM THOMSON

---

“Venti­quattro.”

 

The early birds arose each day before he ever might have, singing their untimely songs.

 

God, how irksome.

For why do they sing so often?

Are their lives so free from care that they can spend a day’s entirety serenading one another?

They’ve nothing more than to eat insects from the earth and make their desperate mating calls- ha.

As if they were Imperial braggarts. 

 

All the same, it is maddening to be awoken each day.

Each day... To their incessant shrills.

 

A hefty sigh was made as the man lay sungazing- adjusting eyes met against radiant beams that shone through the canvas stretched overhead.

 

I suppose there are worse things to be awoken to. But this is unsustainable. This bedroll is torn and this tent has withstood its final storm.

And I thought I’d gotten them all, but there always seems to be yet another jagged stone to take a stab in the night. 

 

Before the sun settles, I will search again- they are not a creation of my mental’s making. There are stones unearthing themselves to stab me.

 

Once more a hefty sigh, sitting himself up as he allowed that bedroll’s excess to fall against his lap, bare hand rubbing abrassively against his visage.

 

Eugh, where is she? I thought I’d have found her by now...
 
Fottuta cagna sfuggente.

 

Each day was the same. The man emerged from his tent in the same clothes as the day before, stained of sweat and tree bark- a dissatisfied hand raising to block those piercing rays of light whilst he cast an uninterested gaze upon the forestial landscapes. 

 

And each day typically began with a cigarette he’d light from the coals of the prior night’s flame- only today, there was not a cigarette left in that pack.

 

“Certamente.”

 

A blatant disregard for the lands he inhabited, the man spitefully tossed aside the empty pack, leaving it to be trampled by he or the foxes of the wild- begrudgingly pacing himself toward the riverside. 

 

A trip into town. A carton of Beckham’s. A change of clothes, a bath. A meal- un pasto caldo.. 
No, si figuri. This is of my own doing.

 

At the river’s side now, the man lowered himself to a kneel. Rippling in the water was but a muddled reflection of himself, and he looked disheveled. Not like the man he once was, but that shift was not so apparent to him. He took his hands to cup against one another, submerging below the surface of the waters- minnows darting far and fast upon their entry. And the man took an obnoxious slurp- moisture beginning to wet his parched lips.

 

This is.. Unsustainable. If I do not find her at the day’s end..

 

Another prolonged sip, taking his palm to wipe against the dribble around his mouth- quenched, least for a few hours.

 

【   | | |   】

 

“Un anno.”

 

Oh.

It has been so long. Long enough. Surely, they’ve forgotten me by now. 
Easily forgettable, you are.
Perhaps I should remind them.

 

The chirping of birds was no longer a sound he could hear, merely interpolated into the music of thought that so endlessly played in his solitude. No longer did he grit his teeth for the taste of tobacco rolls, and no longer did he worry for his next meal. He grew used to the arduousness of forestial vagrancy.

 

They do not need me and I do not need them. 
I do not need her- I do not need him. I do not need his approval- he is a child. I am the reason he is even. 
I should have killed him.

 

Clasped between both of his gloved hands, a hatchet rose high above his head, brought down against a helpless chunk of wood to meet with a splitting CHOP.

 

Perhaps he did make that trip into town after all- his tent was newly woven, bedroll no longer torn, and he’d an array of tools he certainly did not come with. Cigarette butts littered his grounds, perhaps that is why he did not crave them; he had plenty more within his reach. 

 

Clothes fit for a man of the woods, he took the sleeve of his shirt, wiping a bead that dripped from the wrinkles formed in his face.

 

No, no. Famiglia non combatte famiglia, si? Ah! 

 

My father said; “La famiglia non combatte la famiglia.” 
He is dead. La famiglia combattuta la famiglia, and he is dead.

 

CHOP. Shrapnels of wood soared outward against a splintering cleave.

 

Life. In exchange for fleeting blessings. 

 

Per amor del Cielo Sette.

 

And though he craved not the nicotine, he had his cravings still. And though he had angled enough to feed himself for the next few days- an insatiable hunger brew still. 

 

Perhaps it was time for yet another trip into town.
If not to satisfy, to surround himself with the forgotten sound of another.

 

 “This solitude is unsustainable.”

 

【   | | |   】
 

“Cinque­cento­quattro.”

