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The Azurium Estate was the picture of the opulence from which its fair city derived its name. Its entrance hall opened up to a wide, open space decorated with flowers and misappropriated artifacts in a manner befitting eccentric, old money. The walls and ceilings were painted crimson in accordance with family tradition. And above the staircase leading to the upper floors, the family’s symbol: The Golden Claws.
Situated in the First District, commonly dubbed Skyreach for the way it towered above all others, it was said that the fabled pyromancers of House Azurium could view the entire city from their lofty perch. The once assurance that the nobility would protect had transformed, over time, into the threat of an absolute panopticon looming over the populace. If any stepped out of line, they would be met with fire and fury.
Such was the image they projected to the people: One of power and confidence. One of absolute authority. So when the patriarch observed a guard dragging his feckless progeny up the hill to his front door, he was both incensed and embarrassed.
Dressed in the flowing red robes of his station, athleticism outlined by fine tailoring, a tigerkin finished with his afternoon tea. Grim, crimson eyes scanned the manor as he began his descent to the foyer. He arrived just in time to see the armored guard throw open his front door to toss his injured son forward, knocking him onto the floor.
“Who was it this time, officer?” Venom was dripping with every word.
“Just a pack of drunks in the fifth, Milord. Nobody’s going to press charges if they know what’s good for’em.” The guard saluted the noble, remembering always to show proper respect. Lord Azurium assumed, from the shape of the muzzle and the thickness of the fur, all else hidden in steel, that he must’ve been a mustelid of some kind, but he was not interested in deducing any more than that.
“Very well. I’ll take it from here. You may go.” The stoat knew better than to question any further, taking care to shut the door behind him on his way out.
“It’s not enough that you were born without magic. Is it, Bartholomew!?” Looking down at his teenage son, the elder Azurium bared his fangs. The youth’s rosy tunic was furled and torn, with a few nicks that pierced the skin, blood straining the garment a darker shade. The would-be pugilist shared the eyes of his father, but with a lean, wiry build and a disheveled mullet the shade of soot adorning his scalp. “You keep picking reckless fights. The least you could do is win. Bring some semblance of honor back to assuage your shame!”
Bartholomew knew, deep down, it was a wasted effort, but he still needed to try. “Father. They were-”
“I don’t care.” The patriarch was stern, unyielding and unbending as the steel that comprised the manor’s supports.
“But-”
His retort was, as he has come to expect, whisked away with the swift and deliberate wave of his father’s hand.
“No. Do you understand what you’ve done? At this rate, people are going to question why you don’t use fire: Why I rarely use fire!”
“Magic isn’t everything, da-” As the younger Azurium began to protest further, picking himself off the floor despite his injuries, his rebuttal was cut short by the impact of the laces of his father’s boot making contact with the left side of his face. Once again, the cub was sent tumbling.
“Magic is the foundation of our family line, you foolish child! And while we’re scrambling to preserve what powers this bloodline has left, you’re making a mockery of our name. You’re the first Azurium in generations without the talent. The least you can do is stop showing off your ineptitude to the whole city!”
“You need magic to be a part of the family, father?” Between the beating from earlier, and the kick from his own parent, it took all Bartholomew had to stand himself upright. His limbs shook as he pulled himself up, until at last he found stable footing..
“Of course. Magic is what gives the Azuriums our claim to nobility. Without it, we’re little more than paupers.”
“Then what does that mean for me?”
Whatever answer the older tigerkin had for his own flesh and blood caught in his throat as he opened his mouth to vocalize it. A moment passed between them, just enough to cause the younger discomfort. It was then that the patriarch finally found the correct words.
“Go to Ms. Fairweather’s room and have her tend to your wounds. Then go to yours and stay there. I don’t want to see you until morning.”
Bartholomew began to curl his fingers into a fist before he thought better of it. Instead, he chose simply to reply. “Bu- Fine.”
“Stow the attitude, boy. You’re in no position to have one.”
“Yes, father.”
And with that, he left to fulfill his old man’s wishes. A single glance at him as he entered her room in the east wing of the manse was enough to get the swankin to start working, feathered arms reaching for disinfectants and bandages. He was fortunate that despite significant bruising, the wounds themselves were not deep, and treating them was nothing more than a quick patch job.
The difficulty of the situation instead came when Ms. Fairweather began asking questions.
“Lor- Bart.” She willed herself to not use the title out of respect for his wishes. “What happened?”
The young noble had never truly gotten along with the rest of the family. For the first time, the heir to House Azurium was born without their signature pyromancy. Among the clan, it marked him as an ill omen for their line, and they took great pains to remind him of it.
