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!"
10.29.2011
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!"
10.28.2011
Art: 039/100 Themes - Abandoned
"Perinarei." Abandoned. - 39/100 Themes.
Rivek finds Vika as a fledgling and nurses him back to health after his mother dies out of negligence. Slowly, his magic flows into the bird, and Vika becomes an emotional, intellectual extension of himself - a very sarcastic, brutally honest extension. They are tied together spiritually, and each one reflects the other. So, if either were to die, the other would as well. Part of their shared bond comes from the fact that they are both abandoned children.
Rivek undid the tethers on the falcon’s legs and extended his arm. The bird hopped on indignantly on his gloved hand.
You don’t need to use those awful things, you know. Or do you not trust me enough?
“I trust you. It’s other people I don’t trust. An un-tagged bird on palace grounds? You'd be re-claimed in minutes. And I assure you, whoever it is will not be nearly as nice. Or as good of an avian conversationalist."
I hate it when you’re right.
Vika extended his wings. With one modest push, he took to the air, searching for prey.
As Vika circled the warm air above, Rivek closed his eyes, listening for voices in the grass. Since he had been a child, he could see and hear the thoughts of birds. Most of the time, they thought about food. Though Rivek had to admit that he was no different.
The sparrows hidden by the foliage were quite content focused on finding seeds.
You’re supposed to be helping me chase them out.
“Ah, but I have higher expectations of you. You’re not a bird of average intelligence, you know. It wouldn’t be fair for them.”
Vika let out a screeching cry. All the small birds looked up, searching for the predator above them.
"You’re wrong,” Rivek said to them. “There’s no big, scary, hawk up there," he laughed. He watched the thoughts in the sparrow's minds change, from images deadly shadows back to images of their next meal. Once again, busy with food, they stayed buried in the grasses.
I know what you’re doing. You’re making this far harder than it needs to be.
Rivek shrugged, fully aware the bird could see him below with his impeccable eyesight. “You’re getting fat.”
If I’m getting fat, then you are, too. You know that’s how it works.
“You cut me to the bone, sir,” Rivek mocked. He looked towards the field for the sparrows. Still there. Still eating. “Well,” he said. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there’s a big, black shadow looming over you all. Better run while you can.”
The grass rustled, followed by a flurry of feathers as the sparrows took to the air.
Don’t think I’m going to actually thank you.
Vika tucked in his wing and dove, a spectacular display of speed. There was no way the sparrow could have escaped in time. He pegged it on the wing, sending it spinning and broken from the force of gravity. He landed on top of it in the dirt and crushed its neck. Rivek beckoned with his covered hand, and Vika picked up the kill. He landed on the outstretched glove with his prize and immediately began eating. Rivek reached over to take a piece.
Hands off. You didn’t do anything.
“You might be right about that one. Might be.” Rivek shrugged and took a wing anyway, spitting the cleaned bones onto the ground. Blood still on his lips, he kissed the bird on his head and let him finish his meal. Vika ruffled his feathers, beating the man off with his wings.
You know what it’s like, to only be able to talk to you? Exceptionally boring.
Rivek finds Vika as a fledgling and nurses him back to health after his mother dies out of negligence. Slowly, his magic flows into the bird, and Vika becomes an emotional, intellectual extension of himself - a very sarcastic, brutally honest extension. They are tied together spiritually, and each one reflects the other. So, if either were to die, the other would as well. Part of their shared bond comes from the fact that they are both abandoned children.
Rivek undid the tethers on the falcon’s legs and extended his arm. The bird hopped on indignantly on his gloved hand.
You don’t need to use those awful things, you know. Or do you not trust me enough?
“I trust you. It’s other people I don’t trust. An un-tagged bird on palace grounds? You'd be re-claimed in minutes. And I assure you, whoever it is will not be nearly as nice. Or as good of an avian conversationalist."
I hate it when you’re right.
Vika extended his wings. With one modest push, he took to the air, searching for prey.