 

Each day was the same. Each day had proven that it was sustainable, despite his devout nihilism. He had no reason to live, yet he continued to do so.

 

At least I have not forgotten my mother’s tongue. Or my mother- my sweet, sweet mother.
I see, now, why she did what she did to herself.

 

What of the mother of my children? What of my children?
If I cared, as I say I do, I would not hide from them. 

 

They resent you now. I know they do.

Did my mother believe that we resented her? Is that why?
We did not. I did not, I cannot speak for my sisters.

 

Lauretta- oh, I would love to see Lauretta- sweet, sweet sorella. She would understand.
She would understand it all.

 

Klara would understand. 
Here I am, in Esbec, Klara of Esbec- and where are you?
Elusive as always. 
But understanding, if you heard my tale, I’m sure.

 

Dante, he did not understand. 
Carmine- he could never understand.

 

Gracia.
Natalia...

 

Margosha, Dima-
Did I forget Dima? 
How could I forget Dima? 
I am not the father I promised to be. But he is hardly any son of mine.

 

He does not even hold my name.

 

His wicked mother whispers, ‘what a terrible man’ I am, I don’t need them.

 

No, only Gracia is mine. Uncorrupted- God, I hope she has not yet been soiled.
What a terrible man I am, to leave my daughter without a father’s guidance.

 

But I’ve given the same to Ludovica- and she has become who she has.
I did what I had to, always. 
I did all I could. 
I did all I could and she became who she became, I cannot fault myself. Or that boy. 
Only the world, I can only blame the world.

 

And I can only hope that Gracia does not befall the same temptation of indulgence.
And if she does, I can only blame the world. Not myself.

 

Dio, guide my daughter. For in my absence, she will need it.
And in my presence, Dio, she would need your guidance still.

 

I know you have changed your opinions of me.
I know you no longer see me suited for your blessings, but I ask on behalf of my youngest.

 

The Deceiver has laid many pitfalls, in the shape of men and magic.
Please, Dio. Guide my daughter in my absence, for even in my presence, she will need your guidance.

 

Amen.
Amen.

 

【   | | |   】

 

“Sette­cento­venti­tré.”

 

Each day was the same. Each day had proven that it was sustainable, despite his devout nihilism. He had no reason to live, yet he continued to do so. 

 

Only today, he would not spend alone.

 

A rustling in the grass, a rumbling in his belly- the man skittishly grabbed at a dagger dug into the earth beneath his feet and flicked his head toward its source.

 

Beasts..

 

Only it wasn’t.

 

It was an aged woman, slowly trudging through the field with a basket clung on her arm. She kept balance as she stepped over mounds of dirt, holding up the excess fabrics of her gown’s tail with each of her careful steps through tallened blades of grass. 

 

Has she been here all this time?
This is not her..

 

And he sprung himself to his feet then, head weaving aslant as he held a narrowing gaze upon the woman. Much like a predator to prey, the man lowered his form and followed behind the unhurried woman, quieting his steps and clinging to trees with that dagger in hand.

 

Have they finally come to find me?
No, they’ve forgotten me.

 

Perhaps God has not forgotten.

 

The woman was no wiser to his lurking, lurched over a bush that she plucked petite crimson berries from- and she hummed a simple melody, rasping gently as the years had worn away at her vocal chords.

 

“Have you come for me?” The man demanded answer, stepping from behind his cover- that dagger held visibly in hand as he stared down the woman.

 

A hand of hers moved to press against her chest as if to feel for a heart’s beat- startled, the woman stammered. “N-no, I don’t believe so.”

 

“Then why have you come?” Unsatisfied with her answer prior, the man stamped forth slow- hand clenching tight against the small blade.

 

“For the trees. For the berries, of course.” An anguished smile made for the man, splaying a hand toward the bush before shuffling away nervously from the herbage.

 

And he pressed forth still- halting at about an arm’s reach from the woman. He spoke no words, and neither did she- the two locked eyes upon one another’s. A conceding huff through his nostrils, the man confessed then, “You startled me.”

 

“And you, me.” The woman held fast to the disarming smile she offered. Her hand moving to fish through that basket she carried- holding out a handful of berries for the man to pick at if he chose. “My apologies, sir. It was not my intention.”

 

A glance made to her peace offering, making no further acknowledgement of such as he returned his eyes upon her features, “There are not typically people this deep into the forests.. Why have you come if not for me?”