On this particular morning, he and his father had gotten into a fierce argument, one of those petty squabbles that neither party actually cared about, but served as a good excuse to let loose pre-existing animosity. Not even ten minutes later, Bartholomew couldn’t even remember the details, but the tension in the house was nonetheless so thick he needed to excuse himself.
And in this act of putting as much distance as possible between himself and the manse, he wandered into the fifth district, where one of his friends, Perry, a turtlekin whose father worked as one of House Azurium’s merchants, was cowering in his shell as a large plump human man, wreaking with the scent of cheap ale, hurled abuses at him, cornering him in an alleyway.
In future tellings of the story, it would be said that this cruelty incensed the tigerkin. His sense of justice, combined with concern for his friend, spurred him to action. There may have even been a shred of truth to those claims.
But as Bartholomew protracted his claws, letting out a deep growl, something far baser had claimed his judgement. With one swipe of his hand, he scratched the drunkard, carving into the flesh of his back. The rage from his earlier confrontation had yet to abate, and this was as good an excuse as any to vent his anger on someone who deserved it.
Were that shit-faced madman the only other person in the alley that day, it would’ve been child’s play for the young nobleman who had been in numerous such street brawls. As the bottle slammed straight into his side, he realized that he had picked a three-on-one fight. The only saving grace was that Perry was nowhere to be found, having successfully slipped away in the confusion.
By some mercy, the trio had quickly grown bored once the youth was battered, beaten, and in no shape to continue. Perry returned as fast as he could with a city guard in tow, but they were gone when he arrived, leaving the mustelid guard to drag the tigerkin back to his estate. Not one word was exchanged during the entire encounter, and yet as Bartholomew linked eyes with his turtlekin friend, they gave each other knowing looks of gratitude.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to wonder if this is what his ancestors felt like when they fought off the planeswalkers hundreds of years ago: Battered, bruised, but happy to have put themselves out there for others. Through all the squabbling over magic, Bartholomew always admired the stories of his ancestors, told by the elders of House Azurium, and hoped to live up to their example in some way even without powers of his own.
His wounds bandaged, and one good night's sleep later, the wiry teen tigerkin was surprised to find his father waiting for him to wake up, sitting in the corner of the room.
“How many times have we gone through this, Bart? And how many more times must we keep going through it before you get it through your thick skull?” Bartholomew could only lay back down in his bed. It was too early to ruin the day so soon, and he knew if he opened his mouth it would also start an argument. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know it won’t happen again.”
The younger tigerkin’s fur began to rise at the ominous tone, and he sat up from his bed. Trembling, he spoke. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The elder held up a sheet of paper. Bartholomew recognized it for all the many times he passed the Oplentian Armed Forces’ recruitment center. “Because starting next week, you’ll be in military training.”
“What? Fat-” Before he could finish his thought, the parent waved his hand. His authority claimed whatever words of protest were about to be uttered.
“Not one word, Bart. I’ve protected you, and protected this House from you, too many times. That ends today. Best case, the army will knock some discipline into you.”
“And worst?”
The patriarch’s visage flashed a wicked, calculating grin. “Worst case, your death finally brings us some honor.”
I wrote this story in the same weekend I wrote Family Trouble in the Ninth in Tenth (https://www.furaffinity.net/view/62037186/). I can't explain why, but Azurium and his family became subjects of great interest, and I simply followed the muse where it wanted to go.
And since the story of House Azurium requires me to tell a bit more about the story of Oplentis, there's some good world-building including at the top to make sure everything remains coherent.
Thanks to
LittleBadWolf for once more lending their considerable artist's talent to my work. You can find their post of the commission that goes with this story in the link below. I'm really happy with it, because of the way it sells the full picture of the dynamic between Az and his father.
https://www.furaffinity.net/view/62258195/
Art by LittleBadWolf
Characters and lore belong to me.
Situated in the First District, commonly dubbed Skyreach for the way it towered above all others, it was said that the fabled pyromancers of House Azurium could view the entire city from their lofty perch. The once assurance that the nobility would protect had transformed, over time, into the threat of an absolute panopticon looming over the populace. If any stepped out of line, they would be met with fire and fury.
Such was the image they projected to the people: One of power and confidence. One of absolute authority. So when the patriarch observed a guard dragging his feckless progeny up the hill to his front door, he was both incensed and embarrassed.
Dressed in the flowing red robes of his station, athleticism outlined by fine tailoring, a tigerkin finished with his afternoon tea. Grim, crimson eyes scanned the manor as he began his descent to the foyer. He arrived just in time to see the armored guard throw open his front door to toss his injured son forward, knocking him onto the floor.