As Vika circled the warm air above, Rivek closed his eyes, listening for voices in the grass. Since he had been a child, he could see and hear the thoughts of birds. Most of the time, they thought about food. Though Rivek had to admit that he was no different.
The sparrows hidden by the foliage were quite content focused on finding seeds.
You’re supposed to be helping me chase them out.
“Ah, but I have higher expectations of you. You’re not a bird of average intelligence, you know. It wouldn’t be fair for them.”
Vika let out a screeching cry. All the small birds looked up, searching for the predator above them.
"You’re wrong,” Rivek said to them. “There’s no big, scary, hawk up there," he laughed. He watched the thoughts in the sparrow's minds change, from images deadly shadows back to images of their next meal. Once again, busy with food, they stayed buried in the grasses.
I know what you’re doing. You’re making this far harder than it needs to be.
Rivek shrugged, fully aware the bird could see him below with his impeccable eyesight. “You’re getting fat.”
If I’m getting fat, then you are, too. You know that’s how it works.
“You cut me to the bone, sir,” Rivek mocked. He looked towards the field for the sparrows. Still there. Still eating. “Well,” he said. “Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there’s a big, black shadow looming over you all. Better run while you can.”
The grass rustled, followed by a flurry of feathers as the sparrows took to the air.
Don’t think I’m going to actually thank you.
Vika tucked in his wing and dove, a spectacular display of speed. There was no way the sparrow could have escaped in time. He pegged it on the wing, sending it spinning and broken from the force of gravity. He landed on top of it in the dirt and crushed its neck. Rivek beckoned with his covered hand, and Vika picked up the kill. He landed on the outstretched glove with his prize and immediately began eating. Rivek reached over to take a piece.
Hands off. You didn’t do anything.
“You might be right about that one. Might be.” Rivek shrugged and took a wing anyway, spitting the cleaned bones onto the ground. Blood still on his lips, he kissed the bird on his head and let him finish his meal. Vika ruffled his feathers, beating the man off with his wings.
You know what it’s like, to only be able to talk to you? Exceptionally boring.
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.
10.25.2011
Art: 36/100 Themes - Precious Treasure
"Treizor prezi." Precious Treasure. - 36/100 Themes. Most of Rivek's material possessions are simple, everyday things that can be easily replaced. Oddly enough, his most prized object is an easily-destroyed piece of paper that grants him one type of freedom for another.
Rivek looked at his reflection in the window. Shadows crept under his cheeks and circled around his eyes. He needed a haircut. He scratched his head. It hurt his hands more than it relieved his scalp. His fingers were still tender. The night before, they had cracked and bled while he bathed.
"Keep your wounds clean," Eamon had warned, tapping the cross-shaped scar on Rivek's cheek. "You have enough scars from infection."
King Auster coughed, bringing Rivek's attention back to the task at hand. He stared past the king's high-backed chair to Fenne, the prince standing behind it. Rivek looked down and subtly shook his head. He felt a small hand on his shoulder. Willow stood next to him, a slim but sturdy presence between him and the royal guard. A servant approached and lit a fat, milky-white candle on the table between the two parties.
Rivek wrung his hands, splitting the skin again. Stupid. But he still had nightmares. He woke up, gasping for air, trying to cough the taste of smoke out of his lungs. Just the thought of open flame made him sweat.
King Auster slipped a piece of parchment in front of him and looked at Willow with furrowed brows. Rivek didn't feel like actually reading it. He knew what it said - in much longer words than necessary. Give up your lies and become a slave. In exchange, you get to live.
The notary placed a quill and a shallow, silver dish onto the table. One of the guards shoved Rivek's chair closer.
"No need to be so rough, now. Not like I'm going to run away, am I?"
The soldier took Rivek's right hand and unwrapped the bandages on it, revealing raw, newly-healed skin. Willow had not done an amazing job, but no one else would have worked on him. The guard made a shallow slice it down the middle of his palm. Just enough to draw blood. Rivek winced as the black liquid dripped into the dish.
