Concept: A Witch Cat Thats Too Fat To Fly

Concept: A witch cat that’s too fat to fly

If we'd had a new chapter of ArSen this month it would've been released yesterday. It's not quite the same thing but maybe I can try to soften the blow a little bit by sharing a (very old) snippet of fic featuring some implied Kubard/Shapur.

Kubard walked towards the row of stables, stretching as he did so and stifling a yawn. The morning sun was bright in his eyes. As he passed under the stable’s awning, Shapur’s chestnut stallion snaked its neck over the door of the stall, ears laid back, as bad-tempered as its rider. Upon seeing that it was Kubard, the ears came forward and the nostrils flared wide.  “Here you go,” he said, extracting a sugar lump from his pocket, not above bribery. Farnaspa, who had been waiting for him in the courtyard, looked surprised.  “Is that…?” “Shapur’s horse? Yeah,” Kubard grinned. “Careful,” he added, seeing his captain begin to extend a hand towards the horse’s muzzle. “It bites.” “But not you, apparently,” Farnaspa said with a raised eyebrow.

Uhh let's see, although I can't remember very well I don't think this was ever supposed to be part of a longer work, just a little scene I came up with that amused me. It's set pre-canon, naturally.

Farnaspa is an OC of mine (it's not his usual timeline, but I felt like giving him a little cameo here)

Kubard bribing Shapur's horse with sugar lumps in exactly the same way he learned to soften up Shapur himself with sweet goods ahaha, but as you can hopefully tell, both the horse and rider have become a bit more welcoming of his presence over time (with the implication here being that Shapur spent the night and hasn't left yet).

There's a persistent myth that chestnut horses are fiery/hot-headed in temperament so it always amused me that in the anime Shapur rides a chestnut, given that I see those same traits in him.

Prince Arslan is the one character I've never been able to write properly in fanworks. I always seem to reduce him down to a cute l'il bean.

And he IS a cute l'il bean, he lights up when his friends appear and he talks to animals as if they're people, he wears his joy openly and unashamedly it's adorable.

But he's also mature, he actively works to find and fix his flaws and he puts the wellbeing of his people before his own wants and needs.

But he's also a child shouldering the weight of a war while also struggling with personal crises about his family and identity, and it keeps him awake at night.

But he's also gentle even when he's hurting, to the point that he reads Lusitanian scripture so he can understand them as people and not just as enemies.

But he's also unyielding, he is responsible for the safety of the Parsians and he will fulfill that responsibility even when it means wielding a sword when he'd rather extend a hand.

But he's also softhearted even towards his enemies, he'll make naive decisions and acknowledge that they're naive but will stand by them anyway because he'd rather be foolish than be cruel.

But he's also extremely insightful, and humble, and stubborn, and open-minded, and pragmatic, and forgiving--and because he is all these things and more, he has gained the loyalty of the strongest people in Pars. Not because he's cute, but because he's a leader worth following.

I may never write him correctly, but I'll read him again and again, because his story and his character are beautiful.

Pureblood

Read the full : HERE

First page : HERE

Since I found some fellow Arslan appreciators, I shall share my collected fanart. Arslan Senki is quite a niche fandom, so all the art I have is either commissioned or made myself.

There's this piece from several years ago, a panel redraw from the first chapter

A closeup of Arslan's eyes. Not 100% satisfied with this one, but...

This piece done by my friend Justin Montague

And this one by my friend Katie (Kin the Artist on Instagram) who is now a professional illustrator! No surprise there. Her art has always been amazing.

Pale light descends from a cloudy sky, almost warm against a monochrome world rousing back into colour.

And the air smells like the earth.

“Oh faraway on a mountain side...”

Mountains. North.

Areyan's home.

They're riding north through petal freckled fields and dew-laden grass.

It's been a while, Merlaine supposes. A few years stuck in the capital's court could drive anyone mad. He didn't know what Areyan saw in that bastard of a Shah, enough to stick by his side and help him rule, and honestly speaking he still doesn't know even now.

“...we'll go to our tent and spend the night.”

Areyan's letters to him were full of frustrations and homesickness, stupid nobles being stupid nobles, him running around untangling their messes, and complaints of the hot weather.

