Inkwell

Just a quick note for the readers

I am not a tattoo artist any more than a Greek Mythologist. This is a work of fiction and any miss steps in the way things really work are because of these facts. None of the people in this piece are real, any reference to the real world is purely coincidental. Enjoy.

*

It was over. He was three days from opening his own parlor. No more shit jobs that the other artists refused because they had a reputation. No 20% to the asshole in the office with tattoos so old they looked more like a full body burse then art. No more snide pick-up lines from gay couples wanting a honeymoon three way. He would be the lord of ink, big gun, the man.

Walking thru his place he looked over everything one last time. He had worked two sometimes three jobs to get all his equipment, nothing half-assed either, medical grade all the way. Tomorrow he would walk, get his degree and make his way into the future. 'Dad I am going to make you proud' he thought to himself. Fourteen years and still he wanted his father to be here, having been taken by cancer on the eve of his 12 birthday.

Looking into a glass case, his father's ink-gun sat, in a place of honor. He could still remember the first time he had held it. Still had the scar too. He had been seven, his father asked him if he wanted to try it. It was ever boys dream to work with their father, so he had agreed. He picked it up and pretended to tattoo his own hand, it was still plugged up to the power supply. SO his pretend tattoo turned into a long jagged cut along his left thumb.

His dad hadn't yelled or panicked, just cleaned him up and got him three stitches. On their way back home his father held his left hand up to him and said "Like father, like son, guess we don't need to match each other's tattoo's when we have these." They laughed about it all the way up to mom finding out. She was mad and upset, but after she calmed down. Even she laughed at the situation.

After that he would watch his father work, when he could. Read the trade mags and even got into the habit of drawling with three D-cell batteries tapped to the top of his pencil. His father told him the faster he learned to steady the weight the easier it would be to hold the ink-gun. Thinking back, everything his father ever said about tattooing had been iconic in its simple wisdom. Those became his mantra after his fathers' death.

He had gone out on his seventeenth birthday and had a tattoo of his fathers' ink-gun done on his right forearm. His mother was a little reluctant to the idea but could hardly argue to hard, having six tattoos of her own. And after he showed her what he wanted she not only agreed to let him get it. She helped him find an artist that would do it right.

"Three days, only three days and we start working together, just like we agreed Dad." He said softly "Just give me a nod now and then, so I know I am getting it right, Ok?"

Walking from the back out into the lobby, he was startled to find a woman looking at the Flash-art that hung in frames along the left lobby wall. She was tall, long legs, and dark hair. She turned to him and gave him a smile that about stopped his heart. She was stunningly beautiful. Eyes glittered an unusual golden color.

"Hello, my name is Nikita DeNore, and I would like the honor of being your first customer." She said. "You are Estephan Prizton?"

"Yes I am. Um, the parlor won't open for three days, how did you get in here?" He asked.

"Thru the door." She said, "Your work is inspired. I have checked around. You are the only one I would allow to do it. Plus you were recommended. I am glad you are no longer at that Roady Tatta's Parlor. With the type of work I would like, I would have to keep looking for a true artist rather than sit in a place like that."

"Ms. DeNore, I am overwhelmed. I didn't think many people took notice of my work, and to hear I was recommended, by whom?"

"I am sure anyone who carries ink from your gun would more than notice. However, I was told that you would be most eager to take a commission. It was your father that recommended you after all."

He stood there in silence. If this was a joke it was in the poorest of taste. This woman was a walking wet dream and now she is claiming that his deceased father had told her to look him up. It hurt, nothing about this could be true. Shaking himself from his shock he stepped to walk past her.

"This joke ends now. I would kindly ask you leave." He said, holding himself from screaming at her.

"I will go, but would you look these over and think about it?" She asked and with a turn of her hand pulled a folio from thin air.

Again he was stunned, he accepted the folio as she handed it to him. Then she turned on a heel and walked towards the door, with each step she faded into transparency becoming completely invisible before reaching the door. It opened soundlessly and then slowly closed with its usual rasp and squeak. It clumped into place when he realized he had been holding his breath.

