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Wow, its been a while!

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The third installment of my tarot set - The Empress. Tranquil is a very old and dear character to me that survives a major catastrophe - and then lives long enough to raise a large family.

The Empress - in this deck, represents rebirth, creation, and a nurturing soul. How lucky am I to have the perfect character for her?

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I am really enjoying this art series! In two days I've knocked out another one of my favorite characters of Aqua's - you can find her if you look up "Jevereux" on Neopets. This character has undergone some big metamorphosis in the past few months, and I can't be happier with how this character has grown.

The Eye of God plot is an interesting plot with a lot of moving parts. Jev would be considered a demon - since she has developed horns - however she was not formed as most demons are formed. I chose her for the High Priestess because she embodies many aspects of this card; wisdom, balance and the future. Someday, I really do hope I can make a splash page with all of my plots listed!

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On the end of a pretty bad cold, I've finally finished the art secret santa exchange for my Neopets guild! So last night I started a project I've always wanted to do....a set of the Major Arcana cards with our characters! I love playing around with the meaning, and incorporating bits of the classical cards blended with character clues from our writing.

My first card (I'm waiting to do The Fool for last) features Aqua's character, Set - a strange man who lives quietly in Ingraed's home. Unlike most in his posse, Set is mysterious and quiet - a Clairvoyant in our plot that features technology and magic. His cards have very special qualities - I wonder what they mean? Aqua, you need to write more on him for us. If you're interesting in finding him on Neopets, you can find him under the pet name "Uninviting"

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Finally made a HA for Theo.

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There was something jarring about his wake-up, though there wasn't a particular sound that pulled him from his groggy sleep, bits of eye gunk crumbling from his ducts as he sat up in bed. No, it wasn't a sound: it was a realization that struck him so suddenly and completely, that he was now wide awake. Had it really already been two weeks? Samuel gropped his wrist for his watch, pressing one of the buttons on the side of its face to hear a mechanical voice rattle off "1:21 PM - July 26th" "Well, I'll be damned." He mumbled sleepily to no one, rubbing the last remnants of dust from his eyes before standing up. Bones cracked beneath his weight and muscles, still yet to receive the memo from his brain, unwillingly pulled into an uncomfortable stretch that made a dizziness sweep over him but passed almost instantly. Carefully, he shuffled around the living room table and into the kitchen, his ears pricked, on high alert for any movement in the house. Tentatively, he called. "Mom?" But no answer followed. "Dad?" This call, too, remained unanswered. A long shot, he had reasoned silently to himself, but a letdown all the same. They truly hadn't returned yet.

The cold floor tiles in the kitchen, which had once felt familiar beneath his feet, now felt odd, a thin layer of sticky something clinging to the top most layer of stone. To anyone else, this was a minor inconvenience at best, Samuel knew this. But it wasn't the feeling that bothered him the most (despite his being barefoot): it was how alien it felt. His mother had kept a spotless house: every other day, it felt like, she had dusted, mopped, swept and kept the most pristine house one could imagine and in a matter of only two weeks, fourteen long and lonely days, it had become...different. Perhaps not unrecognizable but not like home. It took Samuel almost a quarter of an hour to find something edible in the kitchen, one sniff test after another. Most of the smells, particularly those in the refrigerator, made his stomach turn despite his fleeing hope that keeping it closed might preserve some cold air (it hadn't) and the freezer - well, that was practically toxic waste after the electricity had gone. But the pantry might be safe. The ability to smell didn't lend itself well to pantry goods: dented and rusted edged cans and boxes of unrecognizable food stuffs that were normally leftover cake mixes forgotten in back over other, more desirable flavors. And although carrot cake would be like a gift from God over molded bits of bread and limp vegetables that oozed a repugnant sulfur scent, he had oven (or even ingredients) to kludge together. A box of pasta - it sounded like pasta, anyways - rattled as it slid off of the shelf and hit his feet, a single flutter of hope springing to life in Samuel's cramping stomach that was now roaring in discontent. And although the smell test was an easy win, the taste test had him choking and spitting so heartily that he could feel the bile rise into his throat. Once Samuel had tamped down the acid back into his stomach, he slammed the worthless pasta box into the trash, frustration overwhelming him at last. "Fucking moths." He hissed, feeling more like a spoiled brat than ever. If his dad could see his tantrum now... 'War means rations. Rations mean you eat what you can. Start being picky now and you won't survive, devil dog.' Samuel let the anger pass between his lips in a slow sigh, a sense of calm settling, albeit uneasily, over him as the minutes ticked by. He knew his dad - that somewhere, in all of that meticulous planning, he must have stored something in this house. Additional food, money, something that would be of use. But Samuel didn't know his parents' bedroom, the garage, any part of the house really, well enough to blindly go in search of something that may not even be there. Samuel couldn't even be sure that he didn't take it all with him when he bailed and knowing his dad, it would be locked up tighter than Fort Knox anyways, locked in a bulletproof, dynamite resistant safe with eighteen booby traps to keep thieves out. It's just the kind of guy he was. 'Is.' Past tense. That was never a welcome thought. Ten minutes later, after a far-too-easy battle between pride and hunger, a pot of water with small steamy wisps curling above its brim, bubbled on a makeshift stove. Pasta and insects mixed in a watery bath of starch and Samuel waited, every so often fishing out a noodle to taste it's consistency until it was done. Slopping it into a bowl, he waited until it cooled and carefully, rubbing each piece of pasta between his fingers (to make sure it was actually pasta), he chewed and swallowed the meal until only the dregs of insect parts and pasta residue remained. It was during this literal struggle meal, chewing up inconsistently cooked bits of bland, unsauced pasta, that he considered what to do next. And regardless of how many times he tried to usher the thought to the back of his mind, there was only one answer that fulfilled each question he asked himself. Abandon it all. During his packing, as he filled an old gym sack with only the most necessary items, lighters, matches, pocket knife, bandages, clothes, etc - Samuel didn't dwell on his plan. Planning, at this

