This will be the cover for when I collect all 100 of these theme pieces. You can check them (and the story) out here: [link]
Click to full-view on deviantART!
Showing posts with label sorian. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sorian. Show all posts
11.21.2011
Art: Mondigan 100 (Black and White)
And eighty hours of work later... happy birthday to my fictional character, haha. I'm finally glad to do a piece of this magnitude, especially for myself. Thank you all so much for the support, reading my weird writings and everything. You guys don't know how much it means to me.
This will be the cover for when I collect all 100 of these theme pieces. You can check them (and the story) out here: [link]
Click to full-view on deviantART!
This will be the cover for when I collect all 100 of these theme pieces. You can check them (and the story) out here: [link]
Click to full-view on deviantART!
11.16.2011
Art: 058/100 Themes - Kick to the Head
"Kiatro per kapo." - Kick to the head. - 58/100 Themes.
Rivek doesn't particularly enjoy when his breathing is cut off. Challenging pose is challenging.
Sorian pressed his foot against Rivek's trachea. "Next time, dog, you'll think again before you try to do something like that. Now run back to your master."
Rivek doesn't particularly enjoy when his breathing is cut off. Challenging pose is challenging.
Sorian pressed his foot against Rivek's trachea. "Next time, dog, you'll think again before you try to do something like that. Now run back to your master."
11.13.2011
Art: 055/100 Themes - Waiting
"Dunministrar." Waiting. - 55/100 Themes.
I interpreted "waiting" in the restaurant sense.
Sorian leaned back in his chair. He wanted good news. Fighting those damned dark-mages was costing him a fortune in raw materials. As winter approached, the ground had begun to freeze, and ore had become more difficult to obtain. He huddled back into his cloak, bringing the fur collar up around his cheeks. He pressed his hands together as his confidant, Vendelain, approached. He carried a silver platter. Sorian smiled. He knew what this was, and it would make him very, very happy.
"Here is what you requested," Vendelain bowed, placing a cloth napkin on Sorian's lap before setting the tray on the arm of his throne. "A glass of red wine and the heart of Mitharon Ailinar."
I interpreted "waiting" in the restaurant sense.
Sorian leaned back in his chair. He wanted good news. Fighting those damned dark-mages was costing him a fortune in raw materials. As winter approached, the ground had begun to freeze, and ore had become more difficult to obtain. He huddled back into his cloak, bringing the fur collar up around his cheeks. He pressed his hands together as his confidant, Vendelain, approached. He carried a silver platter. Sorian smiled. He knew what this was, and it would make him very, very happy.
"Here is what you requested," Vendelain bowed, placing a cloth napkin on Sorian's lap before setting the tray on the arm of his throne. "A glass of red wine and the heart of Mitharon Ailinar."
11.12.2011
Art: 054/100 Themes - Tower
"Turios." Tower - 54/100 Themes.
There is something incredibly gut-wrenching I enjoy watching in betrayal. And that characters should be presented with very hard choices. And chances to redeem themselves. They say at the end of a story, each character gets a 'reward' - or something as a result of their actions. Still don't know what to do with Fenne. He just fails so hard at the "standing up and being a man" thing (get it? standing up? oh, ho, ho, double entendre!)
Fenne enjoyed the contemplative quiet his tower room offered. The city sprawled below with people crawling like busy ants, but only bird song reached him here. He rubbed the scars left by the stitches from his amputation. Every so often, he felt as if his legs were still there. No longer able to tap his foot, he rapped his knuckles on the windowsill in time to the song stuck in his head. As he did, he heard a knock on the door. "Who is it?"
"It's me." Fenne's personal royal guard, Bohren opened the door and scratched his mop of blond hair. He bowed, "The Heilmdoran Prince wants a word with you before he heads out."
"I already told him I'm not interested." Fenne traced his fingers along the wood grain of his chair arms.
"He's got something for you." Bohren forced a smile, hoping to see his prince happy. "I think you'll like it."
Fenne folded his hands together. He trusted his knight's opinion, even if he was too optimistic at times. "Let him in, I guess."
Bohren exited and returned with a regal man in a thick, fur-lined cloak. He had a well-muscled build and light brown hair, cropped close to his skull that exposed his high forehead and aquiline nose. He met Fenne with his intense, orange eyes and bowed. "Your highness," he said, holding out a long, heavy, object wrapped in ordinary sack cloth.
Fenne frowned, "What is this? You had better not be mocking me."
"I would like to clarify that there are no hard feelings between my domain and yours due to our mutual interactions with the Tyrisi. Therefore, I have brought you a gift."
He gently laid the package on the floor and knelt to gingerly unwrap each corner of the cloth Fenne's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the beauty Sorian had unveiled. A functional, mechanical leg. The bent steel bars replicated bone, and the copper wire mimicked the graceful flex of muscle. Sorian had replicated, the knee, ankle, and even toe joints with tiny hinges and gears, reinforced by outer plates of iron.
"I should hope that you would forgive my obtaining your measurements from your seamstress. I simply desired that my design fit your body perfectly. I did not mean to commit an intrusion on your privacy." He stood, letting Fenne view the construction in its entire, burnished glory. "If you sign with me and back my position against those Tyrisi traitors, I will give you the twin to this creation and return for a proper, personal fitting."
He gave one final bow and headed out the door. Fenne returned his attention to the window, but he could not shake his nagging curiosity. Once he heard Sorian descend the tower stairs, he shifted his eyes back onto the steel prosthetic on the floor. "Bohren," he called. "I need your help."
There is something incredibly gut-wrenching I enjoy watching in betrayal. And that characters should be presented with very hard choices. And chances to redeem themselves. They say at the end of a story, each character gets a 'reward' - or something as a result of their actions. Still don't know what to do with Fenne. He just fails so hard at the "standing up and being a man" thing (get it? standing up? oh, ho, ho, double entendre!)
Fenne enjoyed the contemplative quiet his tower room offered. The city sprawled below with people crawling like busy ants, but only bird song reached him here. He rubbed the scars left by the stitches from his amputation. Every so often, he felt as if his legs were still there. No longer able to tap his foot, he rapped his knuckles on the windowsill in time to the song stuck in his head. As he did, he heard a knock on the door. "Who is it?"
"It's me." Fenne's personal royal guard, Bohren opened the door and scratched his mop of blond hair. He bowed, "The Heilmdoran Prince wants a word with you before he heads out."
"I already told him I'm not interested." Fenne traced his fingers along the wood grain of his chair arms.
"He's got something for you." Bohren forced a smile, hoping to see his prince happy. "I think you'll like it."
Fenne folded his hands together. He trusted his knight's opinion, even if he was too optimistic at times. "Let him in, I guess."
Bohren exited and returned with a regal man in a thick, fur-lined cloak. He had a well-muscled build and light brown hair, cropped close to his skull that exposed his high forehead and aquiline nose. He met Fenne with his intense, orange eyes and bowed. "Your highness," he said, holding out a long, heavy, object wrapped in ordinary sack cloth.
Fenne frowned, "What is this? You had better not be mocking me."
"I would like to clarify that there are no hard feelings between my domain and yours due to our mutual interactions with the Tyrisi. Therefore, I have brought you a gift."
He gently laid the package on the floor and knelt to gingerly unwrap each corner of the cloth Fenne's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the beauty Sorian had unveiled. A functional, mechanical leg. The bent steel bars replicated bone, and the copper wire mimicked the graceful flex of muscle. Sorian had replicated, the knee, ankle, and even toe joints with tiny hinges and gears, reinforced by outer plates of iron.
"I should hope that you would forgive my obtaining your measurements from your seamstress. I simply desired that my design fit your body perfectly. I did not mean to commit an intrusion on your privacy." He stood, letting Fenne view the construction in its entire, burnished glory. "If you sign with me and back my position against those Tyrisi traitors, I will give you the twin to this creation and return for a proper, personal fitting."
He gave one final bow and headed out the door. Fenne returned his attention to the window, but he could not shake his nagging curiosity. Once he heard Sorian descend the tower stairs, he shifted his eyes back onto the steel prosthetic on the floor. "Bohren," he called. "I need your help."
11.05.2011
Art: 047/100 Themes - Creation
"Kreonum." Creation. - 47/100 Themes.
Sorian's secret weapon - war beasts driven by magic.
Sorian walked through the warehouse with the Historian trailing a few respectful steps behind him. The building used to be a manor house, but the stables were now barracks, and the spitfires were now forges. He glanced around, looking for idle bodies. When they caught his eyes, they hurried back to work, shoveling coal and shaping sheets of steel. He marked their numbers off in the journal he carried, so he could remember whose salary might need adjustment.
They reached the back door. A priest, dressed in white, stood next to it, waiting for them. He bowed, "Your highness."
"You reported that you have something to show me?"
"Yes, my liege," the priest said, bowing again to open the door. "I hope you will be pleased."
