The artist in thee
- Thread starter Labyrinth
- Start date
Oh... I remembered seeing this thread a couple of months ago and hadn't seen it since.Zemalac said:It's not really resurrection if the last post was two hours before yours...Chiefmon said:I here by resurrect this thread... because it's cool.
Fail :,(
If drawings and poetry are considered art, how do people feel about photography? I used to draw a lot, but my tools are now worth a lot more than pastels and pencils!
I'd share a few if people consider photography art!
EDIT: Also, how do I add spoilers?
EDIT 2: Never mind, I figured it out!
I'd share a few if people consider photography art!
EDIT: Also, how do I add spoilers?
EDIT 2: Never mind, I figured it out!
sorry I can't post any pictures mostly... I don't do computer art (most of the time) and I don't take pictures of my art. some day though, I might do some cpu or take pictures of my work and post them.
Photography is perfectly fine. I think we've had some photography already from multiple users. Man, what is considered art is a discussion I'm not willing to go into right now because I have too much to say and no conclusive answer. Photography is definitely art to me, so long as its not drunk facebook shots you took with your friends.Private Custard said:
I understand exactly what you mean. I don't take pictures of any of my physical artwork because I feel that the impact of them is completely destroyed by not actually seeing them in the flesh. If you ever do want to post anything though, we'll be here. I'll look forward to it.Dark assassin for hire said:
Very well done, particularly on the actual human. Is the kerrek (or whatever you called them) supposed to be the same person as the human above them?SharPhoe said:Here's a new one I'm pretty proud of:ViolentlyHappy91 took the original photo that I got the pose from.
Are they falling or just awesome at jumping?
I like to write what I think of as poetry, but I've never known too much about poetry so have never had an idea as to its quality.
I also tentatively admit to not knowing how to do that "spoiler" format, so I'll just have to post it in message.
"Fragmented light slithers through cracked parapets
Into hollowed vaults full of nothing
Faceless mannequin cries
And light seeps through crooked eyes half shut
Walls breath
And seeth
And ebb the edge of sanity
A world of two skies brakes into halves
One forms a moon
The other a sun
Eyes wide open hear scented truths
Ten thousand flies birth ten thousand maggots
That feast in darkness on slithering light
Surrounded by cold comforts of whispering walls
A burning temple offers sanctuary
Blistering eyes are drawn into the new rising sun
Walls suffocate
And corroding wings of flies burst into glimmering ash
The mannequin's rusted flesh melts off blackened bones
Light blinds the eyes enthralled by the sun"
I like to write a lot of poetry, I've also been working on an "epic" which is many pages long already, so I won't post that here too
I also tentatively admit to not knowing how to do that "spoiler" format, so I'll just have to post it in message.
"Fragmented light slithers through cracked parapets
Into hollowed vaults full of nothing
Faceless mannequin cries
And light seeps through crooked eyes half shut
Walls breath
And seeth
And ebb the edge of sanity
A world of two skies brakes into halves
One forms a moon
The other a sun
Eyes wide open hear scented truths
Ten thousand flies birth ten thousand maggots
That feast in darkness on slithering light
Surrounded by cold comforts of whispering walls
A burning temple offers sanctuary
Blistering eyes are drawn into the new rising sun
Walls suffocate
And corroding wings of flies burst into glimmering ash
The mannequin's rusted flesh melts off blackened bones
Light blinds the eyes enthralled by the sun"
I like to write a lot of poetry, I've also been working on an "epic" which is many pages long already, so I won't post that here too
I like to write what I think of as poetry, but I've never known too much about poetry so have never had an idea as to its quality.
I also tentatively admit to not knowing how to do that "spoiler" format, so I'll just have to post it in message.
"Fragmented light slithers through cracked parapets
Into hollowed vaults full of nothing
Faceless mannequin cries
And light seeps through crooked eyes half shut
Walls breath
And seeth
And ebb the edge of sanity
A world of two skies brakes into halves
One forms a moon
The other a sun
Eyes wide open hear scented truths
Ten thousand flies birth ten thousand maggots
That feast in darkness on slithering light
Surrounded by cold comforts of whispering walls
A burning temple offers sanctuary
Blistering eyes are drawn into the new rising sun
Walls suffocate
And corroding wings of flies burst into glimmering ash
The mannequin's rusted flesh melts off blackened bones
Light blinds the eyes enthralled by the sun"
I like to write a lot of poetry, I've also been working on an "epic" which is many pages long already, so I won't post that here too
I also tentatively admit to not knowing how to do that "spoiler" format, so I'll just have to post it in message.
"Fragmented light slithers through cracked parapets
Into hollowed vaults full of nothing
Faceless mannequin cries
And light seeps through crooked eyes half shut
Walls breath
And seeth
And ebb the edge of sanity
A world of two skies brakes into halves
One forms a moon
The other a sun
Eyes wide open hear scented truths
Ten thousand flies birth ten thousand maggots
That feast in darkness on slithering light
Surrounded by cold comforts of whispering walls
A burning temple offers sanctuary
Blistering eyes are drawn into the new rising sun
Walls suffocate
And corroding wings of flies burst into glimmering ash
The mannequin's rusted flesh melts off blackened bones
Light blinds the eyes enthralled by the sun"
I like to write a lot of poetry, I've also been working on an "epic" which is many pages long already, so I won't post that here too
These are some very nice shots. Love the contrast in the second one. You've got an eye for color palettes too (or were they edited via photoshop or some deal). The bird one is probably my favorite shot. I love birds. I know I haven't ever posted any of my ink and mylar drawings (as I've said before I don't put my non-digital artwork on the internet) but they're almost all of birds.Private Custard said:I'll leave these here before I go to bed
The thing is, other than composition and color palettes I have very few ways of determining if a photograph is a "good picture" or not. Some people can be utterly pretentious with it. For me its an "if it looks nice I like it" sort of deal. Yours look very nice so I like them. Its a shallow way to look at it I guess, but without a photography background I can't properly critique it.