point, seemed pointless on what he knew was practically a suicide mission. There was no planning in the world, by marine or government, that could make this idea seem like a good, sane one dreamt up by a rational person. But it was all he had left: so Samuel packed. He raided every square inch of his house, from the cabinets to drawers and everything between to make sure that he had it all because he would never step foot in this house again - at least not the way it was. Fingers lingered longer on each thing they touched, the tips molding into the furniture, the walls and the door handles as though trying to imprint himself on them, leaving a little of his soul behind to remind whomever stepped into this house next: this used to be somebody's home. A family's home. His touch found marks in the wood he had forgotten about years before, gashes deeper than the memories themselves, of his height as he grew from a boy into a man right in this very spot, his mom gently coaxing him down to make sure the mark was true. A sound in the far distance broke him out of his reverie and back to reality, a fierce battleground where the two things crashed into one another, unable to exist together in whatever the landscape of the world had become. Whether it was bombs, gunfire or something else, Samuel couldn't be sure by sound alone and his sight, well...it wouldn't do him any favors. Regardless, the sound had reminded him of something important, something he had almost forgotten: a weapon. The garage fit the bill as the best place to go, given that guns wouldn't be much use if he needed to aim but even this plethora of tools left him underwhelmed. Most of the them were good in a pinch but left too much space open for...whatever was out there. Short handles and plastic pieces made for disasters just waiting to happen until his boot, now steel-toed and heavy (courtesy of his dad, a birthday gift when he turned twenty) kicked something against the wall and it fell, with a clatter, to the concrete below. He grasped the something between his hands, feeling it from shaft to point as realization hit him: a crowbar! Samuel smiled to himself as the crowbar whooshed through the air, a comfortable feeling he was used to given his dad's medieval training regime had called for it over a year before. A weight seemed to settle in his stomach as that memory cast a shadow over his mind: how he had spent weeks, months, even, poking fun at his dad. 'It's like you think the world's going to end.' 'You never know.' is all he would say, tight-lipped and focused. Crowbar in hand, bag slung over his shoulder, note on the counter in case of his mom or dad's return, Samuel stood at the front door, hand grasping the latch firmly but unsure. Glancing back at the house (as though he could really see any of it), he took one final breath of his life before and stepped out into life as he would now know it.

INTO THE CHAOS

Exhaustion had already begun to overtake Samuel's senses, though the day (was it day?) had just begun. Nine days he had been out here: nine. And each one felt more impossible than the one before it. Samuel had known what he was signing up for: a fight followed by inevitable safety; after all, the government should be close by. But what he found instead, after stepping outside those doors, was an eerily silent world. Los Angeles was a thriving metropolis. No matter where one might live within the city, whether beyond the city lines or into its heart, noise was a fact of life. Noise meant business, business meant opportunity and opportunity meant that there were always those willing and passionate enough to chase their good fortunes here. They were a melting pot of, not only the United States but the world itself but suddenly, it was though the sound had been shut off. Where there had once been bumper locked cars Ventura Freeway and through to the 5 honking at one another, there were now massive car lots with vehicles, deceased and motionless, piled up on the highways like junkyards. Where Rodeo Drive was once filled to the bursting point with celebrities and wealthy socialites alike, eating brunch and swapping stories, had now gone dark and deserted, trash and glass littering the streets from ransacked businesses and overloaded trash receptacles. There were no planes overhead nor the wail of sirens: the world had gone catatonic. Thirty minutes out on his first day of exploration was all it took for Samuel to realize how wrong things were. But it wasn't the quiet that created that impact: it was the smell. Decay like he had never smelled before assaulted him in full force, a mix of rotting meat that had been dumped into open sewage that made his stomach knot and nearly brought him to his knees retching was his first clue. Santa Monica Boulevard was filled with one vehicle after another, each containing what had to have been raw meat. Samuel tried to make sense of where he was going but the smell had made him light-headed and disoriented - just as a hand grabbed him. But the hand was wrong - all wrong. Half of it felt like old fabric, worn and stretched and the other was pure bone. Instinctively, Samuel had pushed the body away as roughly as he could and spoke openly. "What do you want?" But the response was inhuman. A gurgle, a growl and then it launched itself, full force at him again. It was determined to win. And that had been his first experience with them: the zombies, he had called them, for lack of a better term. Without seeing them, he wasn't 100% certain that's what they were but he had since battled enough of them to know for sure: they definately weren't human anymore. The creatures, once human, were odd. The zombies had personalities, at least, that's what he liked to imagine them as - for, again, lack of a better term. Some of them were fearful and may attack in hopes of scoring a much needed feast (did they even eat?) but, when attacked, may run. Others may be more quiet, take a careful approach but would run and try their luck another day. Some were vicious, violent even and despite repeated attacks across their torso and face, they refused to yield to him. These, Samuel had decided, were his least favorite. The way in which he had to kill them...it was barbaric and made his body shake just thinking about it. Many he tried to leave alive - those that wouldn't come back fighting - but the relentless ones proved impossible to result in anything but their own deaths. Quickly, it became apparent to Samuel, that this was going to be the fight of his life and if he wanted to find his parents, he would have to do what was necessary. It was during the times of exploration, not fighting, that he would wonder silently to himself: what would he even say to his parents when he saw them? Would they be angry at him for leaving? Or simply overjoyed to see him? Or completely horrified by what he had done to get there? Samuel didn't want to imagine, couldn't imagine, his mother's soft honey-sweet voice, coated in