“Who was it this time, officer?” Venom was dripping with every word.
“Just a pack of drunks in the fifth, Milord. Nobody’s going to press charges if they know what’s good for’em.” The guard saluted the noble, remembering always to show proper respect. Lord Azurium assumed, from the shape of the muzzle and the thickness of the fur, all else hidden in steel, that he must’ve been a mustelid of some kind, but he was not interested in deducing any more than that.
“Very well. I’ll take it from here. You may go.” The stoat knew better than to question any further, taking care to shut the door behind him on his way out.
“It’s not enough that you were born without magic. Is it, Bartholomew!?” Looking down at his teenage son, the elder Azurium bared his fangs. The youth’s rosy tunic was furled and torn, with a few nicks that pierced the skin, blood straining the garment a darker shade. The would-be pugilist shared the eyes of his father, but with a lean, wiry build and a disheveled mullet the shade of soot adorning his scalp. “You keep picking reckless fights. The least you could do is win. Bring some semblance of honor back to assuage your shame!”
Bartholomew knew, deep down, it was a wasted effort, but he still needed to try. “Father. They were-”
“I don’t care.” The patriarch was stern, unyielding and unbending as the steel that comprised the manor’s supports.
“But-”
His retort was, as he has come to expect, whisked away with the swift and deliberate wave of his father’s hand.
“No. Do you understand what you’ve done? At this rate, people are going to question why you don’t use fire: Why I rarely use fire!”
“Magic isn’t everything, da-” As the younger Azurium began to protest further, picking himself off the floor despite his injuries, his rebuttal was cut short by the impact of the laces of his father’s boot making contact with the left side of his face. Once again, the cub was sent tumbling.
“Magic is the foundation of our family line, you foolish child! And while we’re scrambling to preserve what powers this bloodline has left, you’re making a mockery of our name. You’re the first Azurium in generations without the talent. The least you can do is stop showing off your ineptitude to the whole city!”
“You need magic to be a part of the family, father?” Between the beating from earlier, and the kick from his own parent, it took all Bartholomew had to stand himself upright. His limbs shook as he pulled himself up, until at last he found stable footing..
“Of course. Magic is what gives the Azuriums our claim to nobility. Without it, we’re little more than paupers.”
“Then what does that mean for me?”
Whatever answer the older tigerkin had for his own flesh and blood caught in his throat as he opened his mouth to vocalize it. A moment passed between them, just enough to cause the younger discomfort. It was then that the patriarch finally found the correct words.
“Go to Ms. Fairweather’s room and have her tend to your wounds. Then go to yours and stay there. I don’t want to see you until morning.”
Bartholomew began to curl his fingers into a fist before he thought better of it. Instead, he chose simply to reply. “Bu- Fine.”
“Stow the attitude, boy. You’re in no position to have one.”
“Yes, father.”
And with that, he left to fulfill his old man’s wishes. A single glance at him as he entered her room in the east wing of the manse was enough to get the swankin to start working, feathered arms reaching for disinfectants and bandages. He was fortunate that despite significant bruising, the wounds themselves were not deep, and treating them was nothing more than a quick patch job.
The difficulty of the situation instead came when Ms. Fairweather began asking questions.
“Lor- Bart.” She willed herself to not use the title out of respect for his wishes. “What happened?”
The young noble had never truly gotten along with the rest of the family. For the first time, the heir to House Azurium was born without their signature pyromancy. Among the clan, it marked him as an ill omen for their line, and they took great pains to remind him of it.
On this particular morning, he and his father had gotten into a fierce argument, one of those petty squabbles that neither party actually cared about, but served as a good excuse to let loose pre-existing animosity. Not even ten minutes later, Bartholomew couldn’t even remember the details, but the tension in the house was nonetheless so thick he needed to excuse himself.
And in this act of putting as much distance as possible between himself and the manse, he wandered into the fifth district, where one of his friends, Perry, a turtlekin whose father worked as one of House Azurium’s merchants, was cowering in his shell as a large plump human man, wreaking with the scent of cheap ale, hurled abuses at him, cornering him in an alleyway.
In future tellings of the story, it would be said that this cruelty incensed the tigerkin. His sense of justice, combined with concern for his friend, spurred him to action. There may have even been a shred of truth to those claims.
But as Bartholomew protracted his claws, letting out a deep growl, something far baser had claimed his judgement. With one swipe of his hand, he scratched the drunkard, carving into the flesh of his back. The rage from his earlier confrontation had yet to abate, and this was as good an excuse as any to vent his anger on someone who deserved it.