He stood in front of his creation, eyes darting between the design drawing in his journal and his living, breathing prototype. Here was his beast of flesh and metal. Merely days before, this creature had been a simple, dumb, war horse who had been too stubborn to ride. Now, it was an armored, deadly, force. Its blood vessels and muscle sinew were replaced by and intertwined with wire. Its skin had been plated over with much harder iron. The little spaces between the mechanical joints crackled with the magic that kept it alive. Sorian knew that somewhere, underneath, there would be a beating heart. It lowered its head to him, releasing a jet of warm condenstation through two flickering nostril vents. Sorian stared into where its eyes would have been. They had been replaced by two, unblinking, glass lenses with steel shutters. A stream of saliva dripped from its sharpened teeth and froze when it hit the ground.
It stood sturdy as he mounted it with ease. Part machine and part animal, its spirit had long been completely shattered. He ran his hands along the smooth, metal laid across its spine. He played with the tubes in its neck, magically-reinforced replacements for arteries. He willed it forward, and it responded to his touch on its wired body. He placed his hand against its thick neck, and as his internal command, it reared backward. He clung to the mass of tubes, holding tightly as it set its forelegs back on the ground. They came down with enough weight and force that they pierced through the layers of soft snow, cracked the permanent layer of tundra ice, and exposed the solid, red, rock underneath.
Sorian grinned and opened to another page in his book. "How much steel remains?"
"Not much, sire."
"Then, get more."
He snapped the book shut. "Take it, if you have to. We need hundreds of these."
Sorian's secret weapon - war beasts driven by magic.
Sorian walked through the warehouse with the Historian trailing a few respectful steps behind him. The building used to be a manor house, but the stables were now barracks, and the spitfires were now forges. He glanced around, looking for idle bodies. When they caught his eyes, they hurried back to work, shoveling coal and shaping sheets of steel. He marked their numbers off in the journal he carried, so he could remember whose salary might need adjustment.
They reached the back door. A priest, dressed in white, stood next to it, waiting for them. He bowed, "Your highness."
"You reported that you have something to show me?"
"Yes, my liege," the priest said, bowing again to open the door. "I hope you will be pleased."
He stood in front of his creation, eyes darting between the design drawing in his journal and his living, breathing prototype. Here was his beast of flesh and metal. Merely days before, this creature had been a simple, dumb, war horse who had been too stubborn to ride. Now, it was an armored, deadly, force. Its blood vessels and muscle sinew were replaced by and intertwined with wire. Its skin had been plated over with much harder iron. The little spaces between the mechanical joints crackled with the magic that kept it alive. Sorian knew that somewhere, underneath, there would be a beating heart. It lowered its head to him, releasing a jet of warm condenstation through two flickering nostril vents. Sorian stared into where its eyes would have been. They had been replaced by two, unblinking, glass lenses with steel shutters. A stream of saliva dripped from its sharpened teeth and froze when it hit the ground.
It stood sturdy as he mounted it with ease. Part machine and part animal, its spirit had long been completely shattered. He ran his hands along the smooth, metal laid across its spine. He played with the tubes in its neck, magically-reinforced replacements for arteries. He willed it forward, and it responded to his touch on its wired body. He placed his hand against its thick neck, and as his internal command, it reared backward. He clung to the mass of tubes, holding tightly as it set its forelegs back on the ground. They came down with enough weight and force that they pierced through the layers of soft snow, cracked the permanent layer of tundra ice, and exposed the solid, red, rock underneath.
Sorian grinned and opened to another page in his book. "How much steel remains?"
"Not much, sire."
"Then, get more."
He snapped the book shut. "Take it, if you have to. We need hundreds of these."
11.03.2011
Art: 045/100 Themes - Illusion
"Ilujia." Illusion. - 45/100 Themes.
I suck at writing flirting, but I admit, Rivek is a bit of a pervy dick.
Rosmyne is a re-work of an old character who used to be Willow's room-mate (and Rivek's ex) in high school. Now, she is a former servant girl with a penchant for money. She is the kind of woman who hops from man to man to achieve her goals.
As a teenager, she slept with Rivek because she thought he would marry her and give her noble title (no one else was troubled or rebellious enough to sleep with servants). When his title is stripped away, she is coincidentally ruined. As an already "lesser" person who is no longer a virgin, she has lost her social value.
She continues to work at the castle behind the scenes, hidden in shame, until she serves dinner to a handsome prince from the north. Empathetic to her drive for self-worth, Sorian sees value in her still. He tells her he can give her back everything she lost. He buys her, and she willingly undergoes his experimentation. It gives her magic ability to manipulate others' thoughts and dreams through touch.
Slowly, she falls in love with him and the possible royal title he could provide, but he is too wrapped-up in his own quest for power. Both Sorian and Rosmyne are people who define their internal value by rewards from external sources.
At first, I was iffy on re-purposing Rosmyne due to possible "sexploitation," but I think her addition actually rounds out my female cast. Each balances power and gender differently: Willowren has tons of power, but her culture's expectations of women restrict the ways she can express it to traditionally feminine paths. Mirab expresses her inherent power through masculine means. Perrin is born with very little, so she joins the male-dominated military to achieve status. Rosmyne exploits her feminine nature to climb the social ladder.
Specifically, I want Perrin and Rosmyne to serve as contrasts to one another. Perrin is forward - to the point of bullheadedness - in achieving her dreams. Rosmyne is manipulative and uses others to get what she wants.
Also - Rivek verbally denies it, but he highly values his relationship with Willow. So, since Alisian culture treats men and women as military equals, Rivek has no qualms about beating the crap out of a girl who threatens it.
Rivek wandered through the dark corridor. The mage-lights had been extinguished much earlier, so only moonlight guided his passage. He ran his hand along the wall to avoid walking into potentially painful objects. Most of the castle's inhabitants would be asleep by now. He thought he would be as well. He did not understand what kept him awake.
The warm, night air blew in through the marble archways and licked at his bare skin. Given the late hour and lingering summer swelter, he had not bothered to find a shirt. He paused as his hand slid over a familiar carved handle, the door to the great hall. The vaulted ceilings seemed like a much better alternative to the confined corridor. He had to throw most of his weight into it, but he managed to create enough of a opening to slide sideways in.
Blue light streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting hues that turned the white ground into an ocean floor. As he looked up from the patterns on the tile, his eye caught the glimmering, gold, hem of a piece of cloth. In light, it would have been rich crimson, but the night transformed its shadows into a deep violet. A woman sat in the throne at the front of the room, swathed by this mass of red silk, gazing at the moon. Noticing his entrance, she stood. The cloth fell from her shoulders, revealing her pale skin. She wore nothing.
He laughed. "Willow. I'm not going to lie, but this is pretty odd."
She smiled. "Come here."
He obeyed, stopping at the foot of the throne's platform. "I thought you'd be in bed. As in, I expected you to be in bed until noon tomorrow."
She laughed, and it echoed like bells off the stone walls. She moved closer, leaving only a few inches between their bodies. "Same as you, I couldn't sleep."
"Maybe you should try again." He smirked, doing a poor job of keeping his eyes and hands off her exposed breasts. "Not that you'd get lost in your own house, but if you need someone to take you back to your quarters - well, 'escort' is in my job description."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and left a quick peck where the two scars crossed on his cheek. "Not to dismiss your acts of chivalry, but, no, I'm going to stay here, thank you. It's a nice enough night, isn't it?"
He wrapped one hand around her waist and used the other to brush her long hair out of his face. "You're going to sit naked for an undetermined period of time in a public place that will be quickly populated in a few hours. Good plan."
"That's not what I mean." She threw him a fake, angry glance and pushed him back playfully. He went along with the act and dropped to his knees.
"Then what do you mean?"
"I simply mean I don't want to go back to my room."
He nodded and rolled his eyes, "That seems like kind of a dumb thing to want."
She knelt to meet him and began playing with his dark hair. She ran her hands down his bare abdomen, tracing the scars that ran down it. She paused, just under his navel, before letting her fingers snake slowly downwards again. He tensed.
"Well, since you've been nice enough to let me have what I want," she bowed her head and looked up to meet his eyes, "I can give you what you so desperately want."
With one quick breath, she pressed her lips to his and slipped her tongue between his teeth.
It tasted like iron, ash, and saltpeter. Quickly, he broke the kiss and bit his tongue. He wanted to wash out his mouth. Even his own blood would have tasted better. He spat onto the ground, narrowed his eyes, and wiped his lips.
Cupping his hand around her fair cheek, he leaned in and whispered into her ear, "No, I'm afraid, you can't. Because this is a dream. An illusion. And when I wake up, I am going to make you regret this. Because - sorry, love - but birds like me mate for life."
He nodded toward the silken cloth spread on the floor. "By the way, Rosmyne, her favorite color is green."
I suck at writing flirting, but I admit, Rivek is a bit of a pervy dick.
Rosmyne is a re-work of an old character who used to be Willow's room-mate (and Rivek's ex) in high school. Now, she is a former servant girl with a penchant for money. She is the kind of woman who hops from man to man to achieve her goals.
As a teenager, she slept with Rivek because she thought he would marry her and give her noble title (no one else was troubled or rebellious enough to sleep with servants). When his title is stripped away, she is coincidentally ruined. As an already "lesser" person who is no longer a virgin, she has lost her social value.