disappointment and fear as she repeated his story to herself in horror at what Samuel had done to get to them. "They were people..." She'd cry, tears streaming down her face silently as her voice broke. But were they? Samuel didn't know anymore. Was he being callous? Smart? How were others surviving? Samuel felt his nose throb painfully as he thought back on what his first encounter with a living person had been like, three days into his journey. It was a warmer day than he had anticipated, sweat and dirt collecting on his forehead and leaking into his eyes as Samuel wandered aimlessly in search of something recognizable, some semblance of humanity as he had remembered it. Calling out, he had deduced the first day, was dangerous and not only invited the living towards him but also the dead. It was the first time Samuel had to run, rather than fight, in order to escape a small hoard, at least ten strong. As he came up a street which felt open and wide, he heard, only a few yards or so in front of him, the shuffling of chipped concrete on the road. Samuel's voice died in his throat as he tried to speak, realizing what had happened only moments ago; instead, he waited for the thing to make its first move. And it wasted no time. An arm collided suddenly with Samuel's nose and jaw, knocking him back onto the ground and flat onto his back. The air in his lungs was pushed out of him with such force that he thought they must have been punctured, deflated like a balloon. But it was just the impact. Hands suddenly began groping all over his body, fingers tightening around the strap of his backpack in a death grip that caused Samuel to react without hesitation. He held his backpack strong, the single piece of a life raft used to keep him afloat and refused to yield. "Letitgo!" Samuel mumbled, still laying on the ground, blood soaking the front of his shirt from his nose as he scuffled with the stranger. "You. bastard." A man's voice growled, scratchy and hoarse as he swung a kick at Samuel's head, which he narrowly avoided. "Just give me the damned stuff." Another swing gave Samuel his chance: he grabbed the man's leg with both of his arms and twisted it beneath him, finally bringing the assailant to the ground. The two wrestled furiously back and forth, each gaining and then losing the upper hand until the man had crawled just out of Samuel's reach, hands and knees shifting the gravel beneath and took off, empty-handed as he had come. Pure rage surged in Samuel as his nose pulsed once again and his temptation to go after the man, give him just an ounce of the trouble he had shown Samuel, would be all too-easy. But it was thoughts of his mom that made him reconsider. These were desperate times. That man was probably kind and honest at some point. But who knew what he had gone through since all of his happened? Who knew what he had to do to survive? The rage began to die away in Samuel, who rose rather shakily from his encounter but was back on his feet. Desperation made people do stupid things. The sun was up already up today: Samuel knew because the heat radiated warmth that his skin ate up greedily following a restless night's sleep. His breakfast? A can of cold beans he had managed to pick up during a raid of a corner store, forgotten on the floor beneath mountains of trash and splintered wood that the store had become since the outbreak. It wasn't bad - all things considered - but meal times were stressful: they were also time for planning. And after nine miserable days out here, Samuel wasn't sure where else to go or what else he could do. Turning around was no longer an option: he couldn't find his way home if he tried and help wasn't likely to just turn up with directions or a Sherpa on lend. And there had been no sign of his parents or any government outfit they were part of anywhere that he had found. Even police, search and rescue, fire rescue or EMTs seemed to be MIA as sirens remained only the call of desperate civilians hoping for rescue but drawing only the dead ever closer. Should he just stay where he was? Hold

up in one of the businesses in hopes that he would be found by the right people? Samuel let the last few drops of sweet liquid from the bean can drain into his mouth as he steeled himself to push forward even without a particular destination in mind. Surely, he thought, if kept at it long enough, there might be at least one sane survivor or government agency left that could help him locate his parents. So, undeterred by his seemingly hopeless mission, Samuel pushed on. Hours ticked by, only passed by waves of hoards that would seemingly appear out of nowhere, fight before fleeing and then suddenly disappear, and hours of silence would replace the action. He wandered until his legs became sore, would stop to rest on the curb of of some unknown street before continuing on with crowbar in hand. It was as he turned the next street that he heard something unusual that made his legs freeze: footsteps. Plural. There were multiple people - all walking in the same direction - all trying to tread lightly. Zombies, at least the ones he had run across in the past, didn't go out of their way to be quiet. They lumbered around on thick, trunk-like legs and drunkenly stumbled into things, unbothered by the sounds they made as they stepped one lazy foot in front of the other. But this...this wasn't right. Carefully, Samuel listened and felt as though they might be speaking but the words were inaudible and still too distant to be sure and rarely, even the zombies tried to mimic something that sounded close to speech. Could they...be smart enough to set traps? A lump had formed in Samuel's throat and his mouth had gone dry, the skin of his lips peeling away from one another painfully as he breathed in quiet, calming bursts through his mouth. He inched closer, crouching low on his feet as he stealthily closed in on the voices who were definately speaking but were they friendly? Just as Samuel took one final step forward, he could hear a piece of glass crunch beneath his toes, echoing off the buildings in what had been a relatively dead silence. A flurry of movement suggested that the noise had not gone unnoticed and before Samuel could back his way out of danger, the footsteps closed in and surrounded him. "These things know how to use weapons? Holy shit!" The voice was that of a younger boy, maybe thirteen at their youngest or eighteen at the oldest. It was a little shrill, a mild note of concern in his voice. A long, tired sigh followed this exclamation. "What have I told you about thinkin' before you speak, Omega Six?" "I'm just saying, it-" But the older man's voice, more gravelly and age-worn voice cut across him. "Drop your weapon and show us your hands, if you're human." Samuel scowled at the order; another thief. And he wasn't about to get on the other side of an assault again. He gripped his crowbar tighter in protest. "I won't repeat myself again. Drop your weapon and show us your hands or we'll have to shoot." "Ted, I don't think it's alive. Look at all the blood on it..." The younger voice said again, definite panic showing in his voice. Another disgruntled snort. "Alpha Two. How many times do I gotta say it?" "Shut up guys. I think it's gonna try to talk." This voice was another new one, yet another male's voice but with an accent that Samuel could only describe as smooth. The letters seem to roll into one another in a way that typical American accents didn't. Samuel held up his hands, slowly but surely and let the crowbar clatter to the ground. A white flag; the surrender they wanted. "Oh shit, he's human! Awesome, we found an-" "What's wrong with your eyes?" The older man, Ted, interrupted yet again, his voice still hard and tired. "Does the light hurt them?" Finally, Samuel spoke. "No, I-" "Then open your eyes." "Ted, I think he's-" "He could've been freshly bit, just starting the change, David." His voice turned it's attention back to Samuel. "Open your eyes." Fuck. This wouldn't be easy to explain. "I was born blind. I was not bit." Samuel explained evenly, opening one of his eyes and then the other to a chorus of