Birdy birdy birdy!
Kerrick. "Kerrek" is from Homestar Runner.Fightgarr said:
And yes, both of those people are the same character. I try to do these types of pictures more often, but I usually fail miserably at them. I'm happy with how this one turned out in comparison.
Oh, and the human Jamie is pulling an Arial over the bench as his skateboard is passing underneath. I probably should've made that more clear somehow.
Here is my first and greatest short story. If you actually read it, I recommend you copy and paste it in Word so that with double space it would be a better read.
Rainy Days
It's a good day to die.
For the past week Washington has been hit with numerous bouts of heavy rain as it is now drenching my new store bought raincoat. I stood at the bus stop cautiously clutching my briefcase while trying not to draw attention to it. Its contents mysterious, but its operation is easy enough. I simply open it; dial 110708, and the lives of everyone on bus ends in a fury of fiery explosions, including mine. I thought I would feel something on my last day on earth, but to day I remained amazingly indifferent. For weeks just the mere thought of this day would keep me awake at night and send me through another long list of things before the end. I used to be scared, nervous, depressed or all at the same time, but now I stand on that very day watching the rain dripping clouds slowly move across the sky and enjoying the cool air blow across my neck. Maybe it?s living under constant anxiety or too many sleepless nights, but it seems my mind is too tired to be afraid of death any more. Now its time to just sit back, enjoy what you can, and wait for the coming train that will take you to the last stop in life. Or maybe it?s a bus.
My last stop is going to be on 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., where I?ll make every news reporter?s career by letting them report on a terrorist attack and the President?s speech about the 50th anniversary of September 11th all on the same day. Of course there?s nothing pleasant about death, but then again, this country will thrive on it. It?ll launch them on a furious surge against the terrorist countries of this world ?liberating? them. They rush in with their tanks and their guns keeping the peace and preventing the rampant civil war in my country, for a time, probably doing a lot of good. In truth I don?t know what the right thing to do anymore. Hell, I don?t even know what my ?Boss? wants to accomplish by orchestrating this whole stunt. The only thing I know is that my family is in danger and doing this job will set them free. And in a way, it?ll set me free too.
My family is probably in the best possible position right now. I rather see them in the hands of a mad man then in the line fire in that war torn place that I used to call home. Maybe ?mad? is too strong of a description; I mean how can I place the well- being of my family on a deal I?ve made with a ?mad? man? But then I?m reminded of the answer that quite easily enough comes to mind. Because, I thought, death is a good enough motivator.
I look around at the gloomy place that is around me, the unwelcomed rain beating on the backs of downcast people. How unfair it seems to them that the Lord has taken the sun from them. I remember how important rain was back when if you heard only one mortar blast a day you were considered one of the lucky ones. Rain brought fresh drinking water, helped crops, and most importantly brought an end to the fighting. It was curious to me how a simple thing as rain can end human suffering, how like kids those soldiers return to their families and tribute their pause to the rain. As if it all were a game and playing meant continuous deaths of the innocent. So we prayed, my family did, for rain each and every day the sun decided to rise. We prayed until I had long lost my faith in this world and just kept with the practice for my family?s sake, because I knew they deserved much better then this, but like most of the other men in the neighborhood, I had no way to provide it for them. That?s when he came with the offer I couldn?t refuse, none of us could.
I remember my first meeting with the Boss, who wouldn?t. I had gotten away and was at a bar with the other men as we usually gather to talk about the recent death and how life was terrible, but most of all to share news. Like straight from those old western movies he knocks open the door and strolls to his seat. Whispers surge through the bar as to whom and what purpose does the man have doing here. The more life cautious members of the bar such as I bow our heads trying not to draw attention from this mysterious figure, but of course beer and men do not mix to make peace. Seeing a chance to prove his dominance, man with an intimidating figure walks towards the stranger and says a bit too loudly ?You?re in my seat.? The stranger made no reaction but to order some water, just plain water. When he had gotten a sip of the water the man yelled ?I said you?re in my?? The man never finished the sentence. He placed his hand on the stranger?s shoulder and with almost practiced speed the stranger broke the pinky finger of that hand and had the man by his throat. Then the stranger cleared his throat and said to the crowd ?Now that I have your attention.?
The man looked to be in his late fifties, but his piercing eyes and incredible strength suggested otherwise. As he relinquished his grip on his attacker and allowed him to crawl out of sight to tend to his wounds in silence, the stranger began to explain. He explained to us that he is recruiting men for a special task. He intended to terrorize the people of America 2 years from now on the 50th anniversary of September 11th through a series of suicide bombings, in this he was clear. I will always remember that of him, of how he would look us straight in the eyes, knowing what he was asking of us. ?Why would anyone do this?? I said and his eyes were upon me when he answered ?Because I can provide safe passage for your family to live America, a full year before your death on the 11th. But of course you will die, that much is certain if you accept my offer.? As to why he wanted to do this he never said, but for me the decision was already made. My wife will not raise our new born child in this cruel world I have grown accustom to. My son will not wake to the sound of RPGs like I have. My new Boss grinned at my revelation.
