Ahm feelin' cree-ay-tive too-nite!
Dec. 3rd, 2002 09:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
urbanamazonWow... I was stunned by the amount of response (not to mention vehemence) about my last post. Thanks guys. It's great to know that I'm not alone in my beliefs about art and illustration.
And to celebrate ... *drumroll on the desk* ... Here's a story exerpt, complete with an illustration!
TekMage
Story Exerpt
Written by Sarah Hilliard (That means copyright to me, thankyouveramuch)
His name is Ash.
Well, I know that's not his real name, but no one calls him anything else. It's either Ash, Commander, or a combination of the two. His name is Ash. He's the founder of the TekMage.
And that's all I know.
He's like a ghost, yet I know he's very much alive. I've seen the way he seems to fade in and out of shadows. I've seen the way he seems to radiate silence wherever he goes. Passerby glance at him, then look away and refuse to look again. They do not do this out of scorn. I can see it in their eyes.
It's fear.
They are terrified of him.
And though I am terrified of him as well, I have to find out why.
***
I was in the training hall with Mattheo, learning new stretches and a cardiovascular routine that would help my body cope with the shifting process. My calves were unused to supporting a dragon's digitigrade stance, and my back and pectoral muscles needed substantial development before they could support flight-capable wings. No drill sergeant's regime could have conquered Mattheo's combination of elven endurance and dracish strength, and only my pride kept me from collapsing until he called a breather.
I paced, alternating between guzzling fresh water and dousing it over my already soaked hair, staining the random white streaks dark silver. I was still not used to the physical heritage of my unknown father that the Bonding process had brought out in me. I would often find myself staring at my reflection; the dusky lavender shade on my skin and lashes of quicksilver in my black hair like a half-transparent mask. It was not a wholly unpleasant sight, but it still needed some getting used to. I found myself staring at the mirror that created one wall of the training hall, watching myself watch the darkened skin of my hand as it brushed my thick braid of hair back over my shoulder.
It was then that I saw him, by the far end of the hall, going through the atient gestures of some variation of Tai Chi. I had no idea how long he had been there, as the hall had been empty when Mattheo and I had begun our session over an hour ago.
As usual, he was in half-shifted form. His taloned hands wove slow patterns in the air, his eyes were closed beneath the horns that spiked from his brow and flared out and back from his temples. The claws on his feet were silent on the hard floor and nearly concealed by long and loose black pants. His hair ran like a blood-black waterfall over his bare chest and shoulders, seeming to melt into the blade-like tattoos that slashed their way from his nape to tailbone.
He moved like a wraith, like liquid shadow. As I watched, I felt the air turn very cold. I was lucky; my shiver broke the trance and I could look away.
Mattheo had not seen it neccessary to take his own advice of a breather, choosing instead to play around on the parallel bars. He was obviously bored, as he was only using one bar. With his spine arched backward into nearly a semicircle and his toes dangling in ront of his face, Mattheo's only support was his left forearm pressed flat against the bar. His right arm was out to the side, but I suspected it was less for balance and more for showing off. As I approached him, he straightened his left arm, balancing his entire weight completely on his left hand.
Half-teasing, I held out the water bottle. "Drink?"
Without breaking form, the elf plucked the bottle from my hand with his left foot, opened it with his right, splashed some water on his face, and handed the bottle back. "Thanks," he smirked.
"Show-off," I snorted.
"Always." (Sketch of Mattheo being a show-off.)
I took a chance and asked the question that had nagged me for days. "So, what's his story?"
"Who's?"
I gestured behind Mattheo with the water bottle. He flexed his arm and made a 180 degree hop, landing without a wobble. I didn't see his face, but his whole body tensed when he saw who I was asking about. The elf fluidly straightened his body and dismounted from the bar without a word. He looked at me over his shoulder, as if he was sizing me up, assessing my worthiness. I stared back as confidently as I could, despite the chill that formed in the marrow of my bones.
The moment hung like an icy stalactite, deadly sharp and waiting to fall.
Mattheo nodded to himself, once, then grabbed my forearm with a grip that brooked no question. I tried not to stumble as he nearly dragged me from the training hall. "Workout's over for today," he announced. "Meet me in the 'Ponicsphere after you get something to eat."
I nodded wordlessly, with cold fear in my gut that I had bitten off more than I had wished for. I was suddenly very aware of how clammy Mattheo's hands were on my arm, and of the eyes that burned into my back like a sniper's kiss.
***
Da's all for now. Probably won't be any more until after this week, the Week of Hell. Unless, of course, response prompts me otherwise ...
*is promptly distracted by the Two Towers preview on TV* ... Ooooooooh! Shiiiiiny!
And to celebrate ... *drumroll on the desk* ... Here's a story exerpt, complete with an illustration!
TekMage
Story Exerpt
Written by Sarah Hilliard (That means copyright to me, thankyouveramuch)
His name is Ash.
Well, I know that's not his real name, but no one calls him anything else. It's either Ash, Commander, or a combination of the two. His name is Ash. He's the founder of the TekMage.
