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Sandtrap
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Rockets on my X
For once I feel like posting some writing. It's the rough opening to another story I've started writing.

Spoiler
Columns of smoke blew out across the horizon on the winds, on grey skies as the early morning sun dawned. Always, across the grey battered landscape, under the rubble of once towering superstructures which now lay sprawled across the ground overtop of each other in a great tangle like a fallen forest. Jericho stared up through the haze of grey, of smoke and fires on the winds. Up, up far beyond the scorched ground he walked on, to the immense blotch in the sky.

   He couldn’t make out the finer details. But it was always there. More light filtered in through the everlasting haze of dust and smoke that blew across the ruins of this world. The sound of gunfire in the distance brought his attention away from the sky. Jericho sighed.

“Right. Go over this with me, one more time.”

Standing in front of him, another man, as worn and dirty as Jericho himself, clad in rough and by now barely functioning armour for its intended purpose, smiled under a veil across his face as he held a small pistol up to Jericho, keeping it steady on him. The man pointed up to the blotch in the sky.

“It’s a simple damn plan Jericho. You get up there. Find a way to smuggle some of what they’ve got on that ship down here. And if you can’t do that, sabotage the other side. It’s our only chance.”

Jericho looked up the station that hung in the sky.

“Do we even have any idea what’s up in that ship?”

The man shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter. We need what they have. It’s the only way we’re going to win down here. It’s us or them Jer. That ship up there is just making everything a damn stalemate.”

Jericho sighed.

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The man raised his gun once more.

“Hey, if it counts for anything, you’re the best man for this job Jer. I know you’ll get us what we need. You always do. It’ll be fine.”

The man chuckled.

“And hey. It’s not every day I get to shoot your smug ass.”

Jericho rolled his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up.”

Jericho sighed, holding out his arms.

“Right. Remember. I need to be dying. Not dead. Gutshot. Punctured lung. That whole deal.”

“Jer. I’m a crack shot.”

Jericho took a deep breath.

“Right. Okay.”

The man chuckled.

“It’s gonna hurt Jer.”

“I’ve been shot before.”

“Not like this.”

Jericho sighed.

“Right. On three.”

The man across from Jericho nodded.

“Okay. Ready? One.”

Jericho took a deep breath and spoke.

“Two.”

A bolt of energy discharged from the pistol, traveling clean through Jericho’s chest, vaporizing whatever the beam passed through and exiting out the other side. The pistol hummed as its power cells cycled and two more shots rang out, passing through him and burning clean through. The wounds were clean. Surgical in their mathematical perfection as the beams passed through him.

   But pain became a quickly arriving feeling as Jericho’s legs gave out from under him and all sense of balance was discarded as he fell onto the dirt and ash, now dying. The man walked up to Jericho.

“Sorry Jer. Hurts less if you don’t expect it. I’ve gotta scram before the drones show up to get you. Best of luck pal.”

The man patted Jericho on the shoulder as he was helpless to say anything as he clutched at the dirt and gasped for air as his vision started to fade. Footsteps rung in his ears as the man began running. Gunfire sounded out in the distance, a background noise across the entire planet like the forgotten and unnoticed thump of a heartbeat.

   And on the wind, as ash and dust blew across the remnants of this fallen world, the hum of engines could be heard. Drones, quickly making landfall from sub-orbital levels, which scoured the entire planet with nearly uncountable numbers, were now coming for him. Descending down to his dying form like vultures.

But, to most, to simple people, simple minded or uneducated because this world had only known fighting for so long, these machines were not vultures.

They were angels.

Jericho’s vision faded to black as the last thing burned into his eyes was light. Bright searchlights and scanners.

He had his ticket to heaven now.


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Jacob Potila was actually a Jacob Flotilla of lies.- WarTurkey


ayyyyyyy


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theaetherone.deviantart.com https://www.instagram.com/aetherone/

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Sandtrap
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Rockets on my X
Right. I suppose I'll dump this here. Another opening to one of my stories in progress.

Spoiler
To the inheritor of my duty, my work, and my life. This letter is addressed to you, whoever you may be. I have my assurances that I know who you are, but one can never be so sure after all. I, Cromwell Hume, now impart upon you the deed and title of “Gravekeeper.” You, who so reads this letter, are now part of a writ, a pact, and should always swear faithfully to your duty.