A sound at my side woke my time traveling mind. It was a young man in his early 20s with glasses looking disapprovingly at his wrist watch. He too carried a briefcase in his right hand and was dripping wet in his business suit. His frowning at the time reminded me that I was on a tight schedule as well. My digital wrist watched displayed 3:09 PM; so the bus is 10 minutes late. Probably late for an interview or an internship, the young man?s frustration was so ironic to me it almost made me chuckle. So much did the man need the bus to transport him to his destination, but unaware that I had a different course of mind. Then the cold shill of what I had to do finally come over me despite the rainy warm weather of this September afternoon. My boss made it clear that being a hero and trying to stop his operation wouldn?t be in my best interests, but maybe I could just nudge this guy in the right direction, maybe get him a cab or wait for the next bus. My newly formed hopes were quickly dashed when the bus pulled up and the young man leaped excitedly to his doom. I sighed. ?Well, it?s not over yet? I whispered to myself.
I followed the young man on to the bus, passing a marvelously rude and fat bus driver and a couple of dreary souls near the front of the bus. There weren?t a lot of people on the bus, but the way they were spread out made any real available seats at the back of the bus. My new friend and I ended up sitting facing each other, directly opposite the sides of the bus. I sat down listening to the weather over the radio and once again examining the water dripping from the young man?s suit. The young man noticed and said ?The weather man said it would stop?? when the radio announced little patronizingly ??and forecasts call for a nice sunny day! Just wait those mean o? rain clouds are about to clear up any minute now! In other news the President?s speech regarding?? We both gave a nervous laugh at the coincidence and both averted our eyes before the awkwardness can fully set in. I turned away and noticed a young girl staring at me. She must have barely been 6 or 7 and for some reason her gaze gave me an unsettling feeling. Probably, I thought, it?s because in a few minutes I would have to kill her. I waved at her to remind her that she was staring at me. She waved back and I was grateful when she turned her attention to her shoes, feet swinging back and forth through the air. I looked for her parents and only found a sleeping woman next to her. She seemed to be in her late 30s, but you can easily add another decade to her life with the wrinkles on her face and her worn features. The mother was wearing a waitress uniform under a raincoat and didn?t look like she was going to wake up anytime soon. They reminded me of my family.
The women snorted loudly and re-adjusted herself in her seat. The little girl laughed at this, her smile wide and her happiness genuine. With no ring on her finger, the woman was probably a single mom and struggling with two jobs. She was probably on her way to her next job right now. The little girl was with her, because she couldn?t afford day care. It all seemed so clear to me. This is probably the path my family will follow. Once we had gotten out of our country we knew life would be hard, especially since I wouldn?t be there much longer. Fortunately, my wife had found some distant cousins here that may lessen the burden. My family will be fine, but the hardships my family and this one will endure will be terrible. Unfortunately, I will have to kill this one to guarantee that mine endures. The only thing that makes my family any better is that they are my family and I hold the bomb. That would have to be enough reason for me. But it wasn?t.
The bus was just pasting the Washington Memorial and I thought I was going insane. Ideas about how I was going to do this flooded my mind, while a little nagging told me to think of my family. I guess I still would be dying and I?ll have to make it look good so I told myself they?ll be okay. Now on to how I?m going to do this. Most plans I came up with ended up terribly, but I just attributed that to normal human paranoia so I ignored them. My path is clear and the bus was just about pull up to the White House.
I opened my suit case and angled it just so to reveal a little too much. The young man, as expected, asked ?What?s that?? ?A bomb.? I said rather lightly, still going about dialing the first three numbers of the device. His expression was either stunned freight or nervous laughter. As if the lord himself wanted me to follow through on the plan, the radio crack over head and filled the silence with ?There is breaking news on a terrorists attacks all over the country. We?ll go to Rachael Emerson for the story. Thank you Stephen, but we face a national tragedy today as there are reports of bus bombings all over the country.? His face drains of color as realization of what is happening settles in. ?Witnesses report men carrying bombs in briefcases as the suicide bombers and suggest people be on the look out. The causality count is rising all over the country as more and more reports pour?? The silence between us lengthens. ?So?? he manages to say before I quiet him with ?You might want to get off the bus, bring the others with you. Tell this to no one.? He continues to sit there sweating. ?Go!? I yell, loud enough to wake up the young girl?s mother. I watch in slow motion as the young man run to the others to make them understand his urgency. He desperately points to the suit case to make them understand. In which case I even show them its contents and press the next number in the combination that makes an ominous beep. In pure terror for their lives, they rush to the door trying to all fit through at once. The group finally makes it out side and I see them through the bus window. The little girl begins to cry from the commotion and her mom tries to console her. I dial 0. I can make out vague shadows from the couple; it seems the sun is coming out after all. I dial 8. I looked up and have to shield my eyes from magnificent light, but then it seems like light is coming from all around me and it soon envelops my world.
Rainy Days
It's a good day to die.