almost hushed gasps. "My eyes are naturally blue and the-" "Pull off your shirt. We'll check you for bites." Ted barked and Samuel just smiled, impatience growing. "I'm not taking off my clothes for you, sorry. Show isn't free." Samuel combatted stubbornly, a small chuckle coming from somewhere in the crowd. A gun readied, closer to Samuel than before. "We just have to make sure you ain't bit." Samuel's smirk didn't falter. "I ain't bit." He mimicked the slight drawl of the accent in a humorous way. "I'm blind. I told you. My eyes are naturally blue and I've just devel-" A small agreement made its way around the circle, the whispered "Now" enough to give Samuel the warning he needed to scoop up his crowbar and start swinging unapologetically. The crowbar made contact repeatedly though Samuel wasn't sure with what until the younger guy's voice, David's, reacted with an "Owwwww! Damn Ted, he got me!" It was utter chaos, hands grabbing his arms and legs and immobilizing him completely until he was hog-tied and being carried, unwillingly, away from his weapon. He cursed, spit and attempted to bite anyone he could reach but, by this point, they knew to stay clear. "Should we check him here?" The smooth, unidentified male voice asked to his left. "Nah, just throw him in the back. Don't think we're gonna find anyone else 'round here so he ain't gonna hurt nothin' but himself in there." Samuel was suddenly tossed unceremoniously through the air and landed with a painful thud on cold metal that made his already sore body ache. "We'll check him when we get back to the Colony." "Damn Ted, this really hurts..." Their voices became faint as they closed the doors, the metal ground of whatever he was laying on lurching as they piled in elsewhere, just beyond where Samuel could hear. Muffled voices joked, laughed and complained all the way to wherever they were going and now, Samuel could only hope he was safe. Whatever the Colony was, it had to be better than 'out there', right?

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It's a harsh reality to find out you've only ever drawn 7 of your current characters. <3 Also I've spent the first day of my Christmas break making a spreadsheet landing page to automatically tally totals from other pages because that's what cool kids do.

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Writing Exercise: Dreams

It landed upon him like the sick moist smell of rot, the instant and all-consuming inky blackness of night. It was overcast above, and coupled with the 9PM blackout below - he struggled to make the edges of the buildings as he flew past them. His fingers stung with the effort of each grab, shaking under the sprinting conditions in which he found himself jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He could hear them behind him - two men, struggling for breath without an ounce of grace as they attempted and failed at matching his pace.

Sinclair Parker, of course, knew how to control his breathing even though his lungs tore at his ribs for more air. The pain caused tears to threaten the holds of his eyelids, but what's more than just being embarrassing; his vision threatened to add to his precarious position via way of wavering reflections. He propelled himself out of a lengthening leap with the palm of his hand, and caught his gasp in his throat as he felt the crumbling older building give way just a fraction of an inch under him.

He hadn't counted on that.

He twisted his body in midair, guiding his fall a bit more toward the side of the brick building, quickly reevaluating his predicament. His fingers caught on a passing windowledge, giving away his position with the deep thud of a ribcage hitting stone as he clung for dear life. All the air escaped his body, painfully, and he had to grind his teeth together to prevent a cry of pain.

The stampeding Harbingers above him must not have heard him, for they leapt from the crumbling rooftop to the next without so much as a backwards glance.

They hadn't heard him slip. They hadn't seen him fall there, in the dark.

Sinclair was safe - for now. But he wouldn't be for long if he continued to hang there, dangling from mere fingertips, eye-level with the backside of some poor individual's dresser peeking at him through the glass. Soundlessly, he hoisted himself up - toes of his boots meeting his fingertips as he crouched on the ledge. It must have been six inches in depth at the maximum - but it gave him just enough foothold to provide the leverage to try the window. The screen was warped and easily removed with one hand, propped against his bent knee as he pushed upward on the glass.

It wasn't surprising to feel it give way to the pressure; it wouldn't have been plausible to think someone may be trying to break into a 17th floor window like this. Apartments like this had popped up all around Dallas in the previous decades, the one-story dwellings of the suburbs long ago purchased by companies that could afford such a luxury.

He folded himself into the window, taking the screen with him and laying it gently to the side of the dresser. As he had expected, next to him lay a sleeping individual who had not yet been alerted to his presence. The smell of gasoline and city smog gave way to the tinny smell of an air purifier combined with the artificial smell of some kind of plug in air freshener. Some sort of masculine scent; this was a boy's room.