As a gravekeeper, you now find yourself as the owner and caretaker of Coldshore Cemetery. Your job as a keeper is simple. Maintain the Cemetery. Keep its graves undisturbed and free of intruders. And, most importantly, when the dead rise, put them to rest.

Be aware, that the dead are not to be treated and shuffled back into their rest like instruments or simple blunt objects. Sometimes, the soul forgets that it is dead, and returns to what it finds comfort in. The dead you deal with, are people.

Some of them, like all people, will have different ways of responding to you. Some will not heed reason, will not listen, because they are mad. They’ve no sense left in them and so all that remains is violence. Put these souls to rest with a strong arm and a sharp blade.

Some will be curious, returning to the world they’ve been away from for so long. Bribe them. Give them trinkets, offerings, and they will happily return to their graves to tinker, and then rest.

Some will feel the surge of life in their old bones, and seek to flee. To run and escape. Coldshore is surrounded by wards, and so they never will. Chase them down and play their games with them. Eventually, they will tire, and return to rest.

And, of all who are the most troublesome, are those souls who are lonely. Why they are lonely, it never has been known. Do not strike them with a blade. Do not bribe them with trinkets. Do not play games with them. Your job, as a keeper of the dead, is compassion and understanding.

Listen to these souls. Give them comfort, if you can, for they are lost and have no one to light the way for them. Grab a lantern, and walk with them, all the way to their home. And then put them to rest.

And finally, be aware of the strongest. Souls who do not need to return to their body. Souls that force our world to bend for them, if only slightly. These souls are the most detached. They will wander the grounds, or the river. They will scream a wail that curls your blood. They will yell in a rage that rattles your very bones.

And they will kill you if they lay sight of you. They act as beacons for others, and seek to draw other souls to them, so that they may sustain their temporary life. Your best and most final option for dealing with these souls is to avoid them, and cut them off from their food source.

Put the dead to rest that are drawn to them like moths to a flame. And you shall put out the wail and fire of the Banshee as well.

I, Cromwell Hume, wish you the best of luck. The life of a Gravekeeper is that of being alone. But if you are succeeding me, then it shalln’t worry the likes of you no doubt, for a Gravekeeper is the mirror image of death in life. You shy away from others and likely led a shallow, tiring life before this job seemed like anything a sane man would do. Something to make you tired of the world.

But take heart. The dead who walk Coldshore can have more life in them than you’d ever expect. There are days when they renew your faith in the people you’ve abandoned. In the world you hide from.

Treat the dead with respect, and be kind to them.

And they will take care of you more than you can ever expect.

Best of luck, yours in confidence, Cromwell Hume, now, ex-Gravekeeper.


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http://i1053.photobucket.com/albums/s480/palio7/Art%20Portfolio/AA3AD52F-C68E-40DF-8CC1-50C3DCF6CDE3.jpg


I dont think I've posted this anywhere else
but Wild pointed out several mistakes to it so I'll need to be brushing those out later on
Not sure what I'm looking at, neat sketch either way.

Just a monster I decided to design
Was trying a new sort of style that I don't use often to see where it went


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Does Photoshopping yourself into things count as art
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Does Photoshopping yourself into things count as art
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That last one though.


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Jacob Potila was actually a Jacob Flotilla of lies.- WarTurkey
Does Photoshopping yourself into things count as art
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Yes, that is art.

In that case I'm basically Davinci


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Does Photoshopping yourself into things count as art
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Yes, that is art.


Please explain


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me n my mates


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Jacob Potila was actually a Jacob Flotilla of lies.- WarTurkey


Can't stop the shop


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Trying out a drawing tablet


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WIP


 
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Spoiler

Spoiler

Spoiler

I finally have something to post in this thread

Holy shit that's incredible.


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Jacob Potila was actually a Jacob Flotilla of lies.- WarTurkey
Not sure if this still counts as art but me and my friends made Pokemon costumes for Comic Con this weekend.


 
Sandtrap
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Rockets on my X


In life we stand, our gun in hand
In death we walk, beyond our clock
Soldiers we are, and soldiers we'll be
Beyond our death, for eternity
We continue the fight, even unto this endless night


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Does this count?




 
gats
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You will find out who you are not a thousand times, before you ever discover who you are. I hope you find peace in yourself and learn to love instead of hate.
Spoiler
Last Edit: March 26, 2015, 04:06:00 PM by gats


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Did you make this? This is incredible.