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[brosocrates]

The Nature of the Beast: Part 4

(Author’s Note: Onwards! To the Realm of Chaos! There’s no way that this could end poorly ;^) )

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A great void stretched out across the horizon, roiling and ever shifting. Twisting, emitting utter darkness and multifaceted brilliance in maddening patterns that baffled the mind, the body of it stretched out randomly, swallowing up great masses of forest and grassland with little more than a whisper. Unprepared for what he had come upon Gawain briefly saw many things in the abyss and he realized that in turn, many things saw him. The unnatural assault was sudden and total, overwhelming every sense and feeling. His proud soul wavered, and Gawain fell to one knee under it’s menacing weight.

The raw stuff of Chaos engulfed him, and he had not the will to resist.

Alien wills sought to burrow into his mind like rabbits through soft soil, seeking footholds in memory and thought to fill with their foul presence. A hundred chattering voices threatened, pleaded, and laughed at him in both languages he could never understand and words tragically familiar. A quiet voice asked if he was willing, though not for what, and he had not the strength to answer. Another voice, harsh and biting, rose above the others and began oozing into weaknesses in his psyche, blindly questing for a hole to enter through. There was an increasingly painful tearing sensation inside him – as if something was trying to wear his skin like a performer wears a stubborn cloth puppet. He tried to scream, but he was just one of thousands. The malign spirit seized his open jaw in its ethereal grip, pouring itself, oily and black, through his teeth, eyes, and nostrils.

His fair countenance twisted into a terrified grimace, Gawain doubled over and clutched his scalp through his tresses in an attempt to keep his skull intact.  One gauntlet shook erratically and groped his face, seeking a soft eye socket to plunge its steel fingers into. The other hung loosely at his side, wrist shuddering in sympathetic pain through the delicate damsel’s veil.  He was losing himself to this fiend.

Who was he? Why had he come here? Surely, he must have offered himself to the great powers of the universe? Of course, he-

The oath, he must keep his oath. He cannot die yet.

Now with only one obedient eye, he fixated his gaze on his mother’s token, and began his counterattack. There was no time to strategize, only instinct. Struggling to form the syllables as his muscles rebelled, he recited the oath that defined him. Quivering voice growing stronger with every syllable he intoned the ancient pledge:

"I… pledge… my service and my loyalty… body and soul, to my Lord… When the clarion call is sounded, I will ride out and fight in the name of liege and Lady…”

Blood coated his chin.

“Whilst I draw breath, the lands bequeathed unto me will remain untainted by evil…”

The creatures screech echoed in his soul, as his errant eye came into focus.  

“Honor is All! Chivalry is All! This I swear on my blood and my breath!"

Raising his loyal arm to his shoulder, he gripped the feral presence with an armored fist, and pulled the shrieking daemonspawn from him. It writhed smoking in his outstretched grip, scrabbling at the consecrated silk in a vain attempt to escape.

“I am Gawain Belliquos! I am a knight of fair Brettonia, a servant of the Lady! And as I live and breathe SO DOES SHE!”

The young lord loosed a mighty bellow, his tightening grip causing the smoking veil to bloom into holy flame. Screaming in wordless fear, the daemon burned with it, until they were both no more.

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The ordeal had banished the pain and the voices, though he knew not why. Gawain rose to his feet, contending with a strong sense of vertigo that suddenly washed over him. Slowly he regained his senses, but could do naught but process the bizarre scene now laid out before him.

He found he was standing in the center of a titanic ivory causeway stretched impossibly long in either direction. White flagstones, carved in impossibly straight grooves, gave his feet firm purchase. The air felt electric, charged with tension; and strange calls warbled through the velvet tinted sky. Stranger still were the pilgrims that surrounded him. Though they were each uniquely garbed in silks and finery, most were angular, distorted creatures – their faces too narrow, features too fine. Some walked with awkward, stilted gait, their legs disjointed and ending in strange appendages; others almost seemed to leap forth, their graceful, shapely limbs propelling them forward unbelievable distances. Swift or slow, large or small, they all progressed down the bridge to some unknown destination in a single procession.

The nearest such abomination paused but a few feet from the stunned young lord. Planting a spiraled staff into the ground, the cloaked and hooded monster bent almost double to gaze at his visage. One impossibly lanky arm, extending from a five breasted thorax, pushed back its plush red hood to reveal a pouting, feminine face with two mouths too many. In concert they smiled, and all intoned,

“Welcome to the Causeway of Secrets, beautiful one.”  