For the past week Washington has been hit with numerous bouts of heavy rain as it is now drenching my new store bought raincoat. I stood at the bus stop cautiously clutching my briefcase while trying not to draw attention to it. Its contents mysterious, but its operation is easy enough. I simply open it; dial 110708, and the lives of everyone on bus ends in a fury of fiery explosions, including mine. I thought I would feel something on my last day on earth, but to day I remained amazingly indifferent. For weeks just the mere thought of this day would keep me awake at night and send me through another long list of things before the end. I used to be scared, nervous, depressed or all at the same time, but now I stand on that very day watching the rain dripping clouds slowly move across the sky and enjoying the cool air blow across my neck. Maybe it?s living under constant anxiety or too many sleepless nights, but it seems my mind is too tired to be afraid of death any more. Now its time to just sit back, enjoy what you can, and wait for the coming train that will take you to the last stop in life. Or maybe it?s a bus.
My last stop is going to be on 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., where I?ll make every news reporter?s career by letting them report on a terrorist attack and the President?s speech about the 50th anniversary of September 11th all on the same day. Of course there?s nothing pleasant about death, but then again, this country will thrive on it. It?ll launch them on a furious surge against the terrorist countries of this world ?liberating? them. They rush in with their tanks and their guns keeping the peace and preventing the rampant civil war in my country, for a time, probably doing a lot of good. In truth I don?t know what the right thing to do anymore. Hell, I don?t even know what my ?Boss? wants to accomplish by orchestrating this whole stunt. The only thing I know is that my family is in danger and doing this job will set them free. And in a way, it?ll set me free too.
My family is probably in the best possible position right now. I rather see them in the hands of a mad man then in the line fire in that war torn place that I used to call home. Maybe ?mad? is too strong of a description; I mean how can I place the well- being of my family on a deal I?ve made with a ?mad? man? But then I?m reminded of the answer that quite easily enough comes to mind. Because, I thought, death is a good enough motivator.
I look around at the gloomy place that is around me, the unwelcomed rain beating on the backs of downcast people. How unfair it seems to them that the Lord has taken the sun from them. I remember how important rain was back when if you heard only one mortar blast a day you were considered one of the lucky ones. Rain brought fresh drinking water, helped crops, and most importantly brought an end to the fighting. It was curious to me how a simple thing as rain can end human suffering, how like kids those soldiers return to their families and tribute their pause to the rain. As if it all were a game and playing meant continuous deaths of the innocent. So we prayed, my family did, for rain each and every day the sun decided to rise. We prayed until I had long lost my faith in this world and just kept with the practice for my family?s sake, because I knew they deserved much better then this, but like most of the other men in the neighborhood, I had no way to provide it for them. That?s when he came with the offer I couldn?t refuse, none of us could.
I remember my first meeting with the Boss, who wouldn?t. I had gotten away and was at a bar with the other men as we usually gather to talk about the recent death and how life was terrible, but most of all to share news. Like straight from those old western movies he knocks open the door and strolls to his seat. Whispers surge through the bar as to whom and what purpose does the man have doing here. The more life cautious members of the bar such as I bow our heads trying not to draw attention from this mysterious figure, but of course beer and men do not mix to make peace. Seeing a chance to prove his dominance, man with an intimidating figure walks towards the stranger and says a bit too loudly ?You?re in my seat.? The stranger made no reaction but to order some water, just plain water. When he had gotten a sip of the water the man yelled ?I said you?re in my?? The man never finished the sentence. He placed his hand on the stranger?s shoulder and with almost practiced speed the stranger broke the pinky finger of that hand and had the man by his throat. Then the stranger cleared his throat and said to the crowd ?Now that I have your attention.?
The man looked to be in his late fifties, but his piercing eyes and incredible strength suggested otherwise. As he relinquished his grip on his attacker and allowed him to crawl out of sight to tend to his wounds in silence, the stranger began to explain. He explained to us that he is recruiting men for a special task. He intended to terrorize the people of America 2 years from now on the 50th anniversary of September 11th through a series of suicide bombings, in this he was clear. I will always remember that of him, of how he would look us straight in the eyes, knowing what he was asking of us. ?Why would anyone do this?? I said and his eyes were upon me when he answered ?Because I can provide safe passage for your family to live America, a full year before your death on the 11th. But of course you will die, that much is certain if you accept my offer.? As to why he wanted to do this he never said, but for me the decision was already made. My wife will not raise our new born child in this cruel world I have grown accustom to. My son will not wake to the sound of RPGs like I have. My new Boss grinned at my revelation.
A sound at my side woke my time traveling mind. It was a young man in his early 20s with glasses looking disapprovingly at his wrist watch. He too carried a briefcase in his right hand and was dripping wet in his business suit. His frowning at the time reminded me that I was on a tight schedule as well. My digital wrist watched displayed 3:09 PM; so the bus is 10 minutes late. Probably late for an interview or an internship, the young man?s frustration was so ironic to me it almost made me chuckle. So much did the man need the bus to transport him to his destination, but unaware that I had a different course of mind. Then the cold shill of what I had to do finally come over me despite the rainy warm weather of this September afternoon. My boss made it clear that being a hero and trying to stop his operation wouldn?t be in my best interests, but maybe I could just nudge this guy in the right direction, maybe get him a cab or wait for the next bus. My newly formed hopes were quickly dashed when the bus pulled up and the young man leaped excitedly to his doom. I sighed. ?Well, it?s not over yet? I whispered to myself.