Sin carefully padded his way around the room, hoping for some kind of pile of laundry from which to pull a disguise. But alas, the room was immaculately clean; sterile white walls and somewhat seafoamish colored accessories. It looked a bit like a hospital, and with a small lift of one corner of his lips, he noted the medical books stacked neatly on the shining white desk next to the door. That would be why, wouldn't it?

He touched the doorknob gingerly, feeling for the amount of give in the metal as he gave it a gentle turn. He would have to leave this room and explore the apartment for new clothes before he made his escape, down the block and next to the 24-hour easymart where he kept his bike stowed. His thoughts were firmly planted in the next half hour when a rustling sound brought him crashing back to the moment; down the hall, he could hear those trained feet doing the same as he were doing; padding along, trying doors.

Sin wheeled his arms around in surprise. How had they found him already? Those clumsy, oafish Harbingers were barely useful for anything more than cheap entertainment for the afternoon...how could they have picked this one apartment out of the hundreds in this building?

He picked up his feet much higher than he needed as he made a silent dash for the closet - mercifully ajar - and dove right on in. He had barely the time to bring the door closed, just shy of latching, before the door to the sleeping boy's room flew ajar. Sin recoiled at the sound of hinges squeaking noticeably, and he cursed their poor training as the occupant of the sole bed of the room flew up to a sitting position.

"Who's there?!?" the occupant spat in that sweet circular spot between asleep with non-reality and fear. His tongue clicked as he tried to wake enough to match his pounding heart - and with a plastic "click" he flicked on the bedside table lamp.

The cold of the December night crashed into Sin all at once as horrible recognition swept over him. Those green eyes and messy black hair glinted in the sudden bulblight, a soft cotton pajama shirt coming unbuttoned just at the top. His cheeks were flushed with pink but his fingers were pale, and his chest rose with the sudden and shallow breathing of a bird.

The figure in the doorway took a single purposeful step into the room, his knee clicking with a familiarity that made Sinclair's stomach crawl. The heel of his large boot hit the soft carpet, soiling it with a thick cake of mud. Those boots were all wrong for jumping and scaling walls...his bones screamed at every move he made, now his shoulder creaking as he reached for his waistband. This man was not a Harbinger at all. His body was a hulking black monolith against the suddenly weak-seeming lamp, and only after another step did the light finally break past the crust of darkness that obscured him. The man's yellow eyes were not trained on the bed, despite his purposeful steps in that direction; they stayed trained on the small crack in the closet, locking eyes with the occupant inside. The man was preparing to put on a show for the wretched creature trapped in the closet.

Sin felt a scream crawl up his throat, quite uncharacteristic of him - before a flying arm of a hanging sweater next to him in that closet suddenly flung itself over his lips. It muffled him, and at once Sin began fighting. He saw the man progress another step, as if slowed in time, and horror painted Sin's mind a bruised red around the field of his vision. He grasped at the threads of the clothing that hung around him, now wrapping themselves around his legs, causing him to fall sideways awkwardly in the closet. He ripped away a shred of sweater sleeve as he thrashed about, causing all kinds of noise in his tomb. As soon as he worked up a gasp to fill his lungs, the leg of cotton pants found their way into his mouth now, creeping for his throat as he rolled his alligator death roll with as much force as he could muster. He could hear all kinds of activity now outside of his door - blinded by the darkness and shrieking for want of helping the poor occupant of that room. Finally, he clutched the corner of some bit of cloth, pulling it down with a rip that tore at his throat with an angry red burn;

"KASER!" he finally choked, sitting up in his bed. Sin panted as his confused eyes took in the scene around him, suddenly askew and distorted in angles that did not make sense to his sleeping brain. He had been in the closet just a blink ago, the lit room extinguished now as he stared at the closet door from the outside, as if transported. He heard a gasp next to him, and a clumsy fumble for the bedside light on the other side of the mattress. It clicked on with jarring brightness, causing Sin to blink away confusion. He jumped to his feet to scan the room for him - for Liam - but as soon as he pulled his muscles tight to throw him to his feet, he flopped forward awkwardly.

The sheets had wrapped themselves around his body, a cocoon of bad dreams that had been wound tightly with the tossing and turning. The closet with it's grabbing threads and flailing shirt sleeves came to stunning realization as the pathetic man narrowed his eyes at his own trap. He heard a snort of humor behind him, next to him, warm and safe. The humiliation of his situation flared inside of his chest as he tore the sheet off of his body, throwing great handfuls of the shroud over the side of the bed and muttering words that he hoped couldn't be heard. Before those giggles could continue, Sin silenced them firmly, pulling Kaser close to him when he was done.

"Geeze Sin...what did you dream about?" he asked at last, green eyes staring up at him in confused curiosity. The sounds he had heard in that closet in his dream drifted somewhere under his consciousness, but with Kaser safe right next to him...the thoughts were already beginning to fade.

"Nothing. Go back to bed." he demanded, the weight of sleep pulling at his eyelids once more. "But this time don't run from me."

Kaser tilted his head in confusion until he could feel the tightening of interlocking fingers. With a sigh of submission, the two slipped back into that world of nonsensical sleep - with no sheet around Sinclair to spook him, and with fingers grounding him to the reality of safety at long, long last.