 

“You speak as if you own these lands, young man.” Chortling then, the woman sounded pleased with her own retort- returning those berries she offered to their basket. “Do you? Own these lands?”

 

“No.” Through a tipping head, the man held a reticent deadpan against the woman’s return, offering only a blink of his eyes for a lingering moment. “But I find refuge here. It has become my home.”

 

“And I am intruding, hm? I see.” A chortle made from the old woman, her persistent smile cracking through the creases in her face. 

 

“You startled me- is all.”

 

The woman’s smile faded, unresolved to persist against his reticence. “Why are you here, young man?”

 

Silence. No answer made for her query- but he did not depart just then.

 

She took that moment of quiet to glance more closely at his form- from head to toe, his attire was stained and torn. His hair was long and disheveled, littered with small twigs. “You look as if you could use a moment of respite. A proper bath, with due respect.” A brief chortle, once more amused with herself. “Would you care to accompany me? I’ve a cottage- not far. Surely, you’ve seen it.” She pointed westward beyond the volley of trees, turning once more to the unkempt man- a smile with genuine warmth.

 

Deny her offer.

She is a messenger of The Deceiver.

 

She is an old woman; it would be easy to overcome her if needed.

 

‘A moment of respite.’

 

A gloved hand splayed forth then after the long silence, quiet as he spoke, “Lead on, woman.”

 

【   | | |   】

 

OLD CABIN IN THE WOODS BY TATYANA FOGARTY

 

The cottage was small, buried beyond the trees, and surely the man had seen this place before during his own exploration of his surroundings. But to think the old woman had lived in that dilapidating cabin this whole time?

 

Does she live here alone?

 

I could kill her; take this for yourself.
It would be so easy.

 

Was she with them, all along?
Am I being led to my demise?

 

“You’ve a family, young man?” The old woman’s rasp cut through the tensity of their shared silence, puttering about the interior of the small domicile whilst the disheveled man kept himself seated in a crudely built chair.

 

Lie.
She does not care for your family. 
Lie.

Eyes darted elsewhere whilst those thoughts churned- nodding his head slow as he croaked forth, reluctantly, “... Si.”

 

His response turned a smile over her features, squatting herself to retrieve something from a pile of metallic kitchenwares. A polite lecture, “Family is everything, you know.” With an aged groan, she rose once more, the bones in her body creaking as she stood- holding now a blackened kettle. “If not for my family to watch over me from the Seven, my heart’d have no reason to beat still.” The creases in her face grew more pronounced as her placid smile tugged, a sagely finger waggling as she shuffled herself toward the stove’s top.

 

A mocking smile tilted his own expressions- littered with a misplaced spite against the woman’s genuine nature. “I’ve forgotten the meaning of family. Long ago.”

 

“And were you an actor in your past, hm? A playwright?” The old woman teased, chuckling faintly as she lowered a teapot into a basin of water. “So dramatic..”

 

Unamused, though he did not show it with his obligatory snort and smile. Evident in his eyes, though, a disdain for the perceived disrespect.

 

I could kill her. No one would know, and this would be mine.

 

“Tell me of them, you should not forget where you came from.”

 

“I’ve forgotten the meaning of family the moment I killed my father. Once more when I left my own to feed themselves. There is nothing to know beyond that.”

 

“Well.” The old woman halted momentarily, and unseen to the man, her expressions fluttered. The two sat in another tense silence, disrupted by the clearing of her throat, “Surely, you had your reasons.”

 

Surely, you had your reasons..

 

“Would you tell me of those?”

 

Why does she act as if she cares?
She only means to harvest information.

 

Perhaps she doesn’t.

 

But tell her nothing more.

 

And hauntingly, he returned, 
“Necessity.” 

 

Solemn were her expressions now, grasping desperately to retain her zeal. “Do they still live?”

 

“I wouldn’t know.”

 

“Go and see them then. If you wouldn’t, it would gnaw at you for the remainder of your short, short life.”

 

God, she is presumptuous.
She knows nothing.

 

She knows nothing about me, my family- 
Old hag.
An old woman who knows nothing, how sad.

 

Nothing is stopping me.

 

She is just an old hag.

 

The faintest snort sounded from the disheveled man, be it of amusement or annoyance- and his expressions would perhaps denote the latter.

 

Very well then.