He picked up the quill with his left hand and dipped it in the makeshift ink. He signed his true name on the parchment, an Alisian name that was too long and meant too many things. Ailinar AIlinar Rivek Ildorus. The acid blood quickly faded to red but not before burning a few tiny holes in the paper where Rivek had pressed down too hard.
Willow followed suit, saturating the quill tip, which was quickly melting down, with his blood and dashing her name below his. She wrote quickly and left no holes in the paper.
King Auster nodded and melted a strip of red wax over the candle flame. He dabbed it next to the signatures and pressed his ring into it before adding his own name, again in blood. He turned to Willow, "He belongs to you now."
Willow grabbed the wrist on Rivek's bloodied hand. He bit his tongue, holding back the retort he had immediately thought up. She ran her finger in a zig-zag pattern across the cut, and it pulled itself together like a tightened dress seam. All that was left was a thin, red line which she quickly hid and she re-bandaged it.
Rivek raised his now mended hand. "Now, that I am no longer under the jurisdiction of His Majesty, King Auster, I have something I would like to say: You are a very, very, horrible person."
Rivek looked at his reflection in the window. Shadows crept under his cheeks and circled around his eyes. He needed a haircut. He scratched his head. It hurt his hands more than it relieved his scalp. His fingers were still tender. The night before, they had cracked and bled while he bathed.
"Keep your wounds clean," Eamon had warned, tapping the cross-shaped scar on Rivek's cheek. "You have enough scars from infection."
King Auster coughed, bringing Rivek's attention back to the task at hand. He stared past the king's high-backed chair to Fenne, the prince standing behind it. Rivek looked down and subtly shook his head. He felt a small hand on his shoulder. Willow stood next to him, a slim but sturdy presence between him and the royal guard. A servant approached and lit a fat, milky-white candle on the table between the two parties.
Rivek wrung his hands, splitting the skin again. Stupid. But he still had nightmares. He woke up, gasping for air, trying to cough the taste of smoke out of his lungs. Just the thought of open flame made him sweat.
King Auster slipped a piece of parchment in front of him and looked at Willow with furrowed brows. Rivek didn't feel like actually reading it. He knew what it said - in much longer words than necessary. Give up your lies and become a slave. In exchange, you get to live.
The notary placed a quill and a shallow, silver dish onto the table. One of the guards shoved Rivek's chair closer.
"No need to be so rough, now. Not like I'm going to run away, am I?"
The soldier took Rivek's right hand and unwrapped the bandages on it, revealing raw, newly-healed skin. Willow had not done an amazing job, but no one else would have worked on him. The guard made a shallow slice it down the middle of his palm. Just enough to draw blood. Rivek winced as the black liquid dripped into the dish.
He picked up the quill with his left hand and dipped it in the makeshift ink. He signed his true name on the parchment, an Alisian name that was too long and meant too many things. Ailinar AIlinar Rivek Ildorus. The acid blood quickly faded to red but not before burning a few tiny holes in the paper where Rivek had pressed down too hard.
Willow followed suit, saturating the quill tip, which was quickly melting down, with his blood and dashing her name below his. She wrote quickly and left no holes in the paper.
King Auster nodded and melted a strip of red wax over the candle flame. He dabbed it next to the signatures and pressed his ring into it before adding his own name, again in blood. He turned to Willow, "He belongs to you now."
Willow grabbed the wrist on Rivek's bloodied hand. He bit his tongue, holding back the retort he had immediately thought up. She ran her finger in a zig-zag pattern across the cut, and it pulled itself together like a tightened dress seam. All that was left was a thin, red line which she quickly hid and she re-bandaged it.
Rivek raised his now mended hand. "Now, that I am no longer under the jurisdiction of His Majesty, King Auster, I have something I would like to say: You are a very, very, horrible person."
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."
10.23.2011
Art: 034/100 Themes - Stars
"Eztrelea." Stars. - 33/100 Themes.