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Oh my goodness...I started those emotion practice sheets in the prior weeks and I really wanted to flex those new muscles in a proper portrait. Well, that turned into a full body, then that turned into a background, then that turned into rendering and trying out new brushes and...well anyway, meet Bahal Ciid. This is Aqua's character on Subeta, and his character is in our And When They Called plot. He plays opposite of my Sabra. Here's a blurb from the author herself: "Bahal Ciid, so named by the explorers who previously stepped foot in this realm, is a sea serpent - and perhaps the most dangerous of them all. Rumored to have been "so cruel that he was cast out by the sea itself", Bahal Ciid is forced to live the remainder of his life on an isolated, sandy bit of land...until newcomers arrive. Released from his prison, but still under the control of a mysterious horn carved of his own, detached one, he has no choice but to behave himself. Unable to escape into the sea, he has found himself a new prison: trapped on a boat alongside the humans he once despised and forced to interact with hundreds of dangerous, cute, odd and just plain annoying creatures such as the gnome (featured, in hand) until the humans can return to their rightful world.

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Writing Exercise: Mani

Mani chose his footfalls carefully, his journey to the top of the hill a painstaking one. He leaned heavily upon his walking stick, a rhythmic deep clicking sound accompanying him as his left hip popped with every step. His eyes were covered with a misty white veil, obscuring all but the nearest and brightest of colors, so most of his journey would rely on touch alone - this would not be difficult, seeing as he had made this path hundreds of times.

It was a well-trodden, packed earthen road behind the home he shared with his William for decades now, and it was one of the only walks he elected to take in his old, old age. At long last, he crested the hill; a once short walk that now reduced him to heaving for breath, sweat beading in the white scraggly strands of his long beard. He reached out in front of him, right where he knew it would be: about twenty years ago, his talented carver created a loving gift - a solid block of oak carved into a smooth, beautiful bench that ivy loved to grow up on. With surprising dexterity and speed, he waved his wrinkled fingers over the bench, catching at wispy new vines to be pulled away. Finally, he heaved himself onto the comforting wooden seat, sighing deeply as his hip gave one more deep pop.

He paused for a moment, enjoying the feeling of restful peace after the struggle of walking such a way; he felt as if he were melting into a formless pile of colorful fabric, wires and wrinkled skin. Maybe he were, he thought with a chuckle - one goes stark raving blind just at the right time in old age, just when one no longer cares about appearances. With a deep breath, Mani began fishing around on his chest for just the right bottle. He had many glittering, clinking vials around his neck, hung on cords for easy reach - and he could recognize by touch exactly which potion he were grabbing. Finally, his fingers grasped a delicately thin bottle with a curious globe shaped top, and after uncorking it, he drank the liquid inside with relish. He always loved this particular creation, he had been buying it at Helena's Brews for almost forty years - first by the young and hopeful Alchemist that moved there, and then by her daughter and now her granddaughter.

With brilliant splendor, it was as if a sleeping man had opened his eyes to the bright sunlight after a midday nap. The hilltop came into sharp (almost painful) focus, the rays of morning sun illuminating the network of pathways below linked cheerily between patches of flowers, berry brambles, and structures. As if he had suddenly been pulled from a very deep pool, the weight of old age and his own bones were lifted; instead of walking through syrup pressing against him at all sides, it became as easy as gliding as he stood to his feet at once and took an easy jog down the slope of the hill.

Mani!" She was a little thing, maybe six years old with big, hopeful brown eyes. Her black curly hair had been carefully pulled into tight braids which clinked cheerfully against each other, hand-carved wooden beads creating music with every motion she made. He loved her as he would love his own, and with only a little effort, he bent low to scoop her into his arms.

Lottie." he said affectionately, brushing away a striking smear of white ash from her cheek with his thumb. She seemed pleased with herself for the mess she had made of her dress, as she were holding a charcoaled bit of log.

I read the lines, Mani! Just like you showed me!" She chirped proudly, holding the log up to his eyes. He couldn't help himself as he read the splits in the bark, breaking from the center and outward in a pleasing pattern.

Oh yes?" he said patiently, reading quite distinctly that he were going to have terrible heartburn that night. "And what do you see?

A pretty flower!" she said, looking at the deeply lined wood in awe.

Ah...yes, well, keep practicing." Mani encouraged, putting the girl to her feet. She was beaming, positively radiating energy and joy. "You've done a fantastic job.

Really?" she gasped, looking into his eyes with astonishment. "I think I've seen those flowers before, you know!

Mani looked up at the man approaching him, recognizing the deep furrow of fatherly disapproval. William stopped about a dozen feet away before he crossed his muscular arms, his woodcarving tools swinging at his hip as he tapped his foot impatiently. With a sheepish grin, Mani patted Lottie's head, sending small poofs of white ash into the air as he did so. That was the last straw, as William crossed the space between them and Lottie got the hint.

Imma go find them!" she jilted quickly as she turned tail to run into the nearby forest, her precious scrying log forgotten as it clunked against the dirt. William had opened his mouth to call after her, but Mani pressed his finger against his lips until the sounds of the little girl hauling through the brush faded to silence.

What one earth are you teaching this girl?" William sighed, more exhausted than angry as he watched after her. "You do realize her life is very different in our world than for you in your world. They're going to think she's...she's not right.

Mani stared at the man in front of him, unable to prevent the tears from gathering in his eyes. He wasn't sure where the tears were coming from, but they didn't seem to bother William as he finally focused on the witch in front of him. He looked full of life, the morning light casting a golden hue onto his healthy skin and clear golden brown eyes. His concern came from love and nothing more, and Mani understood completely. Yes, it was a hard life ahead of her should she continue to play pretend. But the thing was, the thing that William struggled to understand - the girl was not playing pretend at all.