In the distance, the dancer swayed, beckoning him with a slender, taloned finger.

[brosocrates]

The Nature of the Beast: Part 3

No scholar, mortal or otherwise, can allude to the exact details of what state Gawain found his brothers at the head of that caravan, but suffice to say it broke his noble spirit. Whatever had slain those brave souls had taken great care to arrange them in the abstract visage of a mad artist. Carefully peeled skin was the tapestry: shattered bones, clumped hair, and flayed muscle were the paint. If not for their father’s heraldry, prominently displayed before all else, the young lord might have never recognized his own kin.

Gawain fell to his knees, mud splattering his plate, and for the first time since they departed -he wept.

He wept for his brothers, their proud bodies broken and defiled.

He wept for his people, for by keeping his oath he had failed to protect them.

And he wept for fair Brettonia, for it was truly the end of times.

Choking in its passing, the Old World shuddered and wept with him.

Gawain kneeled there for a time, unmoving, even after the mist of his tears had faded. An hour passed and then another. For the first time since he had begun his long vigil, his mind was finally unclouded by doubt. Reaching into the muck, he retrieved his longsword, and mutely destroyed the foul shrine made of those he had once called family. Taking long, measured breaths in the rain, Gawain retrieved his mother’s veil and tied it to his gauntlet. Surrounded by the remains of his siblings, he swore a new oath to the Lady, no matter whether she could hear him or not.

An oath of vengeance, to visit ruin upon the being that orchestrated his suffering and the slaughter of his flesh and blood.

It was easy to pick up the trail of the horrid dancer, she had left traces of her passing on every tree and branch. Impossibly intricate and beautiful designs decorated dozens of the ancient oaks, blackened and rotting as they were from the corrupting influence of Chaos. There was no birdsong here, and the trees were silent but for the constant drone of the black rain. Occasionally he would see lone, monstrous figures stalking through the treeline, though they ignored his passing. The deeper he went, the more the forest was mired in gore of all kinds, and soon the song of battle rang fiercer than any Gawain had experienced before. Bullish and heavily horned, the greatest of the minotaur tribes and their twisted cousins sought battle against one another and the great winged Bloodthirsters that watched over this last, greatest of trials. The taint of the Cloven Ones was everywhere, the herdstones of lesser tribes already crushed and the mightiest of their number growing stronger, bathing the surrounding area in their baleful green aura.

Eyes roiling and sparking like flame followed the young lord as he passed beneath their gaze and into the forest beyond. All but one allowed him passage. A great monstrosity perched atop the nearest herdstone, now dropped to the ground with a crash like thunder. The two locked eyes, unmoving, until the hunter raised a terrible ax and howled an unearthly warcry. Rising to full height, it approached. Lumbering stride slowly picking up pace, the terrifying monster made to crush the interloper with it’s massively oversized blade. Gawain instinctively raised his longsword, sure that it would not be enough to stop the apocalyptic force of the beast’s blow. But there was another that had been waiting for that force of destruction to fall to earth.

Tearing through the treeline as if they were twigs came a great brute nearly the size of the beast, and brandishing an equally brutal weapon. The massive minotaur slammed into it’s opponent with enough force to shatter a castle wall, goring its shoulders and driving the abomination to the dirt with a guttural bray. Howling in rage, the bloodthirster beat its great wings, dislodging his new opponent before regaining his feet. The two locked horns and scooped great clumps of tainted sod in their struggle, each vying for dominance in a primal show of strength. The bloodthister twisted its great, corded neck and took the bull from his feet, though their horns had stay locked, dragging them both into the mud to continue their blood-trial.

While he would normally relish the opportunity to prove his valour against the greatest of foes, Gawain now had no room in his thoughts for anything but settling his grudge. He took his chance and continued following his prey out of the valley, his would-be hunter matched against an similarly bestial opponent. Had he examined his unlikely savior more closely, Gawain might have noticed the vibrant dancers sash tied about its weapon like a perverse token of favour.

A flock of bloated, squawking crows scrambled overhead, fleeing some terrible evil. He was close now. So very close.

[brosocrates]

The Nature of the Beast: Part 2

(Author’s Note: A little shorter for this part, but bigger, better things are on the way, I promise ;) 

Fun idea for a drinking game. Take a shot every time Gawain suffers. If you aren’t dead by the time this is done I haven’t been doing a good enough job.)

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Time stretched on.