Areyan did not enjoy hot weather.

He took great joy in making fun of the fools, at least. Giving them stupid nicknames and viciously tearing apart the stupid-ass ideas these fools come up with.

Can you believe? one particular letter read, He was going on and on about garden sizes. Garden sizes! As if it has anything to do with the repair projects. It's not even produce gardens he was talking about, oh no. I swear, Merlaine. I swear my intelligence was deteriorating with each passing moment.

Like he said, idiot nobles with stupid-ass ideas.

He wonders why Areyan stayed at all, even if he has to admit the pigeon made good changes. Things were... getting better, ever since the country was restored.

Still.

It made him fucking miserable.

Fucking Shah took too long to let him go.

Just as Merlaine pulls a face at the thought of the bastard, Areyan's horse gallops onwards, full of force, hoofbeats accenting his joyful singing.

Yazata's sake, how does he have so much energy so early?

“The moon shines with its watchful eyes—”

Well, he looks happy, at least. Happier than Merlaine imagines him looking at court. His eyes glimmer with the brightening sky as he glances back at Merlaine, as if daring him to keep up.

“—and from a tree branch a white bird cries!”

And Merlaine has never been one to back down from a challenge.

Puffs of breath emerge in the still-cool air, their hooves sending dewdrops flying off the blades of grass.

His smile matches ones he wore back in the Zott clan village. A sharp smile, wide and free, so unlike the practiced diplomatic smile Merlaine's seen him wear before.

He likes this one better, so much better, it reflects the menace they both know he is in truth.

It doesn't take long for him to catch up and catch the carefree wrist that's not holding the reins. Then and only then they slow to an easy halt, laughter bubbling from Areyan's throat.

“Fakta*,” he grumbles. “Why'd you have to run off like that?”

“No reason in particular,” Areyan replies cheekily. Little shit. “Nothing's the matter at all.”

The pigeon grabs Merlaine's wrist right back, gripping it with a gentle sort of firmness.

Now what.

“Like hell nothing is.”

“It's true.”

“What is?” He quirks an eyebrow. “That you're airheaded enough to do it?”

Areyan gasps, all fake and dramatic. “How rude! Where lies your sense of whimsy?”

“Ick.” Ignoring the pigeon's offended noises he instead says, “Just come and spit it out. You have something to say, don't you?”

Areyan stills for a short moment, then his face morphs into a fond smile, a much softer one than the one he had mere moments ago.

“You know me so well.”

“Course I do. What do you take me for?”

“I don't know, a grouch?”

“Just hurry up and say it!”

Areyan's hand finds his, and he almost jolts on the saddle.

A steady hand, precise and rough.

The hand that wrote all those letters. The hand that heals. The hand that made all those tiny little trinkets.

Hands that have seen hard work.

“Merlaine,” he says, somehow light and serious at the same time. “Do you love me?”

His breath catches in his throat, and it's a miracle he doesn't blurt out “what” like a total dumbass.

Of all the things he was expecting Areyan to say, this was not one of them.

In hindsight, maybe he should've seen this coming.

He doesn't remember when that happened, to speak the truth— just that it did. They'd been friends for six years, almost seven, and...

That doesn't really matter.

What matters is that he does.

“Yes, I do,” he answers firmly, looking at the dove right in the eyes.

There's no need to cushion the impact, to hide.

Why would there be?

A blush blooms on Areyan's face, and oh ain't that a look— and his smile shifts again.

He doesn't know what kind of smile this is, but he does know that he likes it.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good.”

“Good?” He laughs. “Is that all you have to say?”

His own cheeks begin to heat up. Damn it. “Yeah. That's all.”

Areyan leans closer, until their foreheads almost touch, a mischievous glint in those midnight eyes. “Is that really all?”

And.

Well.

If they kissed, then...

That's just the natural outcome, ain't it?

*oh god I forgot to type this in at first but it's an older Persian word? Apparently it means a particular type of dove, the Eurasian collared dove? And since Arslan's (Areyan here) nicknames include “little bird” and “little dove” it's a play on those nicknames. Merlaine also just calls him “pigeon”.