She continues to work at the castle behind the scenes, hidden in shame, until she serves dinner to a handsome prince from the north. Empathetic to her drive for self-worth, Sorian sees value in her still. He tells her he can give her back everything she lost. He buys her, and she willingly undergoes his experimentation. It gives her magic ability to manipulate others' thoughts and dreams through touch.
Slowly, she falls in love with him and the possible royal title he could provide, but he is too wrapped-up in his own quest for power. Both Sorian and Rosmyne are people who define their internal value by rewards from external sources.
At first, I was iffy on re-purposing Rosmyne due to possible "sexploitation," but I think her addition actually rounds out my female cast. Each balances power and gender differently: Willowren has tons of power, but her culture's expectations of women restrict the ways she can express it to traditionally feminine paths. Mirab expresses her inherent power through masculine means. Perrin is born with very little, so she joins the male-dominated military to achieve status. Rosmyne exploits her feminine nature to climb the social ladder.
Specifically, I want Perrin and Rosmyne to serve as contrasts to one another. Perrin is forward - to the point of bullheadedness - in achieving her dreams. Rosmyne is manipulative and uses others to get what she wants.
Also - Rivek verbally denies it, but he highly values his relationship with Willow. So, since Alisian culture treats men and women as military equals, Rivek has no qualms about beating the crap out of a girl who threatens it.
Rivek wandered through the dark corridor. The mage-lights had been extinguished much earlier, so only moonlight guided his passage. He ran his hand along the wall to avoid walking into potentially painful objects. Most of the castle's inhabitants would be asleep by now. He thought he would be as well. He did not understand what kept him awake.
The warm, night air blew in through the marble archways and licked at his bare skin. Given the late hour and lingering summer swelter, he had not bothered to find a shirt. He paused as his hand slid over a familiar carved handle, the door to the great hall. The vaulted ceilings seemed like a much better alternative to the confined corridor. He had to throw most of his weight into it, but he managed to create enough of a opening to slide sideways in.
Blue light streamed in through the stained glass windows, casting hues that turned the white ground into an ocean floor. As he looked up from the patterns on the tile, his eye caught the glimmering, gold, hem of a piece of cloth. In light, it would have been rich crimson, but the night transformed its shadows into a deep violet. A woman sat in the throne at the front of the room, swathed by this mass of red silk, gazing at the moon. Noticing his entrance, she stood. The cloth fell from her shoulders, revealing her pale skin. She wore nothing.
He laughed. "Willow. I'm not going to lie, but this is pretty odd."
She smiled. "Come here."
He obeyed, stopping at the foot of the throne's platform. "I thought you'd be in bed. As in, I expected you to be in bed until noon tomorrow."
She laughed, and it echoed like bells off the stone walls. She moved closer, leaving only a few inches between their bodies. "Same as you, I couldn't sleep."
"Maybe you should try again." He smirked, doing a poor job of keeping his eyes and hands off her exposed breasts. "Not that you'd get lost in your own house, but if you need someone to take you back to your quarters - well, 'escort' is in my job description."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and left a quick peck where the two scars crossed on his cheek. "Not to dismiss your acts of chivalry, but, no, I'm going to stay here, thank you. It's a nice enough night, isn't it?"
He wrapped one hand around her waist and used the other to brush her long hair out of his face. "You're going to sit naked for an undetermined period of time in a public place that will be quickly populated in a few hours. Good plan."
"That's not what I mean." She threw him a fake, angry glance and pushed him back playfully. He went along with the act and dropped to his knees.
"Then what do you mean?"
"I simply mean I don't want to go back to my room."
He nodded and rolled his eyes, "That seems like kind of a dumb thing to want."
She knelt to meet him and began playing with his dark hair. She ran her hands down his bare abdomen, tracing the scars that ran down it. She paused, just under his navel, before letting her fingers snake slowly downwards again. He tensed.
"Well, since you've been nice enough to let me have what I want," she bowed her head and looked up to meet his eyes, "I can give you what you so desperately want."
With one quick breath, she pressed her lips to his and slipped her tongue between his teeth.
It tasted like iron, ash, and saltpeter. Quickly, he broke the kiss and bit his tongue. He wanted to wash out his mouth. Even his own blood would have tasted better. He spat onto the ground, narrowed his eyes, and wiped his lips.
Cupping his hand around her fair cheek, he leaned in and whispered into her ear, "No, I'm afraid, you can't. Because this is a dream. An illusion. And when I wake up, I am going to make you regret this. Because - sorry, love - but birds like me mate for life."
He nodded toward the silken cloth spread on the floor. "By the way, Rosmyne, her favorite color is green."
11.02.2011
Art: 044/100 Themes - Two Roads
"Dai piea." Two Roads. - 44/100 Themes.
"Willowren, you have two very different men in your life who are going to take you down two very different roads - which lead to two very different places, for you and your kingdom. Make sure you pick the right one."
"Willowren, you have two very different men in your life who are going to take you down two very different roads - which lead to two very different places, for you and your kingdom. Make sure you pick the right one."
10.31.2011
Art: 042/100 Themes - Standing Still
"Stera stil." Standing Still. - 42/100 Themes.
This is a prose-style re-write of something I did for screenwriting class. Andell is Willowren's doting older brother. He has a sunny disposition, but always is more ready with a joke than a plan. He had just finished medical school before being sent to be a war general. Of course, Sorian interprets Andell's preference for politics instead of battle as simple laziness, so he kills him - hoping to put that throne in his own, more capable, hands. However, his death actually puts Willowren next in line for the throne, and inspires her to seriously take on the healing arts.
From his vantage point on the butte, Sorian gazed across the ice-covered fields, subconsciously smiling as the two nations' armies clashed. He stroked the white mane of the horse he rode and patted the down cloak of his military uniform. His armor was made of gray steel edged with white fur, much like his soldiers' below, but embroidered with golden, religious symbols that spoke to his royal status. "For Heilmdor" was engraved on its breastplate, over his heart. He laughed, and fog poured from the mouth grate of his horned helmet, emerging through its sculpted, carnivorous grin like a demon's smoking breath.
He blinked, searching for the opposition's green and gold flag. For all their finesse in swordsmanship, the Tyrisi were felled by such simple opponents as slippery rocks jutting out from the snow. Sorian's men hacked through their opponents with wide, gleeful swings. The ice was their home.
Eager to rejoin the fray, he tightened his grip on his horse's reins. The animal, also covered in matching, patterned armor, shuffled its thick, furry legs in response. It tossed its head, indicating it had no intention of descending the frozen slope. Sorian disciplined it with a sharp tug and nudged it forward with his golden spurs. The beast hung its head and walked, guided by Sorian's ankles pricking its sides.
He scanned the ground ahead with professional ease, looking for spots the steed might have trouble with. As they trekked, he noticed a trail of abnormally bright, red blood. He turned the horse to follow it. The droplets grew larger and brighter each step.
Sorian dismounted to follow it, still maintaining his slow, deliberate pace. The sound of battle faded away. He found himself in a secluded patch of forest. The pine tree tops formed a circle overhead, revealing a patch of gray sky. Two crows sat above, circling and watching with their beady, black eyes.
A young man with chestnut hair crouched amidst his cast-off armor and weaponry. He wore a green tunic and a gold circlet around his head. Sorian recognized him immediately. This was Andell, the crown prince or Tyris and his sworn enemy.
He clutched his right arm. Bright red blood pumped out of an exposed artery. He pressed snow into the wound, trying to get it to stem the flow. He ran his fingers over the gash, summoning his healing magic to suture it. The skin moved at his command, but he was too tired to fully close the seal. His cheeks were pale and grey from the cold.
Andell laughed nervously, "You must Sorian. War-Prince of the Icy North."
Sorian nodded. More warm breath escaped from his mask. It condensed on the iron surface making it seem as if the gnarled, fake face were sweating.
"I was never into that war thing," Andell continued, using his legs to push himself backward. "Always preferred politics to beatings, myself. It's what you get when you come from a family of doctors. Royal doctors, especially."
Sorian unsheathed his sword and motioned for Andell to rise. The other prince merely squinted in confusion and shook his head. Sorian gestured again, letting a growl out through the mask. It echoed through the metal teeth. Andell leaned back against a tree and used it to lever himself upwards. He pointed to the badge Sorian wore at his belt, a gold disc embossed with a roaring lion's head, "I hear they call you the 'lion.' Must be nice to have a good, unique title like that. I have to settle for just 'prince'."
Unamused, Sorian stepped forward. Andell backed away instinctively, moving to the side of the tree. Sorian picked up Andell's sword. The handle was wrapped in green and had an intricately carved stag in its pommel. He snorted. This blade was more for decoration than for practical use. Nevertheless, he held it, hilt out to Andell.
Andell took the sword in his good left hand and stepped back, assuming a shaky, high guard. Sorian rushed forward. Too weak to block the move, Andell stepped to the side, parrying at the last second. However, the speed required for the move had left him too exposed to recover quickly. Sorian spun on his heel and lunged forward again. This time, he swung up from the ground.