I followed the young man on to the bus, passing a marvelously rude and fat bus driver and a couple of dreary souls near the front of the bus. There weren?t a lot of people on the bus, but the way they were spread out made any real available seats at the back of the bus. My new friend and I ended up sitting facing each other, directly opposite the sides of the bus. I sat down listening to the weather over the radio and once again examining the water dripping from the young man?s suit. The young man noticed and said ?The weather man said it would stop?? when the radio announced little patronizingly ??and forecasts call for a nice sunny day! Just wait those mean o? rain clouds are about to clear up any minute now! In other news the President?s speech regarding?? We both gave a nervous laugh at the coincidence and both averted our eyes before the awkwardness can fully set in. I turned away and noticed a young girl staring at me. She must have barely been 6 or 7 and for some reason her gaze gave me an unsettling feeling. Probably, I thought, it?s because in a few minutes I would have to kill her. I waved at her to remind her that she was staring at me. She waved back and I was grateful when she turned her attention to her shoes, feet swinging back and forth through the air. I looked for her parents and only found a sleeping woman next to her. She seemed to be in her late 30s, but you can easily add another decade to her life with the wrinkles on her face and her worn features. The mother was wearing a waitress uniform under a raincoat and didn?t look like she was going to wake up anytime soon. They reminded me of my family.
The women snorted loudly and re-adjusted herself in her seat. The little girl laughed at this, her smile wide and her happiness genuine. With no ring on her finger, the woman was probably a single mom and struggling with two jobs. She was probably on her way to her next job right now. The little girl was with her, because she couldn?t afford day care. It all seemed so clear to me. This is probably the path my family will follow. Once we had gotten out of our country we knew life would be hard, especially since I wouldn?t be there much longer. Fortunately, my wife had found some distant cousins here that may lessen the burden. My family will be fine, but the hardships my family and this one will endure will be terrible. Unfortunately, I will have to kill this one to guarantee that mine endures. The only thing that makes my family any better is that they are my family and I hold the bomb. That would have to be enough reason for me. But it wasn?t.
The bus was just pasting the Washington Memorial and I thought I was going insane. Ideas about how I was going to do this flooded my mind, while a little nagging told me to think of my family. I guess I still would be dying and I?ll have to make it look good so I told myself they?ll be okay. Now on to how I?m going to do this. Most plans I came up with ended up terribly, but I just attributed that to normal human paranoia so I ignored them. My path is clear and the bus was just about pull up to the White House.
I opened my suit case and angled it just so to reveal a little too much. The young man, as expected, asked ?What?s that?? ?A bomb.? I said rather lightly, still going about dialing the first three numbers of the device. His expression was either stunned freight or nervous laughter. As if the lord himself wanted me to follow through on the plan, the radio crack over head and filled the silence with ?There is breaking news on a terrorists attacks all over the country. We?ll go to Rachael Emerson for the story. Thank you Stephen, but we face a national tragedy today as there are reports of bus bombings all over the country.? His face drains of color as realization of what is happening settles in. ?Witnesses report men carrying bombs in briefcases as the suicide bombers and suggest people be on the look out. The causality count is rising all over the country as more and more reports pour?? The silence between us lengthens. ?So?? he manages to say before I quiet him with ?You might want to get off the bus, bring the others with you. Tell this to no one.? He continues to sit there sweating. ?Go!? I yell, loud enough to wake up the young girl?s mother. I watch in slow motion as the young man run to the others to make them understand his urgency. He desperately points to the suit case to make them understand. In which case I even show them its contents and press the next number in the combination that makes an ominous beep. In pure terror for their lives, they rush to the door trying to all fit through at once. The group finally makes it out side and I see them through the bus window. The little girl begins to cry from the commotion and her mom tries to console her. I dial 0. I can make out vague shadows from the couple; it seems the sun is coming out after all. I dial 8. I looked up and have to shield my eyes from magnificent light, but then it seems like light is coming from all around me and it soon envelops my world.
Fog settled at the bottom of the lush, green valley, smothering the thorp of Cobalt Bridge. Hadrian the farmer pushed open his door to the sight of a warm and moist coat of fog. Mist obscuring his vision and direction, he gathered his tools and began his day?s work. By noon, a good deal of the fog had evaporated and he could discern the faint silhouette of his fellow farmer and good friend, Sadon, whom Hadrian had jointly tended Cobalt Bridge?s only field with practically since birth.
?Hello there. And how are you faring this fine morning?? greeted Sadon, pacing toward Hadrian, each footfall sounding with a sticky slop on the wet ground.
?More o? the same, friend. Wife?s laid up in bed again and I?m out early as I please, farmin?, of all things.? Hadrian leaned on his shovel until it started sinking. ?An? now the daughter?s got the cough too. I just don? know what to ??
?Wait,? Sadon cut in, ?I thought I heard something ? like someone talking?
?Come on now, who would be talking out here this early but us?? He chuckled.
?Well, I guess you?re right. I mean?? He was cut short by a sharp thock. He started to look around to see what made it, but he soon realized that there was an arrow protruding through his chest. Gasping for air, he clawed feebly at the arrow. A second later, he was falling. Black.
Ulric the bandit stepped over them, retrieving the arrows. He held one up to his lips and blew on it, a habit he had picked up a few years back. It was supposed to bring him good luck for the next time he shot the arrow. Ulric saw in the distance that his companions were dragging the women and children out of their houses. He wasn?t going to give the order to kill them though, he thought, with a wry smile forming on his lips. They weren?t monsters, after all.