 

“Tea?” She queried over her shoulder with a warmth in her smile, kettle splayed in a showcasing manner before she began a pour of her own.

 

“Sure..” 

 

She bobbed her head with that gentle smile returning- her back turned to him once more. The gurgling of the poured hot water roiled; the only sound to disrupt the long silence to come. 

 

 

Taking the back of a gloved hand to wipe the dribble from his lips- quenched, least for a long while.
For the first, the man held a genuine smirk against his lips.

 

And the bird’s began their ill-timed chirping- their last song of the day.

 

Can you hear the music? 
I know I sound demented, but can you hear it? 

 

It’s beautiful.

 

【   | | |   】

 

 

[The events described in this post are not meant to be metagamed or public knowledge in any way, only to be discovered through proper roleplay.

Cosimo Falcone's sudden disappearance, however, would be noted by those who knew him.]

---

THOSE BEASTS THAT WERE MEN

The Providential Courtroom (circa. 1826) 

 

【   | | |   】

 

“It must’ve been a simpler time for my father.”

 

A child and his father walked pointedly through the providential streets, the sounds of their steps buried beneath the sea of city sound. Fortunate then that they had little words to share, glances stuck respectively to their shined shoes against the curated stone, or to the familiar streets ahead- only meeting eyes on a happenstance. 

 

The elder Illatian’s brisk strides made him seem almost skittishly eager, perhaps paranoid, if viewed under another lens- and the boy did his best to match pace. It was a long walk filled, mostly of their silence, and fortunate once more, it was a silence spawned of a mutual understanding.

 

A father and his adolescent son, a mirror’s shrunken image of Cosimo Antony Falcone.

 

“Assuming the best of my confirmation, piccolo, your father will serve honorably the courts of His Imperial State.” Cosimo spoke proudly of that fact, lips twitched to chisel a simper through his often-reticence. 

 

The younger Falcone, on the other hand, seemed neither interested or disinterested, but all the same, he dutifully turned his stare toward the man who broke the quiet- knowingly awaiting for what else was to come from the spiel Cosimo was often prone to. 

 

“When I was your age, I had just begun my studies of the law. I read the Code of Man through and thorough- and I suggest for you to do the same.” A dry sniffle then, to break his vigilant monologue as gloved fingers loft to grasp abrasively against his nose. “This moment- it is what I have always worked for, Dante.” 

 

“Do you understand?”

 

A reluctant nodding met the rhetorically posed query, the youth’s lips pursing of insecurity. Dante diverted his gaze once more to his gait, a self-reflective deflation. “Si.” Dante returned from obligation; was he to be expected clairvoyance at the age of fourteen, or was this lecture meant purely anecdotal- a proud moment of braggery for his father? 

 

“The Right Honorable Judge of the Central Circuit Court- Cosimo Falcone.” Seldomly lively in late, but he was in this instance- hands took from the tuck of his trousers to present his namesake in a grandiose way. Stifled then with a snort of amusement, the older man slid his gloved hands back into his pockets.

 

“Iss long.” The youth commented admonishingly, the influence of his mother’s thickened accent evident in that returned utterance. Just after the words left his tongue, his head lowered sheepishly- daring to critique his father’s pride.

 

Cosimo did not reprimand him for his criticisms though, instead, concurring with another amused huff. “Si.”  A faint smirk marked his features, turning that smirk to meet against the boy’s shrunken ones- a fading return to his reticence. Hushed now, a warmth rumbled through the lowered tone, “But it is earned.”

 

【   | | |   】

 

Towering ivory archways greeted the duo at the end of their stroll, guarding over an outdoor foyer. The ambiental sounds of the idle Orenian chatter and clatter had grown more silent the further they coursed through the structure’s entrance. The tapping of their leather heels meeting against ivory stone stirred a reverberating echo against the vaulted ceilings- muting just after they began to walk against long burgundy carpet, stretching throughout the entirety of that measureless corridor. 

 

At the end of the corridor there was a heavy set of dark wooden doors, Cosimo moving to clasp at one of the large handles- drawing open the sturdy door. A rumbling of metallic creaking sounded, announcing any entrance that might have been made as those hinges groaned piercingly. Cosimo stood aside as he held open the dense door, splaying a hand for Dante to enter first.