The already wounded prince could not move in time, and the blow cleanly severed his leg. He fell to his side with a brutal thud, dropping his sword. He rolled onto his back only to find Sorian standing over him. He panted, "They also say you take no mercy. Not even towards healers. And especially not towards royalty."
"In certain cases, perhaps, but I see no reason to pity those who cannot prove they are worthy of their assets. If you cannot perform the simple task of deflecting an infantry arrow to hold your father's land, it might as well belong to a better candidate."
He dropped his sword down onto the shoulder joint of Andell's bleeding arm. It took three clean hacks to sever the limb. The prince screamed, but Sorian did not react. He took the dismembered arm and laid it off to the side. Bright blood spurted into the snow, darkening as it touched the ground.
He began to methodically remove Andell's other limbs with the same medical precision. As each appendage came off, Andell's voice grew quieter shrinking from a howl to a whimper. As he sawed through the hip joint of Andell's last leg, all Sorian could hear was ragged breathing.
Andell lay immobile. Only his chest moved, heaving up and down. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his mouth gaped open. Sorian knelt and tore at his victim's clothing. He unearthed Andell's royal signet ring, inlaid with emeralds and gingerly held by a chain around the fallen man's neck. He took it in his palm and yanked on it with enough force to snap the gilded line. He kissed the stag carved into its face. Finally, he took off his glove and slipped it on his own finger.
With one last, disdainful look, he turned around and swiftly lopped off Andell's head. He stood and held it under his foot as the crows circled above him, enjoying the stillness of the icy air.
This is a prose-style re-write of something I did for screenwriting class. Andell is Willowren's doting older brother. He has a sunny disposition, but always is more ready with a joke than a plan. He had just finished medical school before being sent to be a war general. Of course, Sorian interprets Andell's preference for politics instead of battle as simple laziness, so he kills him - hoping to put that throne in his own, more capable, hands. However, his death actually puts Willowren next in line for the throne, and inspires her to seriously take on the healing arts.
From his vantage point on the butte, Sorian gazed across the ice-covered fields, subconsciously smiling as the two nations' armies clashed. He stroked the white mane of the horse he rode and patted the down cloak of his military uniform. His armor was made of gray steel edged with white fur, much like his soldiers' below, but embroidered with golden, religious symbols that spoke to his royal status. "For Heilmdor" was engraved on its breastplate, over his heart. He laughed, and fog poured from the mouth grate of his horned helmet, emerging through its sculpted, carnivorous grin like a demon's smoking breath.
He blinked, searching for the opposition's green and gold flag. For all their finesse in swordsmanship, the Tyrisi were felled by such simple opponents as slippery rocks jutting out from the snow. Sorian's men hacked through their opponents with wide, gleeful swings. The ice was their home.
Eager to rejoin the fray, he tightened his grip on his horse's reins. The animal, also covered in matching, patterned armor, shuffled its thick, furry legs in response. It tossed its head, indicating it had no intention of descending the frozen slope. Sorian disciplined it with a sharp tug and nudged it forward with his golden spurs. The beast hung its head and walked, guided by Sorian's ankles pricking its sides.
He scanned the ground ahead with professional ease, looking for spots the steed might have trouble with. As they trekked, he noticed a trail of abnormally bright, red blood. He turned the horse to follow it. The droplets grew larger and brighter each step.
Sorian dismounted to follow it, still maintaining his slow, deliberate pace. The sound of battle faded away. He found himself in a secluded patch of forest. The pine tree tops formed a circle overhead, revealing a patch of gray sky. Two crows sat above, circling and watching with their beady, black eyes.
A young man with chestnut hair crouched amidst his cast-off armor and weaponry. He wore a green tunic and a gold circlet around his head. Sorian recognized him immediately. This was Andell, the crown prince or Tyris and his sworn enemy.
He clutched his right arm. Bright red blood pumped out of an exposed artery. He pressed snow into the wound, trying to get it to stem the flow. He ran his fingers over the gash, summoning his healing magic to suture it. The skin moved at his command, but he was too tired to fully close the seal. His cheeks were pale and grey from the cold.
Andell laughed nervously, "You must Sorian. War-Prince of the Icy North."
Sorian nodded. More warm breath escaped from his mask. It condensed on the iron surface making it seem as if the gnarled, fake face were sweating.
"I was never into that war thing," Andell continued, using his legs to push himself backward. "Always preferred politics to beatings, myself. It's what you get when you come from a family of doctors. Royal doctors, especially."
Sorian unsheathed his sword and motioned for Andell to rise. The other prince merely squinted in confusion and shook his head. Sorian gestured again, letting a growl out through the mask. It echoed through the metal teeth. Andell leaned back against a tree and used it to lever himself upwards. He pointed to the badge Sorian wore at his belt, a gold disc embossed with a roaring lion's head, "I hear they call you the 'lion.' Must be nice to have a good, unique title like that. I have to settle for just 'prince'."
Unamused, Sorian stepped forward. Andell backed away instinctively, moving to the side of the tree. Sorian picked up Andell's sword. The handle was wrapped in green and had an intricately carved stag in its pommel. He snorted. This blade was more for decoration than for practical use. Nevertheless, he held it, hilt out to Andell.
Andell took the sword in his good left hand and stepped back, assuming a shaky, high guard. Sorian rushed forward. Too weak to block the move, Andell stepped to the side, parrying at the last second. However, the speed required for the move had left him too exposed to recover quickly. Sorian spun on his heel and lunged forward again. This time, he swung up from the ground.
The already wounded prince could not move in time, and the blow cleanly severed his leg. He fell to his side with a brutal thud, dropping his sword. He rolled onto his back only to find Sorian standing over him. He panted, "They also say you take no mercy. Not even towards healers. And especially not towards royalty."
"In certain cases, perhaps, but I see no reason to pity those who cannot prove they are worthy of their assets. If you cannot perform the simple task of deflecting an infantry arrow to hold your father's land, it might as well belong to a better candidate."
He dropped his sword down onto the shoulder joint of Andell's bleeding arm. It took three clean hacks to sever the limb. The prince screamed, but Sorian did not react. He took the dismembered arm and laid it off to the side. Bright blood spurted into the snow, darkening as it touched the ground.
He began to methodically remove Andell's other limbs with the same medical precision. As each appendage came off, Andell's voice grew quieter shrinking from a howl to a whimper. As he sawed through the hip joint of Andell's last leg, all Sorian could hear was ragged breathing.
Andell lay immobile. Only his chest moved, heaving up and down. His eyes rolled back into his head, and his mouth gaped open. Sorian knelt and tore at his victim's clothing. He unearthed Andell's royal signet ring, inlaid with emeralds and gingerly held by a chain around the fallen man's neck. He took it in his palm and yanked on it with enough force to snap the gilded line. He kissed the stag carved into its face. Finally, he took off his glove and slipped it on his own finger.
With one last, disdainful look, he turned around and swiftly lopped off Andell's head. He stood and held it under his foot as the crows circled above him, enjoying the stillness of the icy air.
10.29.2011
Art: 40/100 Themes - Rated.
"Ordiarei." Rated. - 40/100 Themes.
Drawn while listening to a lecture by Jon Foster, one of my favorite artists. I actually really like how he can create a dynamic, floating feel to his characters.
"I will not be beaten by some second-rate, animal!"
Drawn while listening to a lecture by Jon Foster, one of my favorite artists. I actually really like how he can create a dynamic, floating feel to his characters.
"I will not be beaten by some second-rate, animal!"
10.27.2011
Art: 038/100 Themes - Dreams
"Dechideran." Dreams. - 38/100 Themes.
I wanted a villain that people could relate to, who you could understand why he does things and why he goes over the edge. Much of Sorian's motivation comes from constant comparison to his older brother - who is the heir to the Heilmdor throne. He has deeply-seated envy and desire to look good in front of his father. That's why he values hard work so highly, because he sees his brother as piddling, foolish, and undeserved of their title.
I think all the characters in my world have mommy-daddy issues, haha.
Sorian gazed at his brother's portrait, hanging in its gilded frame on the wall. "One day," he muttered. "I will show Father how much of a fool you really are."
He lifted the golden crown from the pedestal and brought it to rest on his forehead.
I wanted a villain that people could relate to, who you could understand why he does things and why he goes over the edge. Much of Sorian's motivation comes from constant comparison to his older brother - who is the heir to the Heilmdor throne. He has deeply-seated envy and desire to look good in front of his father. That's why he values hard work so highly, because he sees his brother as piddling, foolish, and undeserved of their title.
I think all the characters in my world have mommy-daddy issues, haha.
Sorian gazed at his brother's portrait, hanging in its gilded frame on the wall. "One day," he muttered. "I will show Father how much of a fool you really are."
He lifted the golden crown from the pedestal and brought it to rest on his forehead.
10.26.2011
Art: 037/100 Themes - Eyes
"Okuli." Eyes. - 37/100 Themes.
This one is particularly brutal.