He looked at the papers in the folder. There was a general layout of tattoos, were on the body. There were symbols and runes that had to be worked into each piece. From the look of these notes and diagrams, this would be hours and hours under the gun in the chair.

The more he looked thru the papers the more he got excited about how intricate he was going to be allowed to push himself. As he flipped the last page a check slid from the folder and drifted to the floor. It was for fifteen thousand dollars. He picked it up. It was drafted off of a local bank. If this was a joke why go thru all the hassle. He picked up the phone and dialed the bank. Ten minutes later he had an answer. The check was legit.

What did that mean; she pulled the folio out of thin air, and turned herself in-fucking-visible. What the hell was going on? He laid all the papers out on his drafting desk and the check into the wall safe. He would have to sleep on this one. Maybe waking up in the morning might prove this all a dream anyway.

---+++----+++----

Graduation was what you expect, blah blah blah. He was half way to the parking lot before the caps hit the ground. By 3:45 he had his certification filed, his inspections signed off on, and his business permit ready to be framed and hang on the wall. He was starting to get annoyed at the number of people staring at him. Looking himself over, he was still wearing the gown from graduation.

He had better things to think about. He drove to his shop, opened the place and darted inside. The papers were still laid out on the drafting table and the check was... yes, still in the safe. Now he had to make the decision, take the money and BS that might come with it, or not. Looking over the diagram and runes only brought more questions. The kind he felt he would have to be hammered to understand. He was interrupted from his privet musings.

"Steven, where did you run off to? Your Grandmother was very upset that she didn't get pictures of you in your cap and gown. I know you're excited about this place but others are just as excited for you." His mother said from the front of the parlor.

"Did she go home? Cause I have everything here." He said stepping out of the back. "On top of that I have my first commission. I want to take all of you out to celebrate."

"You have a commission already? For who?" She asked.

"Nikita DeNore. It is going to be at least ten sittings possibly 15." He said. "I got a nice deposit so lets go celebrate. I have everything I need to open the doors on Monday, a client, and my birthday is a week from Saturday. Life just really is going my way."

"You're still wearing the gown? Have you been running all over town in that thing?" she asked.

"Sure, why not." He answered.

-----+++++------++++++---------

It was around 8 pm when he pulled into the parking lot. He thought about what the bank would think when the check hit his account. He would even more like to see the little blonde 'Beety Boop' cashiers' eyes bug out of her face. She was always curt when he ended up in her line, stared at his tattoo like it was a snake, and always said his full name just loudly enough to get the rest of the bank staring at him. He wasn't even sure what her name was. He laughed to himself.

Looking up at the Marque, the name he had chosen for his tattoo parlor stood proudly. 'Sharpirion' was still legible without the spot lights illuminating it. He stepped from his car and headed for the door. He looked both ways, too often some new teen driver had used this parking lot to practice on. Ok play around on. Nothing was on the lot save his beat up two door. Keys in hand he crossed and no sooner had his foot hit the side walk a voice startled him.

"So you will be taking my commission? I am relieved. You and your father are so very much alike." Nikita said in a humored tone.

"Where?" he stammered as his key fell to the ground. "What are you trying to do scare me into joining my father in the hereafter?"

"That would be so unfortunate for more reasons than I can put to word. And as for where, I have been waiting. I can go into greater detail as we chat, I am aware it is going to take many hours to have your work applied to my skin." She said.

"So you were waiting, why are you here thou?" he asked.

"To be equipped. As far as this evening, to give you access to your canvas." She said smoothly. "Surely at devotee of Athene understands these needs."

"Athene? The Greek Goddess of War? Why would that matter?" He asked.

"Do they teach nothing in this age?" She inquired in return. "Yes that would be her, but war was not the only devotion in her covenant. She holds sway over Warfare, Wisdom, Architecture, and Crafts. Artists have followed her for untold centuries."

"Right, shall we go inside to talk about this then?" He asked snidely.

She didn't seem at all phased by his tone, she just turned and waited for him to open the door. He leaned down to pick up his keys. The manner in which she stood allowed him to see under her dress, and the lack of any undergarments. He stood and hoped he was not blushing.

