Character - Sathya

Sathya, my dear Sathya.  It's strange the journeys that characters take before they ever even have a story to journey through.  Sathya was never meant to become the iconic character that he has, taking over many of my ideas.  When I first created him he was three years old, nothing more than the precocious son of two far more important figures.  Tarrath and Dacienne, the king and queen of a great realm.  Tarrath and Daci had their own story, meticulously planned, expanded and detailed by Raven and myself.  She has since adopted them, doing them far greater justice than I feel I ever could, and I wish her well of them.

But this brings us back to dear Sathya.  His father was a king to be feared--a warlord and a general.  Commanding and severe, Tarrath ruled with an unforgiving kind of justice.  Dacienne was softer, but still a woman made of steel.  She was a scholar and a mistress of spies, brilliantly balancing both her administration of the kingdom's collegeium and the intelligence network with which she silently supported her husband's reign.  From a young age Sathya refused to bend to rules, loving both books and experimentation.  He had a fascination with chemistry that led him to the poisoner's arts.  His father wanted a son who could rule, standing proudly in the sun and leading men to battle.  Sathya was a great disappointment.

Though the world that first bred him is now fragmented and drifted away,  Sathya remains strong in my mind, begging to be written.  A young and bitter prince, estranged from his kingly father.  Disowned and disavowed, he retreats into the dark world of spies and subterfuge where his loyalty to the crown continues to drive him against his will.  I don't know what kind of story I can make for him, what world I can craft that will display his talents and complex emotions correctly.  Again and again I have tried to fit him into pages that threw him back to me as he refused to compromise and fit into a story that was not completely his.  Always he hovers in the back of my mind, waiting for that perfect moment when someday a role will appear that no one else can fill.  I fear that it will be a book of plots and intrigue,  of back room dealings and political scheming on a scale that I'm afraid I'm not skilled enough to write.  And so he waits patiently--but not silently.