"When you cease to breathe, I will leave you here for your own carrion kind to eat." Sorian hacked red blood onto the ground and crawled over to his opponent. That blow to the head, at inhuman speed, left his ears ringing.
Rivek groaned. He couldn't see. With one hand, he rubbed the sand from his eyes. The other held the bleeding stab wound in his side. He kicked violently, a futile attempt to move backwards but, more importantly, keep Sorian from drawing any closer. Every movement stretched the muscles in his abdomen, delivering another strike of pain. He couldn't get up.
Sorian could not let him run away. Not again. Never again. He struggled to his knees and took a knife from his belt. Inches before Sorian reached his target, Rivek landed another strike to his face. Sorian's nose shattered, and blood flowed from his nostrils onto his chin. He howled and responded by grabbing his prey's flailing leg. Rivek instinctively reached for the his caught limb, moving the arm gripping his stomach. This gave Sorian the opening he required. With one forward strike, he drove his dagger through the mage's groin, carrying the strike just up to his sternum.
"Try changing now," he laughed, saliva running down his chin and blood pumped up from the gash. "Not as easy as before, I would believe. I hope you knew better than to think I would strike your heart. I have every intention of making this slow and painful, Ailinar."
Rivek writhed, freeing his leg and delivering two more hits to Sorian's chest with the heel of his boot, drawing more blood and spit from the prince's mouth. Howling in anger, Sorian threw his body forward and re-positioned himself squarely on top of the other man, away from his reaching legs. If it meant sitting in his entrails, so be it. He leaned over until his chest almost touched the tangled mass of intestine below him.
Rivek squinted, trying to see anything but red. He reached at Sorian's face and dug his nails into his cheek, drawing blood as they shifted into talons.
Sorian grabbed the offending wrist and pinned it to the ground. The transformation faded, leaving Rivek with human fingers again. Sorian placed his other dirty, bloody hand on Rivek's neck and tightened his grip to cut off any possible airway. He smiled as his victim gagged, blood coming up his crushed throat. It left little black rivulets as it dripped down Sorian's hands. He ignored the acid burn the same way he ignored the thinner man's desperate grasps at his arms, shoulders, and face.
Keeping his stronger, right hand on Rivek's throat, he moved his left to his face, to his eyes. He forced his eyelids open. The iris darted in mad, twitching saccades, looking for a way out.
"Gold eyes," Sorian muttered through the blood on his lips. "Truly like a dumb animal."
Rivek gathered the last bit of energy he had, the last bit of magic he possessed. He struck the arm that held open his eye, and he heard a satisfying snap as the elbow joint bent backwards. Sorian fell forward from his own weight, and Rivek struck him in the side of the mouth.
Enraged, Sorian sat up on his good arm. He spat a broken tooth into Rivek's face. His chest heaved with rage as he pulled the broken arm close to himself, cradling it with the other. Stupid, stupid, wild animal. Stupid. Disobedient dogs, of course, should be punished.
He plunged his fingers into the socket of Rivek's right eye. The bird-man arched his back, screaming and releasing another torrent of blood from his lips. He settled back down, taking little, shallow, breaths. Every movement sent massive, pulsing pan through his skull.
Sorian blinked. He held Rivek's eye, his thumb still in the socket, delicately encircled between his thumb and index finger. He laughed. And then he yanked it upward, severing the optic nerve with the strength of his pull. He stared at his trophy, turning it like a diamond.
"Beautiful. She always said your eyes were so beautiful. I suppose I am beginning to understand. However, as you surely must know already, a man of my station cannot have an incomplete collection."
Sorian took out the knife, Rivek still held by with the entire weight of his body. Physical trauma had set into the mage's flesh. Drained of blood, Rivek's skin was pale, almost grey. He let out a series of spasming coughs. All he knew was pain. Where he was, who was there with him, why he had gone to his own doom. He struggled to remember as his It was all beginning to fade.
"It would be in your best interest not to struggle," Sorian said. "I am sure that you can logically figure that the more you move, the less accurate I can be with this. And I would like my pretty, little jewels in tact."
He went in slowly this time, peeling back Rivek's left eyelid. He was inches away from his face. He could feel every ragged breath, every shudder. He grinned. He slipped the knife in under the tear duct, and slowly, meticulously, sawed away at the membrane, carving a perfect little circle around his prize. He chuckled as tears and blood ran, in an unbidden mechanical reaction, down the side of the other man's face.
Rivek remained still under his body. Sorian held the disembodied eyes in his palm. He watched as the magical colors faded. Gold. Green. Blue. Grey. Finally, they rested on a rich, inhuman, violet.
Sorian stood, crushing the soft orbs in his hand. The fluid ran, warm, down his wrist. His other arm hung limp as his side, and the acid blood had melted holes into his armor. This did not matter. After years, the hunt was over, and the dark-mage lay motionless at his feet.
This one is particularly brutal.
"When you cease to breathe, I will leave you here for your own carrion kind to eat." Sorian hacked red blood onto the ground and crawled over to his opponent. That blow to the head, at inhuman speed, left his ears ringing.
Rivek groaned. He couldn't see. With one hand, he rubbed the sand from his eyes. The other held the bleeding stab wound in his side. He kicked violently, a futile attempt to move backwards but, more importantly, keep Sorian from drawing any closer. Every movement stretched the muscles in his abdomen, delivering another strike of pain. He couldn't get up.
Sorian could not let him run away. Not again. Never again. He struggled to his knees and took a knife from his belt. Inches before Sorian reached his target, Rivek landed another strike to his face. Sorian's nose shattered, and blood flowed from his nostrils onto his chin. He howled and responded by grabbing his prey's flailing leg. Rivek instinctively reached for the his caught limb, moving the arm gripping his stomach. This gave Sorian the opening he required. With one forward strike, he drove his dagger through the mage's groin, carrying the strike just up to his sternum.
"Try changing now," he laughed, saliva running down his chin and blood pumped up from the gash. "Not as easy as before, I would believe. I hope you knew better than to think I would strike your heart. I have every intention of making this slow and painful, Ailinar."
Rivek writhed, freeing his leg and delivering two more hits to Sorian's chest with the heel of his boot, drawing more blood and spit from the prince's mouth. Howling in anger, Sorian threw his body forward and re-positioned himself squarely on top of the other man, away from his reaching legs. If it meant sitting in his entrails, so be it. He leaned over until his chest almost touched the tangled mass of intestine below him.
Rivek squinted, trying to see anything but red. He reached at Sorian's face and dug his nails into his cheek, drawing blood as they shifted into talons.
Sorian grabbed the offending wrist and pinned it to the ground. The transformation faded, leaving Rivek with human fingers again. Sorian placed his other dirty, bloody hand on Rivek's neck and tightened his grip to cut off any possible airway. He smiled as his victim gagged, blood coming up his crushed throat. It left little black rivulets as it dripped down Sorian's hands. He ignored the acid burn the same way he ignored the thinner man's desperate grasps at his arms, shoulders, and face.
Keeping his stronger, right hand on Rivek's throat, he moved his left to his face, to his eyes. He forced his eyelids open. The iris darted in mad, twitching saccades, looking for a way out.
"Gold eyes," Sorian muttered through the blood on his lips. "Truly like a dumb animal."
Rivek gathered the last bit of energy he had, the last bit of magic he possessed. He struck the arm that held open his eye, and he heard a satisfying snap as the elbow joint bent backwards. Sorian fell forward from his own weight, and Rivek struck him in the side of the mouth.
Enraged, Sorian sat up on his good arm. He spat a broken tooth into Rivek's face. His chest heaved with rage as he pulled the broken arm close to himself, cradling it with the other. Stupid, stupid, wild animal. Stupid. Disobedient dogs, of course, should be punished.
He plunged his fingers into the socket of Rivek's right eye. The bird-man arched his back, screaming and releasing another torrent of blood from his lips. He settled back down, taking little, shallow, breaths. Every movement sent massive, pulsing pan through his skull.
Sorian blinked. He held Rivek's eye, his thumb still in the socket, delicately encircled between his thumb and index finger. He laughed. And then he yanked it upward, severing the optic nerve with the strength of his pull. He stared at his trophy, turning it like a diamond.
"Beautiful. She always said your eyes were so beautiful. I suppose I am beginning to understand. However, as you surely must know already, a man of my station cannot have an incomplete collection."
Sorian took out the knife, Rivek still held by with the entire weight of his body. Physical trauma had set into the mage's flesh. Drained of blood, Rivek's skin was pale, almost grey. He let out a series of spasming coughs. All he knew was pain. Where he was, who was there with him, why he had gone to his own doom. He struggled to remember as his It was all beginning to fade.
"It would be in your best interest not to struggle," Sorian said. "I am sure that you can logically figure that the more you move, the less accurate I can be with this. And I would like my pretty, little jewels in tact."
He went in slowly this time, peeling back Rivek's left eyelid. He was inches away from his face. He could feel every ragged breath, every shudder. He grinned. He slipped the knife in under the tear duct, and slowly, meticulously, sawed away at the membrane, carving a perfect little circle around his prize. He chuckled as tears and blood ran, in an unbidden mechanical reaction, down the side of the other man's face.