Were that shit-faced madman the only other person in the alley that day, it would’ve been child’s play for the young nobleman who had been in numerous such street brawls. As the bottle slammed straight into his side, he realized that he had picked a three-on-one fight. The only saving grace was that Perry was nowhere to be found, having successfully slipped away in the confusion.
By some mercy, the trio had quickly grown bored once the youth was battered, beaten, and in no shape to continue. Perry returned as fast as he could with a city guard in tow, but they were gone when he arrived, leaving the mustelid guard to drag the tigerkin back to his estate. Not one word was exchanged during the entire encounter, and yet as Bartholomew linked eyes with his turtlekin friend, they gave each other knowing looks of gratitude.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to wonder if this is what his ancestors felt like when they fought off the planeswalkers hundreds of years ago: Battered, bruised, but happy to have put themselves out there for others. Through all the squabbling over magic, Bartholomew always admired the stories of his ancestors, told by the elders of House Azurium, and hoped to live up to their example in some way even without powers of his own.
His wounds bandaged, and one good night's sleep later, the wiry teen tigerkin was surprised to find his father waiting for him to wake up, sitting in the corner of the room.
“How many times have we gone through this, Bart? And how many more times must we keep going through it before you get it through your thick skull?” Bartholomew could only lay back down in his bed. It was too early to ruin the day so soon, and he knew if he opened his mouth it would also start an argument. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know it won’t happen again.”
The younger tigerkin’s fur began to rise at the ominous tone, and he sat up from his bed. Trembling, he spoke. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The elder held up a sheet of paper. Bartholomew recognized it for all the many times he passed the Oplentian Armed Forces’ recruitment center. “Because starting next week, you’ll be in military training.”
“What? Fat-” Before he could finish his thought, the parent waved his hand. His authority claimed whatever words of protest were about to be uttered.
“Not one word, Bart. I’ve protected you, and protected this House from you, too many times. That ends today. Best case, the army will knock some discipline into you.”
“And worst?”
The patriarch’s visage flashed a wicked, calculating grin. “Worst case, your death finally brings us some honor.”
I wrote this story in the same weekend I wrote Family Trouble in the Ninth in Tenth (https://www.furaffinity.net/view/62037186/). I can't explain why, but Azurium and his family became subjects of great interest, and I simply followed the muse where it wanted to go.
And since the story of House Azurium requires me to tell a bit more about the story of Oplentis, there's some good world-building including at the top to make sure everything remains coherent.
Thanks to
LittleBadWolf for once more lending their considerable artist's talent to my work. You can find their post of the commission that goes with this story in the link below. I'm really happy with it, because of the way it sells the full picture of the dynamic between Az and his father.https://www.furaffinity.net/view/62258195/
Art by
LittleBadWolfCharacters and lore belong to me.
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Tiger
Size 2283 x 1614px
File Size 814.1 kB
Well, I have to admit that Azurium's history with his family reminds me of the anime Kaze no Stigma. The main character is born into a family of fire magic users, but can't do it himself and is expelled from the family.
I can't help but notice that Azurium and his father were similar yet different when it came to their own children. They both abandoned them, and basically never made direct contact with their children. However, Azurium was abandoned as a family shame, while Edmund was abandoned with more love and that Bartholomew felt unworthy as a father, especially for not wanting to be one. While Azurium's father didn't care if his son died even sending him out on dangerous missions, but Azurium did care for Edmund especially when he was sick as a child, even freeing him from a jail outside his precinct years after abandoning his cub. And while Azurium was abandoned as more/less a late teenager while Edmund was abandoned as a child. Finally, Azurium was forced into the military, while Edmund was all alone after unknowingly drinking the modified Titan elixir.
It does make me wonder what will happen if all 3 Azuriums were to basically have a family reunion in the future?
I can't help but notice that Azurium and his father were similar yet different when it came to their own children. They both abandoned them, and basically never made direct contact with their children. However, Azurium was abandoned as a family shame, while Edmund was abandoned with more love and that Bartholomew felt unworthy as a father, especially for not wanting to be one. While Azurium's father didn't care if his son died even sending him out on dangerous missions, but Azurium did care for Edmund especially when he was sick as a child, even freeing him from a jail outside his precinct years after abandoning his cub. And while Azurium was abandoned as more/less a late teenager while Edmund was abandoned as a child. Finally, Azurium was forced into the military, while Edmund was all alone after unknowingly drinking the modified Titan elixir.
It does make me wonder what will happen if all 3 Azuriums were to basically have a family reunion in the future?
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