Rivek is a shitty cook. He can eat most things raw, so there was really no incentive to learn how. Bohren pales in comparison as a hunter and is an ordinary human being, so he's always trying to cook whatever Rivek has caught before the hawk-boy has eaten it all (otherwise, he'd probably starve to death). It's more of a challenge than you'd think - Riv is one of those skinny, human, vacuum guys... who likes to eat his catch while it's still warm.
Bohren's stomach roared. It was dark now, but the stars in the night sky gave the two enough light to stay awake.
"Give me that," he said, wrenching half a dead rabbit from Rivek's bloodied hands. Its hindquarters had already been consumed, and the bones lay scattered on the ground. "You seem completely happy to just eat all of that and let me starve."
The hawk-mage licked his fingers and shrugged, "I killed it, didn't I? I mean, you didn't manage to hunt down anything for yourself."
Bohren set to work with a knife, peeling off the skin, so he could cook and eat what remained. The edges were ragged from Rivek's initial carnivorous frenzy, so the skinning process - which he was already pretty bad at - was even more difficult. Well, ingesting a little fur wouldn't hurt. He emptied the ribcage and threw the entrails on the ground.
"Hey! I could have eaten that."
"You already ate way more than your share." He yanked off the remaining skin and nodded to his pack. "Mind starting a fire?"
Hunting in the King's Woods meant some trees had been cleared to make paths. Rivek sat defiantly on a stump they had set up camp around. He had no intention of complying. "I'm not the one that needs to cook his food, am I?"
Bohren scoffed and set down the rabbit-half. He went into the bag, pulled out a flint, and began slowly growing a fire from their collection of tinder. Rivek shifted to the other side of the stump, away from the rising flame.
Bohren skewered his soon-to-be dinner on a stick and hung it over the crackling fire. He sat down on the same stump and elbowed Rivek in the side. "You're shivering."
"Me and fire - well, we aren't on good terms right now," Rivek laughed between the chattering of his teeth.
"Come on," Bohren said, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulders. "I have another way to keep you warm."
"Wait. What are you thinking?"
"What are you thinking?"
Rivek threw Bohren's arm off. "You're gross."
"Well, I don't know what you were thinking, but I was thinking I had an extra blanket in the tent."
Rivek is a shitty cook. He can eat most things raw, so there was really no incentive to learn how. Bohren pales in comparison as a hunter and is an ordinary human being, so he's always trying to cook whatever Rivek has caught before the hawk-boy has eaten it all (otherwise, he'd probably starve to death). It's more of a challenge than you'd think - Riv is one of those skinny, human, vacuum guys... who likes to eat his catch while it's still warm.
Bohren's stomach roared. It was dark now, but the stars in the night sky gave the two enough light to stay awake.
"Give me that," he said, wrenching half a dead rabbit from Rivek's bloodied hands. Its hindquarters had already been consumed, and the bones lay scattered on the ground. "You seem completely happy to just eat all of that and let me starve."
The hawk-mage licked his fingers and shrugged, "I killed it, didn't I? I mean, you didn't manage to hunt down anything for yourself."
Bohren set to work with a knife, peeling off the skin, so he could cook and eat what remained. The edges were ragged from Rivek's initial carnivorous frenzy, so the skinning process - which he was already pretty bad at - was even more difficult. Well, ingesting a little fur wouldn't hurt. He emptied the ribcage and threw the entrails on the ground.
"Hey! I could have eaten that."
"You already ate way more than your share." He yanked off the remaining skin and nodded to his pack. "Mind starting a fire?"
Hunting in the King's Woods meant some trees had been cleared to make paths. Rivek sat defiantly on a stump they had set up camp around. He had no intention of complying. "I'm not the one that needs to cook his food, am I?"
Bohren scoffed and set down the rabbit-half. He went into the bag, pulled out a flint, and began slowly growing a fire from their collection of tinder. Rivek shifted to the other side of the stump, away from the rising flame.
Bohren skewered his soon-to-be dinner on a stick and hung it over the crackling fire. He sat down on the same stump and elbowed Rivek in the side. "You're shivering."
"Me and fire - well, we aren't on good terms right now," Rivek laughed between the chattering of his teeth.
