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Every time I listen to Vigil, I’m just like…this is the best. The feelings it evokes, the scenes it’s set to in the games, the memories it brings up…it’s timeless.

Vigil’s just the best, y’all.

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This is how I got most of my Critical Mission Failures during my Insanity playthrough 😂

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Sass Effect

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They're in my head 0-24 right now

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Art Collab Time 💥

@gammaraydeath and I drew our Shepards and then swapped for color/rendering ♡ so exciting!!

Ro Shepard <- -> my Shepard (first name redacted, lol)

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the omniblade is the sexiest sci fi weapon. fuck you. im punching you with my apple wristwatch. which has a knife in it. eat shit.

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Rannoch selfie

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what a cruel reality. your death and your body are yours but neither are. you die but are told you cannot, you’re needed, you’re too important. your body is pieced back together and you have no say. get up, commander. the last face you see you don’t remember if he made it out and you will never know—or rather, you weren’t supposed to, but now he pilots your ship again, but it isn’t your ship, either. there is pain in his eyes when you greet one another, where his gaze shies away and you know you have let one another down. your last memories that aren’t, that now exist as glimpses, are of your ship and crew in tatters and what remains jettisons into the cosmos or floats in the vast emptiness of brilliant, beautiful stars as your lungs collapse and then you plummet. you are scattered in flakes of snow, across star dust, across memorial vids and hushed whispers and guilt and grief. do you remember? of course not. it was a wonder your neural pathways remained as intact. how incredible. but you cannot die, the galaxy needs you. get up, commander. this body is not yours. you are an amalgamation of sinew and spare parts lovingly, scathingly stitched back together. you are rotten and brand new and beautiful. the galaxy needs you. they send you for a team because you must have your crew that isn’t on a ship that doesn’t exist. you will haunt them. you must find a new recruit and the sound of the butt of his rifle on the floor is as solid as the ache in your shoulder from where he shot you. this is familiar, this is normal, for the first time in days, and an ache burns through you and then it’s gone supernova as you’re holding his head in your hands and they’re stained a blue that is too vibrant. he is your best friend but you are dead and he gurgles into your palms. you will lose this too, but you won’t. your center of gravity pitches again. you die but you don’t. nothing is real but everything is too real. his good mandible flicks out as he wheezes a laugh and can you feel your heart pounding in your chest even though it shouldn’t. the relief that one thing still remains. the reflection staring back at you is wrong, the eyebrows arched in a way they don’t, teeth straighter than they were. the notch in your nose is smoother and your hair parts where you used to hide a cowlick. you touch your cheek and do you feel it because you can, or because you’re looking at it? the scars are red and angry and you cannot hide them. someone else has willed your lungs to expand, your fingers to curl. muscle memory that isn’t your muscle knows the exact pressure to place on a trigger. is your body yours, or can you reclaim it again, or does it remain someone else’s property? how many of your choices are yours? you are a symbol, an icon, an empty coffin and a vessel. how much of you is left? get up, commander.

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at this point im just making every art assignment i have about my speical insterest. here's a project i did on perspective execpt its just the shroud on Tuchanka in ME3.

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Shepard/Garrus

In their under-armor-suit(that I made up because I have no idea what they look like)

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MASS EFFECT ↳ Scenery

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I prefer destroy ending, but she... She deserves to be happy

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You have no idea how much Miranda Lawson saved you.

From the very beginning of Project Lazarus, there was this ideal, this perfect sentiment: bring Shepard back as she was. No one went into it with aspirations of turning you into a super soldier, a biotic weapon to rival commadoes, pimped out with enough cybernetics to power a small fleet. They saw you as an ideal. An idol. The first human Spectre, the Hero of the Citadel. Commander Shepard. A household name, there were already blockbuster vids, action novels, Alliance recruitment pamphlets plastered with your face. They wanted that, not some cheap imitation.

And yet, when you were delivered to Cerberus, you were less of a corpse and more a collection of body parts. Your torso was about the only thing still intact. You left leg landed about five hundred meters away, your right another hundred from that. Your skull had caved in, there was barely any discerning your tongue from your nasal bridge from whatever brainmatter didn't get burned away. Reconstruction was far more extensive than you'll ever know.

Miranda had access to your measurements via Alliance database hack approximately one month before your death. So, sorry if you took to late night binge eating or impromptu jiu-jitsu in the month where you were "searching for geth resistence," but she did the best she could with what she had. And what she had was you. All of your scars, your muscles, your temperament. Making you wouldn't be a problem. Perfecting you, would.

The first sign of trouble came from someone (truly unimportant, she forgot their name entirely) suggesting to fix that nasty scar on your face. It's ugly, they said. Unseemly. Makes you look like a thug, not the savoir of humanity.

Miranda fought for you. Said your scars were earned. Said they were apart of you.

Cerberus disagreed.

Wherever you got them-- Torfan, Elysium, Akuze-- it didn't matter. Really, none of your background did. It didn't matter what you did, who you were. Because suddenly, you weren't just a body on a slab. You were a template, you were a focus test, you were an ideal that Cerberus could mold to make their perfect human.

They wanted to leave out your bottom two ribs to make your waist slimmer. They wanted to lighten up your skin, get rid of all the sun damage and freckles, make you a perfect porcelain doll. They wanted to add a cup size, and then another, until you'd be busting out of the top of your armor that Cerberus would kindly cut out in the chest to show you off. Never mind a bullet to your chest cavity would be fatal. You would be sexy, a bimbo, a woman who would suddenly turn a thousand ships around, someone who would have mercs falling to their knees.

Miranda Lawson looked at you, and saw the one thing she never wanted to see. She saw herself.

She fought harder than she's ever fought before to bring you back as you were. And she may have lost the battle to keep your scar, but she won the ultimate prize. You are you. Without the intervention of postulating men who think that their ideal of the galaxy is perview to their own experience, their wants, their desires.

And the only thing you'll ever know is that the evil ice queen Miranda Lawson once considered implanting you with a control chip.

You never knew that you could have woken up and not recognized your own reflection.

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Quick concept sketches of my (next?) project. I love the stark contrast of their colors, so I had to upload it. Unfortunately, I have a lizard brain, so it hops around from idea to idea; it's hard to focus on one.

And, of course, Shepard is incredibly uncomfortable in a dress and heels. She can't walk like a "lady" to save her life. She'd do anything for Miranda though.

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scope

solo garrus version of the shakarian mini-bang art I did for -> between breaths, which you should totally go read now! 💙

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Mass Effect 1 concept art by Matt Rhodes and Derek Watts