Ulric?s men loaded the supplies?the stolen supplies?onto their cart. The women and children looked on helplessly as they were robbed of all their possessions and left to die, widowed and helpless.
?Please, have a heart, sir? one of them piped up. She was immediately silenced by a sword hilt. In Ulric?s profession, there was no room for compassion. The women and children were unbound. Ulric and company made their escape under the rising sun, heading west. A few minutes later, they arrived at the camp to the sight of a quarrel. ?So another poor soul challenged Althalos, huh? This ought ta? be interesting.?
?Oh boy, Althalos is at it again.?
?He can do whatever he wants. Shut yer mouth.?
Althalos, the bandit king, faced off against a slightly stronger-looking opponent, neither one making the first move, for both new that their next move could be their last in this fight to the death. The circle of onlookers started to chant Althalos?s name. It grew from a quiet roar to a frenzy. Althalos lunged with his sword-dirk combo at the challenger?s side. The man parried the blow and began his counterattack, swinging his broadsword in a mighty arc. Althalos ducked under the sword and swiped up with his dirk, taking advantage of the man?s clumsy momentum. The dirk struck true and the man tumbled backward, protest plastered on his face.
Althalos stepped from the ring, panting and issuing his usual challenge to the masses. His posture was one of triumph. His face was one of a man possessed. There are two reasons that someone would challenge Althalos. First, because if he was killed, his killer would become king, and second, if he was killed, he wouldn?t be king anymore. Some would say that he was a bad ruler? Well, not in public anyway. People who opposed the king usually died of natural causes, for a knife in the chest quite naturally causes one to die.
?The raid on Cobalt Bridge was a success, sir.? Ulric trudged toward Althalos, arms crossed in a respectful manner among the bandits. Althalos, bearing minor nicks and bruises, merely grunted and pushed past and into the war tent, motioning for Ulric to follow. Seated around a makeshift table, a dozen gruff men sat, grim faced, discussing the latest news. Althalos took his seat at the edge of the table and Ulric stood beside, hands flat on the table and elbows locked. The chatter among the men ceased abruptly as Althalos made a sweeping motion with his hand.
?I suspect you have heard the news already?? Althalos began formally.
?That we ?ave, sire? A man in the back piped up nervously, obviously involved in the incident, ?an? I want you ta? know that it?s not my fault?
?I don?t care whose fault it is. I want to know why a settlement as large as Maldon decided to sack an outpost with no warning. Are they looking to start a war? You, man, you were the only survivor of the assault, am I correct??
?Tha?s right, sire.? The man answered triumphantly, ?I musta? killed eight of em?. You should?a seen it. It was me an? a whole??
?That?s enough!? hissed Althalos, rage boiling. Before the man could finish his gasp, Althalos had drawn his dirk and was standing by his side, drawing blood from the man?s throat with the blade?s keen point. ?Now, you will tell me everything you know about the attack.? He spat out every syllable with a nearly tangible animosity.
?Um, they said somethin? ?bout some Cobalt Bridge. You aint? gonna kill me, are ye?? the man quaked in fear at the grimace plastered on the visage of the bandit king.
?No,? said Althalos and released the man roughly. He fell to the ground, rubbing his throat with indignation, ?No, I will not kill you; however, you will serve as a messenger to Maldon. Depart immediately. Tell them that they have but one day to procure a response.? The man stumbled out of the war tent, still rubbing his neck. Althalos turned to Ulric. ?The assault on Cobalt Bridge? You headed it up, did you not??
?By your order, sire? he responded simply.
-----------------------------------------------
The following morning, Ulric peered out of the opening in his tent flaps. The birds were chirping, the sun was out, the bandits were out gathering wood for the cooking fire. A head on a stake. Written in blood upon the forehead of the messenger Althalos had sent out the previous day, were the cryptic words, ?A red mist, this way comes?
Ulric lifted the flaps of the war tent, hands trembling. Althalos was slumped in the chair opposite the entrance. He bore a grave stare, the likes of which Ulric had never seen.
?Rally the troops,? commanded Althalos.
-----------------------------------------------
Nightfall. Althalos turned on his invasion force, his mass of black-clothed assassins. They appeared only as a sea of eyes, obscured by the darkness of the perpetual night. Ulric appeared at the front of the pack. His eyes blazed with a subtle fury. The moonlight seemed to highlight the target, the settlement of Maldon.
?Remember, the darkness is your ally. Open warfare is suicide. Strike true. God guide your blades. Split into groups of no more than two. Comb the city. Ulric, you come with me.?
?I would be honored, sire.?
The band departed into the portentous darkness, leaving behind no more than footprints. Moving inaudibly, Ulric fell in behind Althalos. They entered the settlement unimpeded, for sleeping guards naturally make for an easy entrance. Reaching for the glistening door handle of a small house, Ulric swung the door open. It glided effortlessly on its greased hinges, and Ulric stepped inside the musty interior of the dwelling.
Holding their respective breaths, Althalos and Ulric passed by a sleeping child and into the room containing the man of the house. Ulric recognized the physique of a farmer. He also recognized the form of a sickle leaning against the wall beside the sleeping man. The air was still enough that the companions could hear one-another?s heartbeats. Ulric carefully removed his dagger from his shoulder holster. Shink. Both winced at the sound. The farmer slept still. Ulric placed the weapon at the farmer?s throat.