Rivek remained still under his body. Sorian held the disembodied eyes in his palm. He watched as the magical colors faded. Gold. Green. Blue. Grey. Finally, they rested on a rich, inhuman, violet.
Sorian stood, crushing the soft orbs in his hand. The fluid ran, warm, down his wrist. His other arm hung limp as his side, and the acid blood had melted holes into his armor. This did not matter. After years, the hunt was over, and the dark-mage lay motionless at his feet.
10.24.2011
Art: 035/100 Themes - Hold My Hand
"Tenar ma manum." Hold My Hand. - 35/100 Themes. For the record, after he makes his smart-ass comment, he throws the knife at Sorian and transforms to get the hell out of there.
"The most appropriate punishment for thieves is to remove that which they require for thieving," Sorian explained. He caressed the sharp edge of his axe with his gloved hand. Swords were for battle. Hatchets were better for more brutal, more intimate, encounters. He gave a low laugh. It had been quite some time since anyone had been foolish enough to attempt personal action against him. Today, luck had turned in his favor. His favorite weapon would finally get some use.
Rivek knelt in the snow. The only thing that separated him from his nemesis was the stump of an old pine tree, cleared long ago for the Heilmdoran to make permanent camp at the border. Too bad his mission didn't involve assassination. Then this closeness might have been more opportune. He spat at Sorian's word. A mixture of saliva and black blood landed at his feet.
Sorian grabbed Rivek's right elbow, slamming it to the surface of the former tree. The blow was so strong, Rivek's skin tore against the grain of the wood, leaving little spots of blood on the rings. Rivek flexed his fingers to make sure they still moved.
"So as you can see, the most fitting restitution for your crimes is your right hand." Sorian smiled politely as he ran the flat of the blade on the inside of Rivek's forearm, searching for the perfect position to cleave his victim's wrist joint. He lifted his axe into the air and grinned, baring his teeth.
"Money isn't a suitable payment for you, I take it?" Rivek prattled. Sorian's man-at-arms had his other arm pinned to his back, just inches away from his boot. The troops had been so eager to dole out punishment, they hadn't bothered to search him entirely. Worth a shot, but this would require a lot of speed.
Rivek tensed his shoulder and threw his entire weight into one downward reach toward his boot. The guard had only been concerned with pressing down to keep Rivek from lifting his arms, so the mage's hand slipped easily from his grasp. Rivek swiftly slid his hand forward along his shin until he found the handle of the blade. He drew it and grinned. In one smooth motion, he wrenched his body around, pivoting on the elbow Sorian still held. As he rolled onto his back, he delivered a cutting strike to the other soldier's face.
Free from the man's weight, he stood and threw off Sorian's arm. Rivek smiled, twirling the knife between his fingers, "Just my luck - I'm left-handed."
"The most appropriate punishment for thieves is to remove that which they require for thieving," Sorian explained. He caressed the sharp edge of his axe with his gloved hand. Swords were for battle. Hatchets were better for more brutal, more intimate, encounters. He gave a low laugh. It had been quite some time since anyone had been foolish enough to attempt personal action against him. Today, luck had turned in his favor. His favorite weapon would finally get some use.
Rivek knelt in the snow. The only thing that separated him from his nemesis was the stump of an old pine tree, cleared long ago for the Heilmdoran to make permanent camp at the border. Too bad his mission didn't involve assassination. Then this closeness might have been more opportune. He spat at Sorian's word. A mixture of saliva and black blood landed at his feet.
Sorian grabbed Rivek's right elbow, slamming it to the surface of the former tree. The blow was so strong, Rivek's skin tore against the grain of the wood, leaving little spots of blood on the rings. Rivek flexed his fingers to make sure they still moved.
"So as you can see, the most fitting restitution for your crimes is your right hand." Sorian smiled politely as he ran the flat of the blade on the inside of Rivek's forearm, searching for the perfect position to cleave his victim's wrist joint. He lifted his axe into the air and grinned, baring his teeth.
"Money isn't a suitable payment for you, I take it?" Rivek prattled. Sorian's man-at-arms had his other arm pinned to his back, just inches away from his boot. The troops had been so eager to dole out punishment, they hadn't bothered to search him entirely. Worth a shot, but this would require a lot of speed.
Rivek tensed his shoulder and threw his entire weight into one downward reach toward his boot. The guard had only been concerned with pressing down to keep Rivek from lifting his arms, so the mage's hand slipped easily from his grasp. Rivek swiftly slid his hand forward along his shin until he found the handle of the blade. He drew it and grinned. In one smooth motion, he wrenched his body around, pivoting on the elbow Sorian still held. As he rolled onto his back, he delivered a cutting strike to the other soldier's face.
Free from the man's weight, he stood and threw off Sorian's arm. Rivek smiled, twirling the knife between his fingers, "Just my luck - I'm left-handed."
10.19.2011
Art: Character Relations and Outfit Guide for Mondigan
Every time I start a new sketchbook (roughly every six months or so), I draw Rivek in whatever is outfit design is at that point. it's a way of seeing how far I have come and how far I need to go. These are usually done in airports and on planes since I like having new sketchbooks for trips - and because the whole character centers around flight.
I did this waiting to take BUR -> OAK to see some college friends in San Fransisco. It has some stronger linework due to influence from Eric Canete. His costume uses more metal and doesn't have as dramatic sleeves anymore since I wanted to trim the silhouette into one that accents vertical lines (I know, because he's not a skinny whelp enough as it is). And his pose is not relaxed and he's got more of a smirk because I wanted something more excited about life this time around.
When I flew back home for a week in August, I lost my pencil case (including my signature stamp). So after flipping out, I bought some cheap pencils to draw with (HB, I am accustomed to 4B). But I still didn't want to do anything fancy, so I decided to try and draw portraits of my characters (a few I have never shown the public before, even!). The goal was to get them to look different but keep nationalities and family relationships similar. I need to draw smaller eyes.
Rivek is our socially-stigmatized main character who serves as the personal agent and doer of dirty work to the doctor-princess, Willow. She is as stubborn and bull-headed as she is hopeful. In order to gain an ally and stop a war, Willow is set to marry another prince, Fenne, but he re-negs on the engagement when she proves her feelings really lie with Rivek - costing him his ability to walk.
To take our his frustration, he banishes Rivek and hires Rivek's best friend, Bohren into his guard. Knowing they are now on opposite sides tears Bohren to pieces because he still needs to separate his feelings between friendship and homosexual romance. In exchange for a new pair of legs, Fenne allies with Sorian, the leader of the country invading Willow's territory. Together, they build war machines and commit genocide.
Eamon is Fenne's scientific advisor - who helped Willow with her doctor training back in school - is afraid that the princes will murder his daughter, Perrin. So the pair seek refugee status with Willow. She accepts, and Perrin develops a rapport with Rivek due to their interest in dark magic. Rivek looks over Eamon's notes and helps re-work them to use dark magic, thus giving their side an edge advantage.
But to using dark magic requires dark mages, so he seeks the help of his estranged sister, Mirab. She agrees if once the war is over, Willow and her congress stops the genocide against their people. Kai is her adopted son. His merchant father abandoned him when he began to show traces of dark magic.
There are more details, but I think that's enough for now. Those things in the corner are some dress silhouettes from the Alexander McQueen Exhibit. Everyone's name ends in an "n" sound.
This is an outfit design guide for the seven countries that make up the continent of Mondigan. It details stuff like climate, color scheme. All designs are based around a central tenet of the countries' value system - represented as a simple geometric shape that gets repeated in the outfit. Countries that are more similar in mindset use more similar shapes. Each also has a signature style item unique to that culture. Unity for the entire continent, though, should be derived from similar materials.
Expanding on that further, I went ahead and drew some male and female Alisian outfits. Alisians live in a strict, role-based meritocracy where rank is determined by what you have done and what your forefathers have done. Although there is a certain genetic phenotype common in Alisians (tall, thin, pale, non-red hair, angular skull, hooked nose), appearance, gender, and sexual orientation are not measures of a person's value. Especially if that person can wield a sword. An Alisian is self-defined by their devotion to their religion and having been raised in an Alisian culture.
Despite being a military culture, the central tenet of Alisian religion is "balance" of light and dark. All things in moderation. Therefore, their visual design symbol is a diamond - symmetrical on all sides but still highly dynamic. Given that Rivek and Mirab are half-Alisian and best represent the phenotype, I have drawn them in generic male and female Alisian clothing. The cuts are slightly different to exaggerate how the diamond form falls along each gender, but given that gender is not a defining trait of the individual, the overall design remains mostly the same.
The sleeves are tied to the main shirt body and often not used in summer. They can come in multiple lengths, mix and match for variety. However, it is important to note that - even in the dead of winter - sleeves and arm gear are not worn during religious ceremonies out of respect.
