Reviving the Resistance

[Chiangtao]

Sariel put the finishing touches on his latest poster. Charcoal was his favorite medium, and he was never caught without a lump in his sachel. He loved to contrast the drawing with dark red, the thick, morbid color of blood. He dabbed highlights of his unique paint in the key areas of his sketch, meant to draw the eye and emphasize the sarcastic scene.

The mages of Veritas had helped him duplicate his fliers. It was a process he had heard of, but never witnessed. He was in awe that his art could be so quickly spread throughout the land. He contemplated: how easy it is for any idiot to spread his word to the masses! He recognized both potential and danger in the process of immediate dispersion of ideas. But in the end, Sariel deemed it more important that we all have the ability to communicate our ideas: the potential outweighed the danger.

He sat silently, brushing his bangs out of his face to better view their work. His hands glanced across the marks on his face. They were made at a very young age, tatooed on his face by an idiot priest. The man thought Sariel was some sort of prophet. He marked young Sariel with celestial runes, an “honor” in Sariel’s mother’s eyes. The honor was taken a step further when the church offered to take Sariel in, his care and education paid for in full by the generous priest. The man went so far as to proclaim Sariel as a son of Selune, propping him up every day of worship to collect the trinkets and tribute of the local buffoons. The memory made him ill. He let his bangs fall over his eyes, masking his memory.

A familiar voice snapped him out of his recollections. Sariel smirked, saying, “Can’t say I’m not surprised. Want to give me a hand getting the word out?” He wiped the bangs from his eyes again. It felt good to care about something again.

[Chiangtao]

*posters appear in some of the smaller villages and hamlets on the outskirts of Sundren, distributed invisibly by Sariel and another agent of Veritas*

[Chiangtao]

In his bunker quarters, Sariel laughed mirthfully to himself. In the course of a week, his work had induced creativity, chaos, and caring. The shell of apathy was starting to crack; all it took was inspiration.

Posters, symbols, and demonstrations of revolution and freedom were springing up about the city and towns. A copycat artist, using his special color-scheme, had done even better work than Sariel had. Marks of the letter “V” had appeared on stone buildings, no doubt the sign of young rebels hoping to emulate Veritas. It was random and thoughtless acts mostly, things that didn’t always make sense or even turn out in favor of the rebellion. But it got the sheep to rethink their shepherds.

All it takes is an idea. It’s so powerful for a little, intangible thing. Agree or disagree, pro or con, it doesn’t matter. It’s on their lips, on their minds, fueling their fire one way or the other.

Sariel let his laughter die, then turned back to his current work. The easel was stained and chalked in black and red, as were his arms. A slender, stoic elf, outlined in black, stared back at him. She carried a longbow over her shoulder. A crescent moon pendant was draped across her willowy neck. She seemed desperate, searching for something not-yet-drawn.

Sariel twisted his mouth and sighed through his nose. His worst fears were manifesting in his creativity. “It isn’t me she seeks,” he thought to himself.

Sadly, he drew a large, black cube on the paper. “There you go, darling,” he spoke aloud. “You’re free now.”

[Chiangtao]

Sariel leaves the compound invisibly, heading out over the mountain range to avoid the scouts from the fort nearby. He heads toward Sestra.

Before entering the city, he makes himself invisible once more. He is tired from his journey, but his passion drove him. He had eyes to open, even if they wouldn't see until daybreak.

Scouting the city as best he can, keeping an eye out for sentries and guards, he begins to tack up new posters on wooden fence posts, bulletin boards, and street signs.

He surveys his work upon completion. "I hope she was right," he thinks. He pauses to look at the moon. "It wasn't meant to be caught, Sariel. Let it go."