#denirit

Sketches for the Second Yeerk War fic I’ve been working on. On the left we have Denirit-Sirinial-Etteir. He was conceived after his parents learned their oldest son, Elfangor-Sirinial-Shamtul, had been killed in action. Denirit is supposed to carry the Sirinial name forward and not do anything to besmirch the great honor it carries, but he’s more interested in music and hovercraft and just wants to do his own thing. He’s tired of always being held to the standards set by his older brothers.

Denirit one of the four main OCs for the story (along with Sarifel, Junera, and their Taxxon friend Bent-Leg).

Old drawing of another one of my characters named Denirit. I was trying to figure out Andalite proportions, but I hadn’t yet figured out how I wanted to do Andalite faces.

The War-Prince groaned quietly to himself. <No no. The red cable should go from the capacitor to the distributor.>

The tiny Andalite standing in the engine compartment blinked. <That isn't the distributor?>

<No Denirit, that's the radiator. If you leave it like that, the whole thing will catch fire.> Alloran found the whole thing tiring. Slugs and Hork-Bajir and war were one thing. Keeping a young Andalite from accidentally blowing himself up was another thing entirely, and Alloran had never been experienced as a father-figure. Or grandfather-figure. Or.... He wasn't sure what Denirit thought of him half the time. But kids weren't something the military trained him for. Especially kids that weren't even his.

Denirit unlatched the cable and began looking for other places to hook it up. After a few moments of turning this way and that, he tried attaching it to what looked like the right spot.

<No, that's the radiator again.>

<Oh.> Denirit stared at the end of the cable. The secret had to be there. Three sides. Triangle. It was a triangle. The matching port had to be a-

<That is also the radiator.>

Denirit let out a loud, angry squeak. <How are they all the radiator?!>

<Because you're looking at the cooling unit. If you would turn around and look at the big block with cables coming out everywhere...> Alloran sighed. <Denirit, it's getting late. You can finish this tomorrow.>

A whine followed. <But tomorrow I wanted to go racing!>

Alloran looked at all the parts scattered about the half-assembled hovercraft. The antigrav units were stacked precariously on the inertial dampener. The airbags were all already deployed and needed to be repacked. Half of the hull paneling was scattered all over the scoop. The War-Prince started to say that as things were, Denirit would be lucky to have things finished in a week. Young Andalites. So impatient. No discipline. They had to have everything their way, they had to have it now, they had to have-

<Go on to sleep Denirit. We'll see about taking it for a test run tommorow.>

Denirit perked up and hopped out of the mechanical bay. In a flash, he had darted over and wrapped his arms around Alloran's legs in a hug. It took everything Alloran had not to rear up and swing his tail at the sudden contact.

<Thank you!> The young Andalite chimed.

<You can thank me later,> the War-Prince rumbled in thoughtless response. His mind was, for the moment, elsewhere. Denirit was just a child. He wasn't a threat. He was just a child, one that Alloran had found himself frustrated by again and again, but a child nonetheless.

As Alloran watched Denirit retreat into the scoop, he sighed. <Well Elfangor. What are you willing to bet he ends up just like you?> A grim silence followed, broken only by Denirit's chirped goodnights to his parents on the computer.

<Wow!> Denirit circled around the hovercraft quickly. He completed two laps, three laps, four laps in only a moment as he studied it from every angle. <You fixed the whole thing! Wait...> The little Andalite skidded to a stop, all four eyes fixed on the War-Prince questioningly. <Did you get any sleep?>

<I haven't slept in years,> Alloran replied stiffly. Yes, he was tired. He was always tired. But a night working on the hovercraft beat another night of Esplin's mocking laughter in his dreams, so the War-Prince put up with it.

Denirit nodded as if he understood. <Okay then. Maybe you should take a nap!>

<No.>

<Okay!>

Alloran tried to force a laugh. <So. Have you decided what you wanted to do for the paint?>

Denirit nodded enthusiastically, eyestalks bouncing above his head. <I want to paint it so it looks like it's on fire!>

That took the War-Prince by surprise. <I'm sorry, what? Why would you pick something so ridiculous? Surely a nice shormitor would suffice. Perhaps something fierce and threatening.>

<Nope! I need camouflage! Last race it caught fire, so if I make it look like it's already on fire, my parents won't see it when it catches fire again. That way they won't get worried and yell at me.>

When it catches fire again. Alloran's tail-blade twitched in annoyance. <Bold of you to presume my work would ever fail so spectacularly.>

<I know, I know. But it might! I wanna be ready!> Denirit hauled himself up onto the front of the craft. <Alloran, why do you like making ships?>

<Because it is relaxing.>

<No, it's hard!> Denirit peered in through the windscreen. <You have to remember what everything does and where it goes!>

Alloran bit back the immediate thought that young Andalites didn't appreciate artistry. He almost said it, he might have even started to say something judging by the way Denirit's eyestalks snapped towards him. But the War-Prince had a duty to see to this little Andalite's development. He took a breath and thought.

<I guess, Denirit, it is hard at first. But you can unplug your mind and focus only on the build. You feel the joy and elation when something works correctly. And when you have put something together yourself, when you know it inside and out, there is a sense of pride and accomplishment like no other.> The War-Prince turned to look towards his scoop. <That is why we build our own shelters, after all.>

Denirit's head tilted. <I thought that was because everybody was too cheap to pay someone else to do it.>

Alloran snorted. <Would you tell me Elfangor was cheap because he didn't build his fighter?>

<Nah. He wanted to! But the military is full of grumps who say no to custom fighters.>

The War-Prince thought about the Jahar. There had been paperwork, to be sure, but a shortage of craft and supplies meant anything was a welcome addition to the fleet. <Perhaps they were certain they had built their fighters better,> he offered. <Or perhaps they were afraid whatever he built would catch fire.>

Denirit nodded, and then he puffed up in indignation. <Hey! That's my brother, you can't talk about him like that!>

<You've never even met him.>

<Yeah well, when you knew him you were a jerk, so there!>

Alloran heaitated just a little. <What makes you sure I'm not a jerk now?>

Denirit had to think about that for a moment. <Um... Because you're nice to me? And your scoop smells like hreifla tea all the time. Jerks don't drink tea.>

<I see.> The War-Prince paused. <What if I told you that was just a cover? Like your fireball camouflage?>

The little Andalite laughed as he jumped to the ground. <Then you're really bad at camouflage!>

Alloran couldn't help but tip an eyestalk at this. <I've been accused of worse.>

.....