Alisians begin combat training as soon as they can walk, and young adults tend to venture to other countries to seek temporary work. So although much of the Alisian economy is self-sustaining on fish, sheep, and tough grains, they also receive a strong vein of outside income from steel and mercenary work. Unscrupulous, non-religious, private businessmen will usually hire an Alisian bodyguard (this is how Rivek's father and mother met). So, completely illogically, I drew Bohren in a tentative Alisian armor design... which I am not promptly scrapping. It is far too impractical. I also meant to draw Willow in Alisian priestess robes, but I got lazy.
Sometimes, I draw my characters in their skivvies. For the record, this is what they would wear to sleep. Done in the lobby of =ProdigyBombay's ultra-cool workplace while I was waiting for her to hang out with me.
I did this waiting to take BUR -> OAK to see some college friends in San Fransisco. It has some stronger linework due to influence from Eric Canete. His costume uses more metal and doesn't have as dramatic sleeves anymore since I wanted to trim the silhouette into one that accents vertical lines (I know, because he's not a skinny whelp enough as it is). And his pose is not relaxed and he's got more of a smirk because I wanted something more excited about life this time around.
When I flew back home for a week in August, I lost my pencil case (including my signature stamp). So after flipping out, I bought some cheap pencils to draw with (HB, I am accustomed to 4B). But I still didn't want to do anything fancy, so I decided to try and draw portraits of my characters (a few I have never shown the public before, even!). The goal was to get them to look different but keep nationalities and family relationships similar. I need to draw smaller eyes.
Rivek is our socially-stigmatized main character who serves as the personal agent and doer of dirty work to the doctor-princess, Willow. She is as stubborn and bull-headed as she is hopeful. In order to gain an ally and stop a war, Willow is set to marry another prince, Fenne, but he re-negs on the engagement when she proves her feelings really lie with Rivek - costing him his ability to walk.
To take our his frustration, he banishes Rivek and hires Rivek's best friend, Bohren into his guard. Knowing they are now on opposite sides tears Bohren to pieces because he still needs to separate his feelings between friendship and homosexual romance. In exchange for a new pair of legs, Fenne allies with Sorian, the leader of the country invading Willow's territory. Together, they build war machines and commit genocide.
Eamon is Fenne's scientific advisor - who helped Willow with her doctor training back in school - is afraid that the princes will murder his daughter, Perrin. So the pair seek refugee status with Willow. She accepts, and Perrin develops a rapport with Rivek due to their interest in dark magic. Rivek looks over Eamon's notes and helps re-work them to use dark magic, thus giving their side an edge advantage.
But to using dark magic requires dark mages, so he seeks the help of his estranged sister, Mirab. She agrees if once the war is over, Willow and her congress stops the genocide against their people. Kai is her adopted son. His merchant father abandoned him when he began to show traces of dark magic.
There are more details, but I think that's enough for now. Those things in the corner are some dress silhouettes from the Alexander McQueen Exhibit. Everyone's name ends in an "n" sound.
This is an outfit design guide for the seven countries that make up the continent of Mondigan. It details stuff like climate, color scheme. All designs are based around a central tenet of the countries' value system - represented as a simple geometric shape that gets repeated in the outfit. Countries that are more similar in mindset use more similar shapes. Each also has a signature style item unique to that culture. Unity for the entire continent, though, should be derived from similar materials.
Expanding on that further, I went ahead and drew some male and female Alisian outfits. Alisians live in a strict, role-based meritocracy where rank is determined by what you have done and what your forefathers have done. Although there is a certain genetic phenotype common in Alisians (tall, thin, pale, non-red hair, angular skull, hooked nose), appearance, gender, and sexual orientation are not measures of a person's value. Especially if that person can wield a sword. An Alisian is self-defined by their devotion to their religion and having been raised in an Alisian culture.
Despite being a military culture, the central tenet of Alisian religion is "balance" of light and dark. All things in moderation. Therefore, their visual design symbol is a diamond - symmetrical on all sides but still highly dynamic. Given that Rivek and Mirab are half-Alisian and best represent the phenotype, I have drawn them in generic male and female Alisian clothing. The cuts are slightly different to exaggerate how the diamond form falls along each gender, but given that gender is not a defining trait of the individual, the overall design remains mostly the same.
The sleeves are tied to the main shirt body and often not used in summer. They can come in multiple lengths, mix and match for variety. However, it is important to note that - even in the dead of winter - sleeves and arm gear are not worn during religious ceremonies out of respect.
Alisians begin combat training as soon as they can walk, and young adults tend to venture to other countries to seek temporary work. So although much of the Alisian economy is self-sustaining on fish, sheep, and tough grains, they also receive a strong vein of outside income from steel and mercenary work. Unscrupulous, non-religious, private businessmen will usually hire an Alisian bodyguard (this is how Rivek's father and mother met). So, completely illogically, I drew Bohren in a tentative Alisian armor design... which I am not promptly scrapping. It is far too impractical. I also meant to draw Willow in Alisian priestess robes, but I got lazy.
Sometimes, I draw my characters in their skivvies. For the record, this is what they would wear to sleep. Done in the lobby of =ProdigyBombay's ultra-cool workplace while I was waiting for her to hang out with me.
3.16.2011
Writing - TVFT 548: Enter Sorian
I took a screenwriting class, focusing on character development. We were instructed to write scenes based on our characters, and since Rivek is much further along than his nemesis, I chose to flesh out Sorian.
Because I normally work in prose, writing in screenplay format was incredibly difficult for me since it limits any kind of description!
If Mondigan were a movie, this would be his introductory scene.
---
EXT. SNOWY FIELD - DAY
Two nations' armies fight on an ice-covered field. One side, in white and gray, is accustomed to the weather and makes large, stalwart, movements, using wide swings to hack their foes apart. Their opponents, in green and gold, slip on the rocks which poke from the snow but have greater finesse with their weapons.
SORIAN, a heavily-armored general, stands alone beside his horse on a cliff, overlooking the fray. He sports thick, fur-lined, white clothing with accents of gold that denote royal level of authority. He also wears a horned helmet that covers his entire face with a menacing iron mask. Foggy breath escapes through the mouth grate, which is shaped into a carnivorous grin.
SORIAN watches the action, but both sides seem evenly matched. He tightens the grip on his horse's reins.
The animal, also covered in gold armor, shuffles its thick, furry legs.
It tosses its head, and SORIAN disciplines it with a sharp tug.
SORIAN mounts the creature with professional ease and walks it calmly down the mountain. He scans the ground and notices a trail of abnormally bright, red, blood.
SORIAN dismounts to follow it, still at a slow, deliberate pace. The sound of battle fades away as he moves into a more secluded area.
ANDELL, the battered crown prince of the enemy kingdom, crouches amidst cast-off armor, bleeding from an exposed artery in his right arm. He presses snow over the wound, trying to get it to close and forces a fearful laugh as SORIAN approaches.
ANDELL: You must be him - Sorian, War-Prince of the Icy North.
SORIAN nods, more warm breath escaping from his mask.
ANDELL (CONT'D): I was never into that. Always preferred politics to beatings, myself. It's what you get when you come from a family of doctors. Royal doctors, especially.
SORIAN unsheathes his sword and motions for ANDELL to get up.
ANDELL squints in confusion.
SORIAN gestures again..
ANDELL struggles to stand by forcing his back against a tree. He points to the badge SORIAN wears at his belt, a gold disc embossed with a roaring lion's head.
ANDELL (CONT'D): I hear they call you the "lion." Must be nice to have a good, unique title like that.
SORIAN approaches.
ANDELL backs away instinctively.
SORIAN nudges ANDELL's dropped sword with his and nods.
ANDELL takes the sword in his good, but now shaking, left hand.
SORIAN rushes him.
ANDELL parries at the last second.
SORIAN lunges forward again and continues his constant offensive. ANDELL only manages faulty, defensive maneuvers.
SORIAN severs ANDELL's leg with a brutal swing, and ANDELL falls onto his side.
ANDELL rolls onto his back to find SORIAN standing over him.
ANDELL: They also say you take no mercy. Not even towards healers. And especially not towards royalty.
SORIAN: In certain cases, perhaps, but I see no reason to pity those who cannot prove they are worthy of their assets. If you cannot perform the simple task of deflecting an infantry arrow to hold your father's land, it might as well belong to a better candidate.
SORIAN methodically hacks the howling ANDELL's limbs off with medical precision. He kneels and tears at his victim's clothing until he finds the royal signet ring, held on a chain around his neck.
SORIAN takes off his glove, kisses it, and slips it on his own finger.
SORIAN swiftly lops off ANDELL's head.
Because I normally work in prose, writing in screenplay format was incredibly difficult for me since it limits any kind of description!
If Mondigan were a movie, this would be his introductory scene.
---
EXT. SNOWY FIELD - DAY
Two nations' armies fight on an ice-covered field. One side, in white and gray, is accustomed to the weather and makes large, stalwart, movements, using wide swings to hack their foes apart. Their opponents, in green and gold, slip on the rocks which poke from the snow but have greater finesse with their weapons.