 

Obliged and into the room, Dante’s neck craned about the corners of the elevated ceilings and the chandelier that hung so high. The prodigious banners of Orenia swayed gently from the shifting airs of the open doors, strewn aside portraits and paintings of relevance- and in the center of the large auditorium’s furthest wall, a throne to rival a king’s. Seating meant for his respective audience, though, only those two Falcones occupied the vast space.

 

Cosimo continued pointedly forth through the courtroom as his younger trailed unhurriedly behind, twisting himself about in an inquisitive swivel. “Perché siamo qui, padre?” Dante queried of their intentions in that room, halting his follow and falling his stare onto the man who pressed further.

 

“Perché.” Cosimo answered plainly, bringing himself up the small staircase of the judge’s bench to sit himself against the tall wooden chair- a relieved sigh as he coarse his hands taut against the smoothed wooden armrests. “This is where justice may abdicate. And this is where justice may prevail.”

 

Dante, once more, seemed neither interested or disinterested in the cryptic return, churning his lips to the side of his face as he broke his stare from the man atop the allegorical throne. He turned then, hues set against a portrait of a former law-woman who stared back in a stony glower- jostling a flickering furrow of his brows.

 

“It is arguable that justice is subjective- that the ideas of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ come in many shapes. Many colors.” Rambling seemingly to himself, Cosimo’s gaze trailed to the armrest he felt upon, taking a palm to slap pensively against the wooden surface. “An understandable nuance for each basis, non saresti d'accordo?” Though his pattering continued as Cosimo made his query for concurrence, he turned his head for the answer from the youth who was staring once more at him- piercing, his father’s stare was.

 

The younger Illatian casted a gentle shrug to answer that query, taking a swallow at an anxious knot that tied in his throat. “Sbagliato è sbagliato… Wrong is always wrong. But the justice to remedy the wrong should always be fair.” A hope he had responded well enough to pride his father, Dante kept intently against the would-be judge- awaiting his reaction, awaiting his response.

 

“Mm.” The elder man hummed content with the response given by his begotten, coaxing a nodding of his head as he slunk back to a comfortable lean in that seat. A balled and gloved hand moved to prop his head upright, the other palm splaying as he further pressed, “And what is to be defined as wrong- to you, figliolo?”

 

Cosimo dared not avert his scrutinous gaze from the boy, but the boy did not have such gall- turning his verdant eyes toward his shined shoes. He stammered momentarily as he pondered the correct response, murmuring just audibly enough for the man across the room to hear, “Degeneracy.. Like- killing people, stealing property.” No further elaboration of thought, a surface level observation made as if it were an obligatory and trained response.

 

“And if these things are from a perceived necessity?” Cosimo chided the sheepish response with a lofting brow, as if goading a greater stir from the equally reticent boy. Just as he comforted himself, he sprung forth from his lean to press his arms against the podium in front of him, narrowing his eyes against the youth who refused to look at him. “If the slain man meant the preservation of the executioner’s family? If the stolen goods were meant he would satiate the roiling hunger within his child’s belly?” Dour now, unsatisfied with the meek response to the open-ended question- as if Dante’s unfounded opinion were the only incorrect answer that the adolescent could have given.

 

Dante no longer wished to speak for fear of further disappointing his father. His brows pinched tighter as he started an aimless pacing, settling himself and his glance at the defendant’s stand. A finger trailed over the grain of the polished wood, he thought over what might have been a better suited response- perhaps clairvoyance was expected of the fourteen year old. 

 

Evident he would get no response, Cosimo fell back into his lean with a nonchalance. His head canted lazily then and his wrist rolled, idly emphasizing the chiming to follow, “I have killed a man before, you know.”

 

The utterance ripped a further silence between the two. Dante picked his head up from the pattern of the table to meet against his father’s imposing stare.

 

“Seven- no, eight, now.” Cosimo corrected himself, doubling down on his admittance and his nonchalance as he kept his tight stare against the boy- as if toying with him to gauge his reactions to the jarring remark. 

 

Dante’s eyes tried to settle themselves as they bounced against the pallid elder’s expressions, stammering before a query could be made, “Why?” The boy spoke desperately to understand- why his father had killed anyone and why he made such a callous admittance of such. He kept his features clear of the scowl he wanted to make, pleading through flickering eyes in its stead.