Days had passed since he last slept, maybe weeks, through truly time seemed to have lost all meaning. Through the hazy pallor that had replaced the horizon, Gawain spied stranger events still. Here a knight with a bloody gorget and rusted armor dragged a chain of dessciated corpses behind him. There one of the noble dragons winged wounded through the air, singing a mournful dirge of drakesong before dipping into the dark once more. Flocks of shrieking harpies and fouler things flitted about the coast, feasting on the bloated, beached corpses. Something terrible crashed wheezing through the mist, and for once the young lord averted his gaze, lest he lose his mind to madness.

It began to rain. Fat, black droplets poured from the tortured atmosphere.

No sooner did he resume his vigil, did the young lord hear cries for help and the clash of battle among the trees. In spite of his fatigue, Gawain whistled sharply for his charger and took up his lance once more. While he would never break his vow to defend the innocent, he nurtured a shred of hope that even in this nightmare reality, his family might have returned to him. With vigor and fire in his belly, the last son of Belliquos sallied forth to the embrace of dark destiny.

Across the field and into the copse went Gawain, his mount straining for all the speed he could muster. Swiftly coming into view was a caravan, almost entirely slaughtered but for a handful of huddled, ragged survivors desperately backing into one of the few misshapen carts that remained. Their assailant was unlike anything the paladin had ever seen: shaped vaguely like a woman, draped in silks and fineries, she openly pranced about in strange and unnatural ways, seemingly unconcerned with the world around her. Gawain felt his heart chill as she skillfully pirouetted to face him and locked gazes. Her eyes were of the deepest pitch, a black, oily abyss that threatened to consume him should he venture too close. His horse reared in terror at the otherworldly abomination, throwing him from the saddle.

               Even as he fell, Gawain noted her perfect, porcelain features, slender crablike appendages, and one elegant twisting horn. He shuddered in revulsion - By the Lady, he would deny this creature.

Righting himself with difficulty, the young lord discarded his lance and roughly drew steel as he charged across what distance remained. The creature trilled with girlish delight and gracefully flipped over the innocents, her long claws removing limbs and heads with little effort. Their bodies, not recognizing their own passing, began to stand and run in confusion. Roaring at his own impotence, Gawain closed the gap, plowing through the walking corpses of the smallfolk and the dilapidated wagon with his shoulder. The dancer mocked him, skipping back with her hands covering her face like a bashful chambermaid. She spun away from his first blow, his sword slicing down through the tainted raindrops with no resistance. With a pained cry of rage, he struck again, lunging forward to skewer the inhuman foe – in defiance of all reason or thought, she twisted under the blade, placing demure kiss on his cheek. Shocked, Gawain swatted her away with the flat of his heater shield, at which she trilled in her reverberating, dulcet tones once more.

Though he made to press the attack, the she-devil’s deceptively lazy pace brought her to the treeline in the blink of an eye. For a moment they stood askance, daemon and mortal staring one another down across the muddy field. The dancer was the first to break the tense silence, draping herself across a nearby trunk like some lovesick troubadour in a play. Delicately, the daemon removed one of her garments and playfully let it fall from an outstretched hand – enticing him to follow her as she waltzed back into the shadows with a final cooing whisper. Gritting his teeth in frustration, the knight stayed his hand, instead doubling back to the caravan.

               Only the rustling of the trees and low roar of the rain answered his cries.

               The weight of impending failure heavy on him, Gawain made to check the fallen for signs of life. Though it was a faint hope, perhaps his efforts had not been in vain?

               In this moment, Gawain Belliquos could have been saved. Had he been less thorough in his search, he might have lived the rest of his days the valorous knight he had always been. Instead, he found a reason to throw away everything in a mad quest for vengeance that would cross the fabric of existence itself.

               In that moment, at the fore of the leading wagon, Gawain Belliquos found his family once more.

[brosocrates]

Now this is what I'm talking about. Colorful, funny, and progressively more depressing as time goes on!

This is part 1 of 2 of the last Star comic I did before Star vs the Forces of Evil went into development at Disney. At the time I had decided to make it a web comic with a through line where I would post a page a week or something. Its interesting looking back at these early incarnations and see how much the concept has changed and also stayed the same.  

[brosocrates]

The Nature of the Beast: Part 1

(Author’s Note: Decided to write the full backstory of my Slannesh Chaos Lord for Age of Sigmar. It’ll be done in parts leading up to the current timeline, but there is a lot of ground to cover between the end of The World that Was and the Storm of Sigmar! Criticism welcome, I’m a bit rusty on the pen.)

