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just a little venting.why make this a deviation? so i can plop it on my front page for as long as I want it to be there...
so recently ive been...a bit worried how some people will react to my art. IRL, i dont think anyone actually knows what I draw, and I keep thinking some people wont look at me the same (if they hadn't done so already) when they see exactly all the stuff I draw. and sometimes i wonder what new people I watch think of me when they see my gallery. do they see an aspiring artist or just a half-assed expansion artist..
sorry im just...letting out some thoughts. if this makes no sense i am also sorry but...yeah...sorry.
The Dragons of ValouraValoura: the land itself
Valoura is consisted of several different biomes, with brief transition from place to place. forests can transition to deserts or wastelands with little warning. this can cause some dispute between dragons living in certain biomes if they conflict, like a area inhabited by a volcano next to a frozen tundra.
Valoura is mainly inhabited by humanoid dragons of seven (7) different elements. these humanoid dragons mainly get along with other dragons, and occasionally with other races, pending on trusts.
Obsidian dragon clan:
this clan of dragons mostly live in volcanic regions, or otherwise areas that have very high temperature like deserts, or deep below ground. Obsidian dragons are well known for their ferocious nature, as well as, obviously, being one of the only few dragons that can swim in lava and not be harmed.
Obsidian dragons are among some of the physically strongest dragons, only rivalled by Bronze dragons. Some, in bad cases, poses
a call to thee..."A call from thee is a blissful sorrow.
as you wish for there to be no tomorrow.
as I take the breath from your chest.
you may finally lay to rest.
as you gaze upon my breast.
may i be the one you call death?
may i be the one to take your life?
can i be the one to send your soul aflight?
I shall friefly pause your pain.
so you may grab your thoughts by reigns.
use this time not to think of the evil dusk.
but use it to think of the joyful dawn.
so i ask you once more...
may i be the one you call death?"
NiGHTS into College episode twoNiGHTS into College episode two:
Ice Cold Fury
Blay groaned as the alarm clock rings. It's early in the morning at college. Her first day at colleague. Thankfully, all those students who are new have a day to get used to the place and how it works. At her own pace, Blay got up, cleaned herself up, dressed, and went out to look at the campus.
Like she thought from the night, the colleague looked nice. There was a noticeable fog lingering around, which blocked the view of the campus partially. If the fog wasn't here, she's sure the view would be nicer.
She walked around the campus, getting herself familiar with her classroom locations. Time passed as she walked the campus, and she soon found that it was time for her first class.
She ran towards the first room. It wasn't far, but she had a bit of a walk. "I don't want to be late for my first day. I ca-"
"ouch " Blay groaned as she now layed on the ground after running into someone else. "im sorry about that.." she looked to who
NiGHTS into College episode oneNiGHTS into College episode one:
"We are now arriving at Nightgale" the woman over the intercom says. The passengers all made their way off of the plane, and off to their own respective destinations.
One girl stood out from the others. She wore simple clothing. Basic shirt, basic pants, the usual. What stood out was her jacket, which was detailed to look like an ocean. She had short, brown hair and blue eyes, which wandered among the crowds of people that surrounded her. She had come here because of a incident. After this incident, she was transferred to another college more suitable.
"Where is she " the girl asked herself. She was expecting someone to meet her at the airport. All that she was told about the person was " She's a nice girl, and you will know her on sight". She reached into her backpack for her photo. "Where was th-".
"Blaaaaay!" the girl's eyes shot upward as she heard her name get called. She sees another girl. She really did stand
race: The MegidThe Megid
also referred to as "The Bringers of Chaos"
The Megid are human-like beings with strange powers that differ greatly from one another. some humans say that this race originalted from the under or nether worlds, depending on who you ask, but the chaos dont say where they originate from.
Megids were said to be the "Harbingers of destruction" back when they were first discovered. they attacked in small waves, but each Megid possessed a power, so it only took small numbers to easily wipe out a small town. over time, many Megid broke off from this mainstream idea of seeking pain and destruction.
its unknown to humans at least, if they follow some form of rule. they do let any that wish to serve them live, however any that had opposed them would be killed on sight.
lifespan: a standard lifetime of a Megid is unknown. what is bow is that they can outlive numerous human lifetimes, so its asumed they could become over five hundred years old.
personality: similar to humans, th
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Song of First SnowfallI fell in love
with the boy at the bus stop this morning
who dropped his gloves
on the sidewalk
to freeze his fists into side-of-the-road snow
and throw snowballs into the wind
just to watch them float away
as if he wants to contribute to the storm.
To be a part of it all.
I fell in love with him,
and I don’t know why.
All I know
is that the air is filled with music
and that this boy is the bassline.
And then he’s saying hello.
I think it must be to me;
no one else is around
but for the street and the snow and the sky.
But he’s yelling at the top of his lungs,
at the street the snow the sky
and I know that to him,
I’m not even there.
It’s to be a part of it all:
the whispering of wind,
the crunching of footsteps
and grumbling of cars.
It’s to be standing in the eye of the storm
to be clinging to its teeth and to say,
I am here.
He looks at me,
and this time I know it’s to me that he says,
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Don't judge the coversLooking at someone, you assume something.
Looking at covers dont tell what they hold.
One can be as thin as a rake.
One can be as big as a whale.
One can be freakishly tall.
One can be freakishly short.
One can be as stubborn as an ox.
One can be as gentle as a butterfly.
But in the end...
Its whats inside that counts.
Twenty-three years before the crippling of Crown Prince James III
He was fourteen and she was probably aged about the same, give or take a few years. It had been an hour since he'd met her.
He hated her already.
She scowled behind him and likely shared the sentiment as they scampered up the hillside in a desperate attempt to escape the roaring mob that seemed to be growing perpetually larger and coming ever-closer. Gabriel would have liked to say that it was all her fault he was in this situation, though it was his careless nicking ofwhat was it? A chicken that started the first old woman running, but how was he supposed to know that she'd stumble and fall and everyone else would think he'd assaulted her?
He hadn't. He'd taken the chicken, snapped its neck and run, because he hadn't eaten meat in weeks and he was starting to feel the affects on his already weak limbs.
This is what happens, he thought. This is what happens when you live like th
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More