 

“Necessity.” Cosimo reiterated matter-of-factly, properly sitting himself from the lax lean he was sprawled in. Deadpanned glare made to the youth, letting the silence fester long before continuing, “I’ve killed men who I deemed deserved the sentence- and I’ve killed men who have never once even slighted me.” A fervor bolstered his inclining tone, falling just as suddenly as it rose to a brooding quiet, “My own uncle. My own father- tuo nonno. All of necessity.”

 

【   | | |   】

 

“If he were not himself, he would demand men like him do not deserve justice.”

 

Temperamental in his latest days. Choleric, even— those who spoke to him were unsure of what would unsettle him. And once he was unsettled, they were unsure what he would do. The spontaneity typical of Illatians- but harmfully so. 

 

Opulence was a requirement of those goals he sought to achieve, whether or not he saw the value of such anymore. An impatience now found with the frivolities and diversions that he so fruitlessly chased, as if only to realize that none of this would truly matter- especially after all those he knew and loved would be gone. 

 

Tormented; by the weight of a lifetime and by his familial curse of cyclical binds. Much like his mother, but so much more like his father- volatile and callous. Those wrongdoings, by now, certainly overshadowed any love and care he held- same as his father before.

 

Perhaps there was someone who would care about his sudden disappearance, but even he would not bet on such- a husk of who he was meant to become in his later days. Gone, and hopefully forgotten.

 

No answers to the House Commons’ summons meant for his judicial confirmation, no words to the wife or any woman he would mean to accompany, and no appearances for the children he was meant to raise. 

 

【   | | |   】

 

“I did what I had to do, always. Same as my father and his before.”

 

Tremoring exhales were made from the youth that struggled to maintain that eye’s contact- the youth that struggled to maintain his composure. Fingers that restlessly trembled in their trace of the wooden markings- Dante had not a word to say to his father in that instance.

 

“Do you deem me fit to decide what is just, figliolo?” Cosimo asked with a canting head, a stoic stare still held against the disconcerted boy as he awaited the response.

 

And there would be none still, silence as Dante broke their eye contact once more. Growing emboldened with a huff, as a scowl began to settle against his expressions- the world’s view of his father shattered into fragments from what was only but a few moments ago.

 

“Rispondetemi, Dante.” Cosimo commanded loudly, vaulting himself to a stand and stepping from atop of the judge’s bench with a haste- unbroken in his stare as he goaded further, “Do you deem a man who has lied- who has stolen- who has killed- fit to determine what is just?” The man spoke each word juttedly through gritted teeth, a scowl of his own as he drew closer.

 

Dante clammed upon his father’s aggressive approach, retracting his form further as the man grew closer- though, this retreat only beckoned Cosimo to grasp abrasively against his coat’s flap. Dante’s sour grimace was replaced with a fearful worry, making the occasional glance to see his elder’s features, but ultimately deciding to close his eyes- an attempted escape mentally from the brooding tensions.

 

An amused snort then from Cosimo, his head so close to Dante’s that the huff would practically rustle against the boy’s ear hairs. “Your silence.” Cosimo called longingly, a juxtaposing calm in his now-hushed tone. He shook subtly his head, setting free the boy’s garments with a push, “Your silence is answer enough.”

 

The adolescent grabbed angrily at his rustled coat, flicking it as to smooth the wrinkles the grasp may have coaxed- unhidden in the scowl held against his father now. As expected, no response was made from Dante, merely watching the back of his father’s head as the man started an idle pacing away from the boy.

 

“It must have been a simpler time for my uncle. For my father..” Cosimo called from an unlived nostalgia, gaze picking up toward the Impressionist painter’s interpretation of a courtroom gathering- ‘The Day Justice Died.’ The two stood frozen, the man fixated with the intricacies of the art piece, and the boy to the man he no longer knew.

 

A suckling sound broke the quiet as Cosimo drew upon his teeth, taking his hands to bury underneath the flap of his coat. From behind the man, Dante would not see what was drawn forth, though whatever it was, it kept Cosimo’s attention for a painstakingly long moment- driving a burning curiosity for the silent youth. 

 

Off to Cosimo’s side, he held high, and loosely wobbled, a dagger- tauntingly, perhaps, as if to invite Dante’s retrieval of such. In their shared mother tongue, sinister and always-reticent- with that blade held on display for the Dante to see, the man made a final demand of his child;

 

“Uccidimi se pensi che me lo meriti, allora.” 

【   | | |   】