‘To understand the inhuman scourge known as Theron Thriceblessed, a seeker of proscribed knowledge would have to be steeped in the long-dead cultures of The World That Was. He would have to travel for many lifetimes, to query divine and daemonkind alike. Such a scholar would need bandy words with the God-King himself in high Sigmaron, and journey through the maddening corridors of the Crystal Labyrinth to translate the twisting tongues of Tzeentch’s many horrific scholars. Finally, though his mind be broken and soul hounded by winged furies, that man would see the nature of the terror yet to strike the Mortal Realms. A terror that approaches swiftly indeed…

Though long since fallen to darkness, the noble dynasties of Bretonnia had stood the long watch against the mighty armies of the Chaos Gods, remaining steadfast through honest steel and discipline. But even their greatest efforts could not halt the cataclysm that came for them. First came the traitorous Mallobaude – the self-proclaimed bastard son of the High King – who led the kingdom to a brutal civil war in the name of freedom from the worship of the Lady. In his wake came the deathless servants of Nagash and darker powers still, each cutting a swathe of destruction through the helpless countryside. Reunited by the miraculous return of their founder-turned-demigod Gilles Le Breton, the divine lord called forth the remaining knights for a grand Crusade. That mighty host purged the land of threats and charged forth into the heart of the Empire, where they brought the foul servants of the Plague God to battle.

But in their absence came the begotten spawn of the Horned Rat, swarming from their hidden warrens and gnawholes, devouring the terrified population in the absence of their protectors. Though they were valiant to the last, the few knights that remained could not stem the all-consuming tide alone and even these mighty heroes were lost beneath the screeching mobs.

It was in this period that the man who would become vile Thriceblessed came to prominence.

Gawain Belliquos was a son of the duke of a minor fief in the province of Bordeleaux and his wife, one of the mysterious damsels of the Lady. The youngest of his six brothers, he had little of his father’s strong features, instead bearing the soft features, piercing green eyes and silvery hair of his mother. And, though only the chambermaids would whisper of it, he had inherited his mother’s unearthly beauty. Traditionally, he would ride alongside his father, proudly bearing the house standard at the head of the lance. On this occasion however, Gawain had been charged with protection of his mother and stewardship of the lands in his lord’s absence – an honor he accepted dutifully, if not graciously. Kissing his father and brothers as they passed the threshold, they promised to return soon with tales of their glorious conquest.

A promise that would go unfulfilled.

Weeks turned to months, the skies darkened and the World That Was began to shudder in its death throes.

Scorning the concern of his attendants and the whispered words of his fey mother, the young lord lead increasingly frequent sorties into the wilds. He won many glories in these skirmishes, his small band cutting through many times their number through surprise and sheer fury. As the nights grew longer, his enemies multiplied: the Skaven were joined by the twisted beastkin of the deep forests and then fanged, long-limbed daemons. The companions he had rode with fell one by one, until only Gawain and a few loyal knights remained. Rumors had begun to circulate that Gilles and another warrior of legend were making their stand elsewhere in Brettonia, and steadily the remaining defenders sought to leave his stronghold. Some desired to stand with their king, some simply saw a small chance to avoid death and took it. Gawain did not stop them, but he never considered joining them. His duty was to his lands and his mother.

The young lord had taken to pacing the battlements alone, restless, always looking for a sign of his father’s return on the darkening horizon. He rarely removed his warplate, except to have repairs made and his armored form became a common sight atop the otherwise abandoned gatehouse. Only the hordes now remained outside the walls, but they did not seek to loot and pillage like before. Beyond the occasional raid they ignored the fastness of Belliquos entirely, seeming to flee south or, more perplexingly, into the sea. Ragged corpses washed up with the seafoam, their fur sodden and faces strangely at peace now they were out of the grasp of whatever horror was behind them.

As the sunlight waned for what would be the last time, Gawain’s aloof mother came to him on the battlement and pressed her veil into his open gauntlet. Kissing his bare cheek once, she wordlessly rode out the open gate and into the dark, never to return.

Now he alone stood watch. A lonely figure atop an abandoned fortress.

Perhaps this story might have ended there. Perhaps the next desperate warband would have overcome his solitary vigil and eaten him limb by limb, but an unexpected power intervened...’

[brosocrates]

ICE. COLD.