A bubbling in his gut pulled Mani from the tender moment, and he frowned. No, it was premature - it wasn't time yet. A ripple distorted William's face as if an intense heat had erupted between the two of them, and Mani watched as William's face had grown soft, the furrows of his brows released. "Mani...you know, Lottie hasn't been this happy since her mother..." his voice wavered a bit, and although the heat waves continued to grow in intensity, Mani knew he were the only one that could see them. He reached his hand out and touched William's cheek, round and soft as ever, the heat of his body causing goosebumps to raise on Mani's skin. "I'm happy I found you again, Mani." said William, opening his eyes one more time, filled with beauty, filled with strength.

I am too. I always am." Mani repeated the lines as he always did, knowing what to say next. The image in front of him began to grow misty, jittering from side to side in great heaves as the image faded. From the forest, however, his attention had been torn.

Mani!" Lottie called, running through the trees once again. "Mani! I have them...

Lottie?" Mani asked, squinting now against the haze. He couldn't see much anymore...deep green giving way to the dark brown of her skin. A flash of purple, as well? His spine felt it first, a deep weight settled over him as his eyes fluttered against the focus.

Mani." Lottie said kindly, her hands scooping his into them. Her hands were delicate and soft, although beginning to wrinkle just around her knuckles. He felt of them gingerly, and realized with a start that she had indeed found that flower she took off for. A burning in his chest indicated to Mani that they had both been right - and with sudden speed, the seemingly sleepy old man snatched up the flower and shoved it gratefully into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowing the slimy secretions in great gulps to extinguish the dry heat in his throat. The woman in front of him had a frown in her voice. "You know that memory potion gives you heartburn every time!" she didn't sound at all concerned, as Mani might be old and blind but still a sage nonetheless. "Why do you come up here and drink that old stuff? Daddy's been looking for you for half an hour!

Mani just chuckled, heaving himself up to a standing position with great difficulty, leaning on his walking stick and the shoulder of his adopted daughter. His hip however, had stopped it's clicking - and although he wobbled from his own weight, the pain had disappeared. "That potion is good for other things, you know." he warbled good-naturedly, knowing that her gentle hands would lead him down the path to present day thoughts, present day William and maybe a pleasant brunch with any luck.

You old fool." she laughed with a familiar smile in her voice. "Which memory was it this time?

The stories he told of the memory trips he took always required the entire length of the path back home, and Mani was grateful for the patience Lottie showed him as he rambled. By the time he had embellished the simple memory to include a grand battle and a romantic interlude, they appeared on the back porch of his own home. The sounds of William clinking around in the kitchen and the smells of frying bacon greeted him, and his simple wants of a quiet family meal were sure to become a reality. All around him from down the street, the sounds of unfamiliar people and bustling activity reached his ears, but his sight had gone years before he caught glimpses of how the world had been changing around him.

There you are! Mani - if I have told you a thousand times -" William began, but with the press of a wrinkled finger, Mani shushed him. He felt of his face, the plump firmness of youth given way to the soft, almost deflated feeling of old skin. It was beauty beyond compare no matter what age he felt with him, and with a glad toothless smile, Mani showed his emotion rather than saying it. Not everyone has the grand honor of achieving a great age - but of all the things this man had seen and done, it was his proudest achievement.

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It was so exciting working on the character workshop!!! After lots of time and work, I finished with the 'exalted' familiar. How exciting! The prompt for this little drawing was "a selfie style picture", and I took the meaning quite literally. Alex would be the type of character that would really enjoy taking selfies, if they existed in her world. So, I had some fun with it!

Also, here is a more formal draw up of Alex, including her wires this time....her wires are paramount to her transfer of energy, but they're so intricate to draw that I had never made a proper reference picture for her. Also, her hair!!!!

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I'm finally earning my Wings of Virtue in my Neopets guild! I was super nervous to draw someone else's character again...but something about Lix just really spoke to me. Steph has created a very unique and visually stunning character that incorporates her labbie reality into her story as a shapeshifter! I am honored to make something for a character such as this one, and I really hope you like it!

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A little bit of emotion practice! I'm so exhausted of having my pictures look like fascinated dead fish with longrange stares. This is Matt, a character I created probably around 2005, and has been created and frozen so many times that I don't have him on any petsite. I need to fix this - he's truly a jewel of a character that goes through so much character development. I begin his story when he is around 13, and in his current story arc he is in his 40's with two kids and a much better life. Honestly, it was nice to see him laughing after what I put this poor man through!

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Writing Exercise: Ehuang

Ehuang awoke to a burning cold prickling her skin, the tell-tale feeling that one gets when a stinging insect's poison floods over their consciousness. She curled up in her bed, doubling over in pain as the pinpricks of discomfort washed over her, starting from her toes and finally cresting up over her head before starting to grow at her toes again. No, this was no kind of insects...thousands of them, maybe, but not just one.

What...on earth?" She stumbled out of bed, the sound of her body hitting the wooden slats below waking her temple attendants. The young man bounded up the stairs quickly before helping Ehuang straighten to her feet, and his eyes were filled with alarm.

Madam, you're soaked!" he commented with worry, pressing his flat palm against her clammy arm. She just nodded unhappily, another wave of pain hitting her as she shuttered miserably. "I will get the doctor. Just...just sit here!" he demanded before taking flight down the stairs once more.

She wished he hadn't have left her. She groaned, reaching for her nightstand to steady herself. The least that idiot could have done was lay her down again! After what seemed like an eternity, a kindly old woman finally made her way into her room - gratefully, she had the common sense to lay Ehuang out before examining her. Sheepishly, her attendant went downstairs to hopefully alert the neighbors.

The doctor made sounds here and there of displeasure, and that only deepened Ehuang's worry. "Oh dear." She said at last, tipping a seashell brimming with disgusting liquid down Ehuang's throat. At this point, in so much discomfort, she would have gladly drank anything. Almost at once, while her stomach had begun to churn, the pain her bones and her skin began to fall away.