SORIAN, a heavily-armored general, stands alone beside his horse on a cliff, overlooking the fray. He sports thick, fur-lined, white clothing with accents of gold that denote royal level of authority. He also wears a horned helmet that covers his entire face with a menacing iron mask. Foggy breath escapes through the mouth grate, which is shaped into a carnivorous grin.
SORIAN watches the action, but both sides seem evenly matched. He tightens the grip on his horse's reins.
The animal, also covered in gold armor, shuffles its thick, furry legs.
It tosses its head, and SORIAN disciplines it with a sharp tug.
SORIAN mounts the creature with professional ease and walks it calmly down the mountain. He scans the ground and notices a trail of abnormally bright, red, blood.
SORIAN dismounts to follow it, still at a slow, deliberate pace. The sound of battle fades away as he moves into a more secluded area.
ANDELL, the battered crown prince of the enemy kingdom, crouches amidst cast-off armor, bleeding from an exposed artery in his right arm. He presses snow over the wound, trying to get it to close and forces a fearful laugh as SORIAN approaches.
ANDELL: You must be him - Sorian, War-Prince of the Icy North.
SORIAN nods, more warm breath escaping from his mask.
ANDELL (CONT'D): I was never into that. Always preferred politics to beatings, myself. It's what you get when you come from a family of doctors. Royal doctors, especially.
SORIAN unsheathes his sword and motions for ANDELL to get up.
ANDELL squints in confusion.
SORIAN gestures again..
ANDELL struggles to stand by forcing his back against a tree. He points to the badge SORIAN wears at his belt, a gold disc embossed with a roaring lion's head.
ANDELL (CONT'D): I hear they call you the "lion." Must be nice to have a good, unique title like that.
SORIAN approaches.
ANDELL backs away instinctively.
SORIAN nudges ANDELL's dropped sword with his and nods.
ANDELL takes the sword in his good, but now shaking, left hand.
SORIAN rushes him.
ANDELL parries at the last second.
SORIAN lunges forward again and continues his constant offensive. ANDELL only manages faulty, defensive maneuvers.
SORIAN severs ANDELL's leg with a brutal swing, and ANDELL falls onto his side.
ANDELL rolls onto his back to find SORIAN standing over him.
ANDELL: They also say you take no mercy. Not even towards healers. And especially not towards royalty.
SORIAN: In certain cases, perhaps, but I see no reason to pity those who cannot prove they are worthy of their assets. If you cannot perform the simple task of deflecting an infantry arrow to hold your father's land, it might as well belong to a better candidate.
SORIAN methodically hacks the howling ANDELL's limbs off with medical precision. He kneels and tears at his victim's clothing until he finds the royal signet ring, held on a chain around his neck.
SORIAN takes off his glove, kisses it, and slips it on his own finger.
SORIAN swiftly lops off ANDELL's head.
1.23.2011
Art: 031/100 Themes - Flowers
"Floran." Flowers. 031/100 Themes.
Sorian is not a terrible person, just one twisted by ambition.
Sorian is not a terrible person, just one twisted by ambition.
"I think we had a pretty bad introduction. I'm sorry."
---
We've reached our funding goal (way over-reached! $4,000!), and there are just hours left, to pre-order the Boiled Fish Art Book project, coming Spring 2011! Sixty-four pages of illustration, sketches, and walkthroughs from ten great artists. Also include exclusive content - and you get more exclusive bonuses if you preorder. You may even win an original sketch! Please support us - through donation or advertising - here: http://kck.st/c8Afi8
3.01.2010
Art: 018/100 Themes - Gray
"Grei." - Gray. 19/100 Themes.
Sorian, prior to actually meeting Rivek in person under ceasefire, considers the dark-mage to be nothing but a pest to be hunted down. It shames him that his opponent would even resort to guerrilla tactics and hiring dark-mage mercenaries.
Even the sound of thunder could not deter Sorian from the hunt. He saw the thick fog more like nature's personal challenge than anything else. The young prince wiped the rainwater from his eyes and looked up. However, the gray skies offered no hint towards his quarry. How could one man defeat his precious invention? No, a bird as much as a man.
He touched the emblem of a lion on the clasp of his cloak - solid proof he was a better hunter than even his elder brother. Sorian, the lion, had never before lost his prey, and he certainly was not about to let some foolish bird outwit him.
Sorian, prior to actually meeting Rivek in person under ceasefire, considers the dark-mage to be nothing but a pest to be hunted down. It shames him that his opponent would even resort to guerrilla tactics and hiring dark-mage mercenaries.
Even the sound of thunder could not deter Sorian from the hunt. He saw the thick fog more like nature's personal challenge than anything else. The young prince wiped the rainwater from his eyes and looked up. However, the gray skies offered no hint towards his quarry. How could one man defeat his precious invention? No, a bird as much as a man.
He touched the emblem of a lion on the clasp of his cloak - solid proof he was a better hunter than even his elder brother. Sorian, the lion, had never before lost his prey, and he certainly was not about to let some foolish bird outwit him.
12.31.2009
Art: Art Half-Marathon 09, Day 11 or 009/100 Themes - Drive
"Fures." - Drive. 09/100 Themes.
I still need to work a bit more on how Sorian looks and dresses, but he has light brown hair and hazel eyes.
Given that cars don't exist in this story. I took drive to mean motivation. Sorian is by far the most relentless character in the story. When there is an ends to be met, he will ignore the means. Often, his views are clouded by his emotions, which happens due to his low self-esteem. Therefore, no matter what, he desires to prove himself as more than a "second son," to make himself equal to or greater than natural magic users.
His twisted tango of a relationship with Rivek is described here.
"Sorian! If you do that, all of my men could die!"
"As a servant of this country, you will refer to me by my proper title, Ailinar."
"Of course, your highness."
"It must be done. For the sake of our countries. For the sake of progress."
"What you call progress. I call madness. I call murder."
I still need to work a bit more on how Sorian looks and dresses, but he has light brown hair and hazel eyes.
Given that cars don't exist in this story. I took drive to mean motivation. Sorian is by far the most relentless character in the story. When there is an ends to be met, he will ignore the means. Often, his views are clouded by his emotions, which happens due to his low self-esteem. Therefore, no matter what, he desires to prove himself as more than a "second son," to make himself equal to or greater than natural magic users.
His twisted tango of a relationship with Rivek is described here.
"Sorian! If you do that, all of my men could die!"
"As a servant of this country, you will refer to me by my proper title, Ailinar."
"Of course, your highness."
"It must be done. For the sake of our countries. For the sake of progress."
"What you call progress. I call madness. I call murder."
12.22.2009
Art: Art Half-Marathon 09, Day 02
Going off the idea from the previous post. This one used to be a horse. No fancy colors this time since I almost didn't make deadline. Oops.
4.18.2009
Sketches: Requiem & Dominance War
Since it looks like I will be doing conventions again this summer, I'm going to try to put together some sketchbooks to sell - everyone has prints and trinkets, so I think this would be a novel turn.
We watched "Pleasures of War," a short animation by Ruth Lingford, in class. It is a highly sexual re-telling of the story of Judith and Holofrenes. The story does not bear much resemblance to that of my characters, though. It's meant to be Kai and his (yet unnamed) pregnant, girlfriend.
Rivek and Willowren being very much out of character and out of canon. Done as if they were zombies, one feeding off the blood of the other. More representative of their relationship than anything.
Finally, some Dominance War sketches to try and figure out how my character's eyepiece works. I think I might name him Dr. Jonathon Gisbourne. The thing is, despite being English, has very Asian eyes. I think his nose is my favorite feature, though.
And a bad sketch trying to form Sorian - he needs to somewhat be comparable to Rivek but looks like he is from an entirely different society.
We watched "Pleasures of War," a short animation by Ruth Lingford, in class. It is a highly sexual re-telling of the story of Judith and Holofrenes. The story does not bear much resemblance to that of my characters, though. It's meant to be Kai and his (yet unnamed) pregnant, girlfriend.
Rivek and Willowren being very much out of character and out of canon. Done as if they were zombies, one feeding off the blood of the other. More representative of their relationship than anything.
Finally, some Dominance War sketches to try and figure out how my character's eyepiece works. I think I might name him Dr. Jonathon Gisbourne. The thing is, despite being English, has very Asian eyes. I think his nose is my favorite feature, though.
And a bad sketch trying to form Sorian - he needs to somewhat be comparable to Rivek but looks like he is from an entirely different society.
1.10.2009
Sketches: The Bow and the Rose
Woohoo. I've been debating for awhile if I should enter the Steampunk competition on CGTalk. Now, I finally have an idea - crafting a movie poster style piece using my old characters in a Steampunk setting.
Here are the head figures I draw which will adorn the frame-elements of the poster. The left picture is the test run, the right is the updated (after Ted's one sentence crit "needs moar gadgets"). Some still need work.
And here's the (horrible!) accompanying first-draft story I wrote.
Here are the head figures I draw which will adorn the frame-elements of the poster. The left picture is the test run, the right is the updated (after Ted's one sentence crit "needs moar gadgets"). Some still need work.
And here's the (horrible!) accompanying first-draft story I wrote.
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