Happy holidays! Also dang Marco

[brosocrates]

[brosocrates]

Trash Magic

(Author’s note: Gotta push this stuff out somewhere right? A little something I whipped up at 4 AM. Happy Valentine’s, fuckos.)

“Trust me kid, I’m magical.”

               10 year old Francis Mackinnon did not believe the homeless man in front of him was magic. Far from it, actually.

               The hobo, for his part, was having none of it. Jauntily skipping from side to side in what he no doubt considered a bit of showmanship, he presented one dirty hand to the painful sounds of a popping wrist. Francis politely tried his best to smile.

“OBSERVE as I BAFFLE and BEFUDDLE you!” the smelly man exclaimed, lifting his ring finger slightly.

               Stopping his jig to gesture at it with an amazed look, he scrunched up his face and shoved the digit up his nostril, all the way down to the knuckle.

“SHIT FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.”

Possessing a juvenile sense of humor, Francis could appreciate the force of will required to stick a finger that far up one’s nose – but the hobo was talking like his parents when they gave custody over, and that concerned him. Also there was the matter of all the blood.

               Tears streamed down the man’s face as he gingerly pried his hand away from his ruined, bleeding nose. He cracked a crooked smile and Francis prepared to run.

               “Alright kid, trick went a little haywire, but no more messing around! Prepare-“ he stopped to hack up phlegm, “-Prepare to be amazed!”

               Resuming what was supposed to be a mystifying jig, he hopped to a nearby trashcan, and presented his bloody, snot covered hand in the same manner as his first attempt.

               Francis slowly turned around, hoping to flee before the man could hurt him or himself any more, but hesitated when his odd companion lunged forward, plucking a large black rat from the detritus with uncharacteristic dexterity. The boy’s eyes widened in surprise and he clapped mutely. Perhaps he had misjudged the self-proclaimed magician?

               Maintaining a shallow bow, “I’m so glad that I could entertain you, small one. The REAL MAGIC is in the hearts of CHILDR-“ The rat had clawed onto his fingers and sunk its small fangs into his palm. With a primal shriek of pain the vagrant fell to his knees, ripped his hissing attacker off and smashed it into the pavement with his good hand. The force of his blow caused the rat to simply explode, spraying his terrified audience with gore.

               Shocked, horrified, and dripping with dark blood, young Francis Mackinnon fled the alley in tears, abandoning his bright green backpack where it lay.

               “Wait kid you didn’t learn the value of friendship!” the hobo managed between sobs, cradling his abused extremity.

“Fucking rats.” He grumbled, let out a disappointed sigh and kicked the bloody remains away with his boot. Spying the child’s forgotten backpack, he scooped it up by the strap and fell heavily into the lid of the trashcan he had pulled the rat from, fumbling with the small zipper. He rummaged around inside for a minute, tossing aside Francis’ childish doodles and math homework until he found what he was searching for.

“Cheesestick, fuck yeah.”

               Chewing idly on the plastic wrapping of his delicious dairy discovery, the magician tossed the bag itself out of his can. After adjusting the trash beneath, he peacefully composed himself and rejected the conceptual reality of gravitational pull. Loosing a soul-wrenching scream as his psyche splintered in traumatic recognition of truths that were not truths, his filthy metal steed lifted steadily from the alleyway and far into the air. Into the clouds and beyond he flew, the only sign of his bizzare passing the echoing, agonized howl of his fractured mind and the guttural hunting call of the creatures that heard him.

               Maybe that donut shop on the west side was closing up for the night?

[brosocrates]

ever wanted to do some stuff? like, different stuff? tired of having to scroll through your huge ref tag? LOOK NO FURTHER!! Have a masterpost of LITERALLY EVERYTHING which took me 5 hours to make so reblog it

Art:

Painting tutorial

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How to shift images using blur in PS

Drawing clothe folding

How to draw ice

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Writing:

Inspiration 1

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Pokemon mystery dungeons iphone

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1000+ everything clothing ref

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Sowing:

8ft giant squid pattern

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Cheeseburger cupcakes

Deep-dish cookie for one

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Burning stomach fat

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PokéRadar guide

Play pokémon games online

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Mental health:

Talking about your mental health

[brosocrates]

A video made for the Museum of Cluny, and its “The Sword: Uses, Myths and Symbols” exhibit. It tries to dispel some of the beliefs that are still prevalent today about the weight and mobility of fighters in plate armor and show some of the techniques used in combat against armored opponents