And that's all I know.
He's like a ghost, yet I know he's very much alive. I've seen the way he seems to fade in and out of shadows. I've seen the way he seems to radiate silence wherever he goes. Passerby glance at him, then look away and refuse to look again. They do not do this out of scorn. I can see it in their eyes.
It's fear.
They are terrified of him.
And though I am terrified of him as well, I have to find out why.
***
I was in the training hall with Mattheo, learning new stretches and a cardiovascular routine that would help my body cope with the shifting process. My calves were unused to supporting a dragon's digitigrade stance, and my back and pectoral muscles needed substantial development before they could support flight-capable wings. No drill sergeant's regime could have conquered Mattheo's combination of elven endurance and dracish strength, and only my pride kept me from collapsing until he called a breather.
I paced, alternating between guzzling fresh water and dousing it over my already soaked hair, staining the random white streaks dark silver. I was still not used to the physical heritage of my unknown father that the Bonding process had brought out in me. I would often find myself staring at my reflection; the dusky lavender shade on my skin and lashes of quicksilver in my black hair like a half-transparent mask. It was not a wholly unpleasant sight, but it still needed some getting used to. I found myself staring at the mirror that created one wall of the training hall, watching myself watch the darkened skin of my hand as it brushed my thick braid of hair back over my shoulder.
It was then that I saw him, by the far end of the hall, going through the atient gestures of some variation of Tai Chi. I had no idea how long he had been there, as the hall had been empty when Mattheo and I had begun our session over an hour ago.
As usual, he was in half-shifted form. His taloned hands wove slow patterns in the air, his eyes were closed beneath the horns that spiked from his brow and flared out and back from his temples. The claws on his feet were silent on the hard floor and nearly concealed by long and loose black pants. His hair ran like a blood-black waterfall over his bare chest and shoulders, seeming to melt into the blade-like tattoos that slashed their way from his nape to tailbone.
He moved like a wraith, like liquid shadow. As I watched, I felt the air turn very cold. I was lucky; my shiver broke the trance and I could look away.
Mattheo had not seen it neccessary to take his own advice of a breather, choosing instead to play around on the parallel bars. He was obviously bored, as he was only using one bar. With his spine arched backward into nearly a semicircle and his toes dangling in ront of his face, Mattheo's only support was his left forearm pressed flat against the bar. His right arm was out to the side, but I suspected it was less for balance and more for showing off. As I approached him, he straightened his left arm, balancing his entire weight completely on his left hand.
Half-teasing, I held out the water bottle. "Drink?"
Without breaking form, the elf plucked the bottle from my hand with his left foot, opened it with his right, splashed some water on his face, and handed the bottle back. "Thanks," he smirked.
"Show-off," I snorted.
"Always." (Sketch of Mattheo being a show-off.)
I took a chance and asked the question that had nagged me for days. "So, what's his story?"
"Who's?"
I gestured behind Mattheo with the water bottle. He flexed his arm and made a 180 degree hop, landing without a wobble. I didn't see his face, but his whole body tensed when he saw who I was asking about. The elf fluidly straightened his body and dismounted from the bar without a word. He looked at me over his shoulder, as if he was sizing me up, assessing my worthiness. I stared back as confidently as I could, despite the chill that formed in the marrow of my bones.
The moment hung like an icy stalactite, deadly sharp and waiting to fall.
Mattheo nodded to himself, once, then grabbed my forearm with a grip that brooked no question. I tried not to stumble as he nearly dragged me from the training hall. "Workout's over for today," he announced. "Meet me in the 'Ponicsphere after you get something to eat."
I nodded wordlessly, with cold fear in my gut that I had bitten off more than I had wished for. I was suddenly very aware of how clammy Mattheo's hands were on my arm, and of the eyes that burned into my back like a sniper's kiss.
***
Da's all for now. Probably won't be any more until after this week, the Week of Hell. Unless, of course, response prompts me otherwise ...
*is promptly distracted by the Two Towers preview on TV* ... Ooooooooh! Shiiiiiny!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-04 09:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-04 09:31 pm (UTC)very very very nice... wow. Not bad at all!
Don't you have a gallery somewhere?
GUILEN
You know, you're pretty much to blame for the concept of that entire story.
Date: 2002-12-04 09:44 pm (UTC).... but I do have a picture hanging at the current exhibit at ACAD ...
Re: You know, you're pretty much to blame for the concept of that entire story.
Date: 2002-12-05 02:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-04 09:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2002-12-05 11:09 am (UTC)If anybody ever tells you your not an artist again, let ol Guilen know. I'll rip them to fucking shit.
So ARE you going to go to ACAD? Eesh. You might just miss me. I might be heading out of province in September. Who knows. We'll see.
In any case... I'm to blame for the concept of that story? Howso?
You seem so very diligent in your artwork. I think that's what's missing in mine *laughs* If I actually buckled down and stuck to it I think I'd be in a better place than I am now, but meh. I'm happy with it.
Very nice
GUILEN