Once they had both entered he closed and locked the door. He motioned for her to follow him and took her into the ink room. It was a clean room, surgical steel tables, tile flooring, and painted in a soothing crème color. As she stepped into the room she unhooked the dress and let it fall to the floor. He turned to ask what she wanted to start with but was stunned to silence seeing her standing there naked. She moved without shame or embarrassment. Even seeing his stunned expression staring at her body did nothing to change her demeanor.

"So how should we begin, Estephan?" she asked.

"What?" He returned.

"How should we begin? It seemed a simple enough question. Are you uncomfortable with nudity? As a young man I would have thought you'd revel in delight at having a nude woman to work on." She said.

"I don't have a problem with nudity. I am a bit startled by your need to be so without asking first." He replied. "As far as how to begin, I haven't even had a chance to go thru all of the pieces you gave me. It was what I was planning on looking over this evening. If you want to be the canvas I have no problem with it. These are your tattoos after all. I can handle it if you can."

"Very well, where do you want me?" She asked.

He walked over to the table and pulled a few lock pins and folded it into a reclining position, draped a towel over the cold metal, and motioned for her to lay down. He went into the drafting room and got the folio. It occurred to him that he was going to need his entire cart for this. Tossing the folio onto the art caddy cart he dragged the whole thing into the clean room. She laid on the articulation table with a studying looking on her face.

He followed her line of sight and saw what had her interest. It was a wooden plaque with his father motto burned into the wood. 'Tattoos are mistakes you can't fix' it read. She looked at him questioningly. He shrugged.

"Dad would use that for unmarried couples. He always said that a tattoo was a commitment, one that everyone you meet is going to judge you by, so make sure you are saying the right thing." He said.

"And what does that say about you?" She asked pointing at the ink-gun tattoo on his arm.

"That I am my father's son, I am his legacy. Most people see it and nod, everyone loses someone they care about, I just show my remembrance differently." He spoke proudly. "Going thru these I noticed there is no mention of colors. Do you want it monochromatic, cause I can do that. And are you sure you want this much on your body. You're beautiful, why mess with perfection?"

"You are your father's son alright. He said much the same thing. I would choose another way but they could be lost, stolen, or broken. Leaving proof of the higher realm is forbidden." She said.

"The higher realm? Like gods and angels and stuff?" He asked.

"Yes, not to mention, Nymphs, Dryads, Muses, Demons, and numerous mythical beings. Many would walk the world if they could, my being here is a trial to see if it is possible." She said.

"Wait if it is forbidden to leave knowledge of this in the world, you going to kill me when I am done?" he yipped an octave higher than his normal tone. "IF that's the case I quit!"

"Wait, we are allowed to tell one soul, someone that will help us learn about this new age and give us a way of bringing our power back to the world. I myself am a Nike, Messenger and Bringer of Victories, in other parts of the world I would be called a Valkyrie. A war-maiden that carries souls of fallen hero's to the afterlife."

"So which one are you going to bring back into the world? You going to be a good thing or a scary thing?" He blurted, his hands trembling slightly.

"I am going to follow the nature of the artist that gives me the ability to walk the world. Are you a bad person? No you're not, or I wouldn't be here. Things from this world can't travel to the other, tattoos if done with heart and meaning, can. So I am here. Wanting to be in the mortal world, making a difference, not having to get new purpose every time I travel back." Her eyes held his as she spoke.

"So you would become something else with the tattoos?"

"No and yes, you are an artist. You show it thru you work, I am similar. You draw, paint, and tattoo. I covey energy, how I do it changes based on the tools I have access to. If those tools are armor, sword and shield, I would be Valkyrie, if they were jewelry and charms I would be more Cupid-esk."

"So these tattoos are going to be your tools?" He asked.

"Yes, and after I have them I won't have to get new ones every time I travel into the mortal realm. See each Nike only gets a decade to be here every 100 years. I have been here for three years already looking for tools. If I came into this realm and had my tools with me, I could do a lot more for the world." She stated whole heartedly.

"Then I suppose I will have to really get them right, and keep you as beautiful as inhumanly possible."