"Come on," Bohren said, throwing his arm around his friend's shoulders. "I have another way to keep you warm."
"Wait. What are you thinking?"
"What are you thinking?"
Rivek threw Bohren's arm off. "You're gross."
"Well, I don't know what you were thinking, but I was thinking I had an extra blanket in the tent."
10.22.2011
Art: 033/100 Themes: Expectations
"Jusangion." Expectations. - 33/100 Themes.
Oh, the stupid things you have to do when you are royalty.
Willow loosened the collar on her dress. It had been so heavily starched, it left rings on her skin. Her neck was sweating. She clenched and flexed her fingers within the thick, formal gloves. Her palms were sweating. She scratched the small of her back. Some sweat there, too. Gross.
"Don't be nervous. It's just like we rehearsed," Fenne whispered.
Too bad that telling someone not to be nervous just makes them more nervous.
He took her hand. A fanfare of trumpets sounded beyond the gold curtains. "I present to you the future king and queen of the Brennan nation."
The pair stepped out to a room full of people in expensive dress, starched collars and white gloves everywhere. The clapped politely, softly with stiff elbows. Willow searched for a familiar face, but everyone seemed much older, both men and women reaching middle age. They held their lips tightly shut with regal formality. She looked closer and saw the wrinkles at the edges of their eyes and mouths that came with making too many court decisions, too many judgements.
She swallowed the lump in the throat and stole a quick glance at her partner. With the same grim formality, he took her waist in his arm, and they began to dance.
Oh, the stupid things you have to do when you are royalty.
Willow loosened the collar on her dress. It had been so heavily starched, it left rings on her skin. Her neck was sweating. She clenched and flexed her fingers within the thick, formal gloves. Her palms were sweating. She scratched the small of her back. Some sweat there, too. Gross.
"Don't be nervous. It's just like we rehearsed," Fenne whispered.
Too bad that telling someone not to be nervous just makes them more nervous.
He took her hand. A fanfare of trumpets sounded beyond the gold curtains. "I present to you the future king and queen of the Brennan nation."
The pair stepped out to a room full of people in expensive dress, starched collars and white gloves everywhere. The clapped politely, softly with stiff elbows. Willow searched for a familiar face, but everyone seemed much older, both men and women reaching middle age. They held their lips tightly shut with regal formality. She looked closer and saw the wrinkles at the edges of their eyes and mouths that came with making too many court decisions, too many judgements.
She swallowed the lump in the throat and stole a quick glance at her partner. With the same grim formality, he took her waist in his arm, and they began to dance.
10.21.2011
Art: 032/100 Themes - Night
"Niche." Night. - 32/100 Themes. Back at it. Just to show that Rivek actually can be kind of bad-ass and doesn't exist solely as my whipping boy. I want him to be a blend of strength and weakness, morality and amorality, human and animal.
Rivek held his dagger against the shivering man's throat. "Come on, now, did you really think I wouldn't notice?"
The main flailed. Rivek tightened his grip on the other arm, digging his nails into the nerves of the wrist to keep his victim's sword hand wrenched to his back. He laughed.
"A shameful, black-blooded, outlaw rogue like myself wouldn't notice a man in a soldier's uniform following me out of a bar?"
He pressed the blade in closer, but not enough to draw blood, just enough to keep his catch from moving. The man drew his head back, bringing his ear closer to Rivek's lips.
He whispered, "What do they offer you? For bringing back the head of the dark mage, hm? Money for a new whore every night? Fame enough that people cheer every step you walk? Or, oh - I know - a way out of the army? I'd want that one, myself."
The man grabbed Rivek's knife arm with his free hand, but Rivek just kneed him in the side. It was enough of a distraction that Rivek was able to push him up against a wall and pin both his arms. However, he had been a little careless with the blade, and a tiny rivulet of red was running down from his throat.
Rivek licked his lips at the smell of iron. His stomach churned, but he knew this was not the place. "None of them is really worth it, if you ask me."