A scream broke the silence. The farmer bolted straight up, straight into the dagger, instantly ending his life. Althalos and Ulric, weapons in hand, looked about, trying to discern where the wail came from. It didn?t matter. The entire town was awake now. Althalos rushed into the main room of the building with Ulric in hot pursuit, leaving the confused wife and child to learn their loved one?s fate.
Candles sprang up in the windows. Bandits rushed into the streets. Adrenaline rushed into their veins. What men were not killed in the initial slaughter burst out of doors with various weapons. There were katars, stilettos, sabers, cutlasses, rapiers, falchions, glaives, even a halberd. Althalos let out a shrill whistle. All around them, the scenery burst into motion, revealing one hundred or so bandits that were not part of the original squad. The scene erupted into chaos. Althalos fought valiantly, sword and dirk spinning and flashing in a brilliant pattern of twists and thrusts, perfectly complimenting each other.
In his bloodlust, Althalos hardly felt the dagger slide into his back. Behind the dagger was a familiar face, now contorted into a wicked grin. It was his most trusted companion. Althalos looked back in disbelief, his mouth forming the words how could you? But no sound came out. He fell in a heap on the cold, wet ground.
?Don?t worry, Althalos,? taunted Ulric, voice dripping with venom, ?We?ll be sure to give you a proper burial.?
They weren?t monsters, after all.
?Hello there. And how are you faring this fine morning?? greeted Sadon, pacing toward Hadrian, each footfall sounding with a sticky slop on the wet ground.
?More o? the same, friend. Wife?s laid up in bed again and I?m out early as I please, farmin?, of all things.? Hadrian leaned on his shovel until it started sinking. ?An? now the daughter?s got the cough too. I just don? know what to ??
?Wait,? Sadon cut in, ?I thought I heard something ? like someone talking?
?Come on now, who would be talking out here this early but us?? He chuckled.
?Well, I guess you?re right. I mean?? He was cut short by a sharp thock. He started to look around to see what made it, but he soon realized that there was an arrow protruding through his chest. Gasping for air, he clawed feebly at the arrow. A second later, he was falling. Black.
Ulric the bandit stepped over them, retrieving the arrows. He held one up to his lips and blew on it, a habit he had picked up a few years back. It was supposed to bring him good luck for the next time he shot the arrow. Ulric saw in the distance that his companions were dragging the women and children out of their houses. He wasn?t going to give the order to kill them though, he thought, with a wry smile forming on his lips. They weren?t monsters, after all.
Ulric?s men loaded the supplies?the stolen supplies?onto their cart. The women and children looked on helplessly as they were robbed of all their possessions and left to die, widowed and helpless.
?Please, have a heart, sir? one of them piped up. She was immediately silenced by a sword hilt. In Ulric?s profession, there was no room for compassion. The women and children were unbound. Ulric and company made their escape under the rising sun, heading west. A few minutes later, they arrived at the camp to the sight of a quarrel. ?So another poor soul challenged Althalos, huh? This ought ta? be interesting.?
?Oh boy, Althalos is at it again.?
?He can do whatever he wants. Shut yer mouth.?
Althalos, the bandit king, faced off against a slightly stronger-looking opponent, neither one making the first move, for both new that their next move could be their last in this fight to the death. The circle of onlookers started to chant Althalos?s name. It grew from a quiet roar to a frenzy. Althalos lunged with his sword-dirk combo at the challenger?s side. The man parried the blow and began his counterattack, swinging his broadsword in a mighty arc. Althalos ducked under the sword and swiped up with his dirk, taking advantage of the man?s clumsy momentum. The dirk struck true and the man tumbled backward, protest plastered on his face.
Althalos stepped from the ring, panting and issuing his usual challenge to the masses. His posture was one of triumph. His face was one of a man possessed. There are two reasons that someone would challenge Althalos. First, because if he was killed, his killer would become king, and second, if he was killed, he wouldn?t be king anymore. Some would say that he was a bad ruler? Well, not in public anyway. People who opposed the king usually died of natural causes, for a knife in the chest quite naturally causes one to die.
?The raid on Cobalt Bridge was a success, sir.? Ulric trudged toward Althalos, arms crossed in a respectful manner among the bandits. Althalos, bearing minor nicks and bruises, merely grunted and pushed past and into the war tent, motioning for Ulric to follow. Seated around a makeshift table, a dozen gruff men sat, grim faced, discussing the latest news. Althalos took his seat at the edge of the table and Ulric stood beside, hands flat on the table and elbows locked. The chatter among the men ceased abruptly as Althalos made a sweeping motion with his hand.
?I suspect you have heard the news already?? Althalos began formally.
?That we ?ave, sire? A man in the back piped up nervously, obviously involved in the incident, ?an? I want you ta? know that it?s not my fault?
?I don?t care whose fault it is. I want to know why a settlement as large as Maldon decided to sack an outpost with no warning. Are they looking to start a war? You, man, you were the only survivor of the assault, am I correct??
?Tha?s right, sire.? The man answered triumphantly, ?I musta? killed eight of em?. You should?a seen it. It was me an? a whole??
?That?s enough!? hissed Althalos, rage boiling. Before the man could finish his gasp, Althalos had drawn his dirk and was standing by his side, drawing blood from the man?s throat with the blade?s keen point. ?Now, you will tell me everything you know about the attack.? He spat out every syllable with a nearly tangible animosity.