"How would you...."

"It was a joke. Now about colors." He said.

Over the course of the night he worked, along her arms, legs, back. Tattoo pencils, paint pens, and a rainbow of markers added color to her elegant skin. They talked about her place in the grand design and how she knew his father. He would reposition her from time to time, not one peep about where his hands were or how uncomfortable a position could be. In fact he had to stop. His lack of sleep was starting to take its toll. After the third attempt at drawling an Omega symbol he put down the marker and shook his head.

"I can't do anymore right now." He said.

"I was wondering when you were going to stop. By the clock on the wall over there, it is almost 7 o'clock. You must get some sleep and food, maybe not in that order." She stood up and slid her dress back on. "I think I should drive, hand me the keys" Holding her hand out.

"Can you even drive?" he asked.

"Yes, it wasn't that difficult to learn." She replied.

He thought about it for a moment then tossed her the keys. He was having a hard time focusing on standing, driving was definitely not a good idea. They left the shop and she even locked the door. Once he was in the car in a seated position he was out.

------+++++====++++++---------

When his eyes opened again, he was in his own bed. The door to his bedroom stood open and he could hear someone singing, Nikita? He rolled to the side and got a face full of dark sweet smelling hair for his effort. He pushed himself up, Nikita was lying in the bed next to him. It was even more startling to feel that he was naked. Even living alone he would keep boxers on while he slept.

"You are awake" she said softly.

"If you are in here, who is out there singing?" he asked. His eyes darted to the clock, 1:36 pm. "Is it still Saturday?"

"Her name is Ducici, she is a dryad of my acquaintance. You are a heavy man when you are unconscious I needed help carrying you in here, as well as getting you out of the dreadfully tight cloths." She said, "You have slept for only 7 hours, the day is the same."

"Dryad? Maiden of the wood, right?" He asked as he fell back into his pillows. "Aren't they bound to an oak tree or something?"

"Yes, she lives in the one just outside your window." She said.

"Hmm. I thought that was an elm." He said. "So I fell asleep in the car, how did you know where I lived? Why didn't you just wake me and tell me I was home."

"We tried waking you. That didn't work, so we carried you. I have known where you dwelled for some time now. I would not have offered you a commission if I hadn't checked up on you, even with your fathers' recommendation." She said. "Tattoos are forever. And in my case that would be fact. Immortals must take great care least we carry scars the same way. You should bath and eat."

"Nikita, when the artist wakes... Oh, hello Estephan." Ducici chimed as she walked into the room. "Sir, your cupboards are quite bare. How am I to prepare food if there is nothing here?"

"What at you talking about? I did my shopping day before yesterday." He said as he hauled himself out of bed and crossed the room. Turning in the hall, it was only four steps to the kitchen. Boxes and cans littered the countertops. Most of the draws looked as thou they had not been unrifled either.

"Where do you keep your meats and cheeses'? Does this house have a pantry somewhere else?" Ducici asked innocently. "Am I missing something? And what creature have you in the growling box?"

"Growling?" He asked as he stepped and opened the refrigerator. "I have plenty of food. See." He said to the dryad who only timidly peeked into the kitchen from the hall.

Nikita walked past the dryad. "She has just awakened and is not as familiar modern practices. If you have books on the subject..."

"I don't have any cook books, I am a guy. Meat, fire, and microwave. Not a whole lot to it." He said.

"You are surely a man, sir." Ducici said huskily. Her eyes glittered as they played their way down his body. Nikita raised an eyebrow and put on a half grin as well.

He released the fridge door, letting it fall closed as he realized in his haste he was still naked. He grabbed a random box from the counter to cover himself. He could feel the heat in his skin rise as he blushed head to toe. He darted past both of the women and scooted into the bathroom. Closing the door he locked himself in.

Tossing the cake mix aside he looked at himself in the mirror. "Ok this is getting weird. How... What am I going to do? A dryad trying to cook and a nike wanting tattoos." Shaking his head, "Shower, just get in and try to keep it together."

Knock, knock.

"What! I just need a little time alone." He called.