"They offered me a good salary. And a way to reclaim what's ours from you border-thieving squatters. Unscrupulous squatters who'd dare hire heretics to protect their stolen land."
"I threaten in jest," Rivek frowned, "I was planning on letting you go, but you have me slowly changing my mind."
"I do it because your kind shouldn't exist."
Rivek sighed, "You Heilmdorans. Always wanting more and talking about your high morals. I would have been more impressed if you'd said you simply desired a crop of farmland where you can have a pretty wife and two rosy-cheeked little girls."
Rivek stepped backward, as if to let the man go. His hands dropped to his sides, and he immediately proceeded to wip the dirt off his uniform. The soldier rubbed his wrists, and Rivek caught a glimpse of metal in the man's palm. He stepped aside, as if to let him pass.
As the man stepped in front of Rivek, he threw out his arm in a low swoop, knife aimed squarely at his abdomen. Rivek stepped back, so the momentum of the thrust carried the soldier forward. As he tripped, Rivek caught him by the collar of his cape and lifted him to his knees.
"Sorry, mate. I'm afraid I can't let that one slide." With one swift motion, he slid the blade across the man's throat, releasing a gushing torrent of red blood. "And here I was, simply trying to be a good sport and change your mind on that genocide thing."
"No worries," he said. "I'll make it quick." He brought the knife down. The man's hands went to his open throat. Rivek had no difficulty finding the space between his ribs, and the plunged the blade through his back and into his heart.
As much as he wished he could hold onto the body and absorb its last dying gasps of energy, he let it drop the the ground. Only a fool would continue to wander town with a shirt soaked in blood. He watched it spurt out like a dying hose, flowing freely from the fear-fueled heartbeat. His mouth watered.
When the flow stopped, he knelt down and signed the Lady's Blessing with his left hand. He'd send the man to peace, but only on his terms. Alisian terms.
His stomach rumbled again. After all, it had been quite a long time since he had eaten something like this. No one was looking. One taste wouldn't hurt.
He licked the bloodied blade of his dagger, relishing the taste of iron and salt and energy. No sense letting a perfectly good kill go to waste.
10.20.2011
Art: Little Red Riding Hood 01
It's my birthday today, so I'm posting a big, fat, complex artwork! (God, I'm turning so old!) This is double-page spread opening for "Little Red Riding Hood."
"Ethan Redd" is a story in Prince, a series of gender-bend princess stories. My goal is to maintain the same universal, cross-gender themes. This was particularly difficult in this case since sexual predation is male-dominated, and there is also no strongly marketed feature film from Disney using this story.
"Little Red Riding Hood" is a warning story about being too presumptuous at a young age, and falling unknown victim to the unknown dangers of adult world. Rather than just deliver groceries, our Redd is the son of an army captain and grandson of a famous war general. Longing to fill the footsteps of his forebears, he enlists in the army and is sent to deliver medicine to his ailing grandfather. Along the way, he meets a she-wolf, a foreign spy whose arsenal of weaponry includes her sexuality and whose mission is to eliminate the general.
However, rather than employ the (deus-ex-machina) rescue tactic of the woodsman, Redd uses his own intelligence to avoid certain death.
On another note, wolves are hard to draw.
"Ethan Redd" is a story in Prince, a series of gender-bend princess stories. My goal is to maintain the same universal, cross-gender themes. This was particularly difficult in this case since sexual predation is male-dominated, and there is also no strongly marketed feature film from Disney using this story.
"Little Red Riding Hood" is a warning story about being too presumptuous at a young age, and falling unknown victim to the unknown dangers of adult world. Rather than just deliver groceries, our Redd is the son of an army captain and grandson of a famous war general. Longing to fill the footsteps of his forebears, he enlists in the army and is sent to deliver medicine to his ailing grandfather. Along the way, he meets a she-wolf, a foreign spy whose arsenal of weaponry includes her sexuality and whose mission is to eliminate the general.
However, rather than employ the (deus-ex-machina) rescue tactic of the woodsman, Redd uses his own intelligence to avoid certain death.
On another note, wolves are hard to draw.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