?Um, they said somethin? ?bout some Cobalt Bridge. You aint? gonna kill me, are ye?? the man quaked in fear at the grimace plastered on the visage of the bandit king.
?No,? said Althalos and released the man roughly. He fell to the ground, rubbing his throat with indignation, ?No, I will not kill you; however, you will serve as a messenger to Maldon. Depart immediately. Tell them that they have but one day to procure a response.? The man stumbled out of the war tent, still rubbing his neck. Althalos turned to Ulric. ?The assault on Cobalt Bridge? You headed it up, did you not??
?By your order, sire? he responded simply.
-----------------------------------------------
The following morning, Ulric peered out of the opening in his tent flaps. The birds were chirping, the sun was out, the bandits were out gathering wood for the cooking fire. A head on a stake. Written in blood upon the forehead of the messenger Althalos had sent out the previous day, were the cryptic words, ?A red mist, this way comes?
Ulric lifted the flaps of the war tent, hands trembling. Althalos was slumped in the chair opposite the entrance. He bore a grave stare, the likes of which Ulric had never seen.
?Rally the troops,? commanded Althalos.
-----------------------------------------------
Nightfall. Althalos turned on his invasion force, his mass of black-clothed assassins. They appeared only as a sea of eyes, obscured by the darkness of the perpetual night. Ulric appeared at the front of the pack. His eyes blazed with a subtle fury. The moonlight seemed to highlight the target, the settlement of Maldon.
?Remember, the darkness is your ally. Open warfare is suicide. Strike true. God guide your blades. Split into groups of no more than two. Comb the city. Ulric, you come with me.?
?I would be honored, sire.?
The band departed into the portentous darkness, leaving behind no more than footprints. Moving inaudibly, Ulric fell in behind Althalos. They entered the settlement unimpeded, for sleeping guards naturally make for an easy entrance. Reaching for the glistening door handle of a small house, Ulric swung the door open. It glided effortlessly on its greased hinges, and Ulric stepped inside the musty interior of the dwelling.
Holding their respective breaths, Althalos and Ulric passed by a sleeping child and into the room containing the man of the house. Ulric recognized the physique of a farmer. He also recognized the form of a sickle leaning against the wall beside the sleeping man. The air was still enough that the companions could hear one-another?s heartbeats. Ulric carefully removed his dagger from his shoulder holster. Shink. Both winced at the sound. The farmer slept still. Ulric placed the weapon at the farmer?s throat.
A scream broke the silence. The farmer bolted straight up, straight into the dagger, instantly ending his life. Althalos and Ulric, weapons in hand, looked about, trying to discern where the wail came from. It didn?t matter. The entire town was awake now. Althalos rushed into the main room of the building with Ulric in hot pursuit, leaving the confused wife and child to learn their loved one?s fate.
Candles sprang up in the windows. Bandits rushed into the streets. Adrenaline rushed into their veins. What men were not killed in the initial slaughter burst out of doors with various weapons. There were katars, stilettos, sabers, cutlasses, rapiers, falchions, glaives, even a halberd. Althalos let out a shrill whistle. All around them, the scenery burst into motion, revealing one hundred or so bandits that were not part of the original squad. The scene erupted into chaos. Althalos fought valiantly, sword and dirk spinning and flashing in a brilliant pattern of twists and thrusts, perfectly complimenting each other.
In his bloodlust, Althalos hardly felt the dagger slide into his back. Behind the dagger was a familiar face, now contorted into a wicked grin. It was his most trusted companion. Althalos looked back in disbelief, his mouth forming the words how could you? But no sound came out. He fell in a heap on the cold, wet ground.
?Don?t worry, Althalos,? taunted Ulric, voice dripping with venom, ?We?ll be sure to give you a proper burial.?
They weren?t monsters, after all.
Comments/Critique? This is my first story, sorry if it's terrible.
Edit: Also, the formatting is screwed. No indents
So it's been a while. Here's my latest stumble into a realm of new creation.
Yet another year where I had no idea what to do for my mother's birthday.
The painting itself has oh.. 25 coats involved? Something like that anyway. It's about 2mm up off the page in places so the petals have a little more life. Making the frame was a ***** because I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Designing your own paper net to cut out and fold, from scratch, with no experience, is a highway to frustration. Three hours later success. I guess it just goes to show 'you never know until you try'.
By the way, this thread will never die! I say 'tis so! It's one of.. well the longest surviving threads that I know of.
Yet another year where I had no idea what to do for my mother's birthday.
The painting itself has oh.. 25 coats involved? Something like that anyway. It's about 2mm up off the page in places so the petals have a little more life. Making the frame was a ***** because I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. Designing your own paper net to cut out and fold, from scratch, with no experience, is a highway to frustration. Three hours later success. I guess it just goes to show 'you never know until you try'.
By the way, this thread will never die! I say 'tis so! It's one of.. well the longest surviving threads that I know of.
If I have one complaint its that you need to work on porportions. The head is way to small for the rest of it. Certain parts have kind of wonky perspective with relation to the spikes and all but overall I can see that you can draw. The only other thing that I can say is that I'd love to see some of your original material. Not that I'm saying this is a rip-off, just that I'd love to see something you drew that is your own creation, not the creation of Blizzard or otherwise.Calibretto said:THE ZERG HYDRALISK
something i whipped up recently im still pondering whether to make it colour