Thank you, m'lady. What on earth happened?" Ehuang's usually fiery tone had been somewhat extinguished by the ordeal. "Am I ill?

No..." said the kind woman as she began mixing and crushing mysterious herbs (and to Ehuang's disgust, a full dead fish...bones and all). "I'm afraid...something's happened to the Xiang.

The shock of what she said hit Ehuang like a frozen blanket thrown from the ceiling at her, physically freezing her limbs in place. Her stomach had stopped churning simply for the fact that it had sunk within her. "Something happened to my river?" She said, her voice first filled with concern - although now, a hardened edge had begun to creep in. Pounding on the stairs below signified that another set of feet had begun to rush someone upward, and it were exactly who Ehuang had hoped it would be as the door to her room flung open.

Shui! she cried out, the anger she had been threatening to pull down within herself giving way to relief and fear. Tears began to fall down her cheeks as she reached out for her twin brother, who had been clearly roused from sleep in the temple just next door. "Shui it's horrible...something...something must have happened to River Xiang!

She pulled her face from her brother's tunic to see a puzzling -disallowed_word- evidently) filling in and pinching off the flow of River Xiang in order to build a new set of lofts. The image illuminated by the moonlight burned into Ehuang's eyes, enraging her.

A swell had begun to build in the river, the banks suddenly becoming soggy as the sloshing sounds of unexpected water rolled in. She thought about the people she had so generously allowed to build on her banks, pollute her waters, take from her body. A firm hand on her shoulder made her spin around, meeting the eyes of her brother. No, there was no mistaking it in the moonlight - they glinted with a hint of coldness she had seen before on occasion.

Don't you see that this is just progress?" he pressed. "Eventually, they will move beyond the cities. They will build buildings, roads and bridges even over you. You are not special, Ehuang. They have to do this to grow and to develop. I know what you believe to be true...

Believe to be true?" she spat. It wasn't on accident that the river had begun to swell deeper, the trickling banks becoming louder. "What is this believe to be true, brother? Are you not my twin? Is this not our river?

Shui just stared ahead at the river that had begun to swell, and Ehuang forced the river to grow and to rage. She felt dizzy and sick, the pain from before and the disgust she felt for her own brother clouded her judgement. Water roared as just-laid soil, shoveled from somewhere else and then dumped right into the bank, began to sweep downriver toward the sea. Her attendants looked at one another and then at the two in alarm, and activity had broken out in the housing complex on the banks. People began to scramble, faces pressed against the glass of the windows to watch the newly laid concrete and thousands of dollars of man hours get swept away. Finally breaking his stoic reprieve, Shui grabbed his sister's shoulders and shook her roughly.

Stop it!" he demanded, watching the banks of the river erode closer and closer to the foundation of the complex.

I'm sorry." She said coldly, her face twisted in concentration. "Is this what I believe to be in control of?

Ehuang!" Shui looked alarmed at the river as it swept ever faster. "Please...these people don't deserve this.

Ehuang pushed past his brother, stepping roughly into her litter and signaling for her attendants to hoist her up without her brother in tow. "No...I suppose they don't deserve to be put underwater." she admitted, although the river did not slow. Her attendants rose to their feet, as she perched on their shoulders. "However, I will not stop it. You will have to admit to yourself what you are and what you can do if you want that to happen.

The newspaper article the next day covered all of the damages done to the building that night due to freak flooding of the Xiang river, although the engineers swore they would return to work the following week to re-evaluate the costly expansion. It was a shame what happened to the complex, swept away like that, but at least no one was hurt. Someone claimed that a man wearing old fashioned clothes ran inside to warn the inhabitants of certain doom - although no one got his name. Despite himself, despite all the running he tried to do - Shui would never outrun his rights, and Ehuang would never outrun her own anger, both of the twins despite themselves.

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Moros' Lookup on Characteresque

Moros Van Yorke is, by all accounts, an odd-one. Born into a prominent family of light witches, they expected nothing but greatness from their son given his strong lineage but what they weren't expecting was...Moros; an strange, dark and sadistic child who willed the darkness by corrupting the light. From that time on, they knew he would be nothing more than trouble. Years passed and their sentiments only furthered their belief that their son could never be one of them; he didn't quite fit it but Moros never seemed to mind. In fact, he loathed his family so greatly that when he was handed an ultimatum, an out from the life he had been forced into: he jumped at the chance for freedom. Out on his own, Moros found a new group, one of misfits and freaks like himself that were tired of being disrespected and pushed around by both witches and haffities alike - they seemed like a good time, if only for a little while. But their leader, an equally wicked being so foul and feared that he had a stronghold all his own, captures Moros' eye.

Who knows what he's thinking but something is going on behind Moros pitch black eyes.

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Character Lookup: Miseria

Miseria's Lookup on Characteresque

Miseria's Lookup on Neopets

There are worlds where lines are drawn not in the sand, but in stone - each person is either good or bad, with not an in between. Miseria grew up in this world; one of many sons branching from a prominent figure in the world’s oldest Light Coven family. He is a Van Yorke - and with the name came great strength and pride. Like all Van Yorke children, he was expected to begin cultivating his basic Light abilities far younger than any other child from other families; and then to begin creating new and dangerous new powers before his debut.

The debut of a new Van Yorke teenager brought attention from the entire coven, including lesser families who were in awe of the old bloodline. This day, should the young man or woman bring pleasure to the eldest of their family lineage, a young Van Yorke would expect to walk out of the meeting with the key to a new abode and a partner from which to start their own families with. Miseria was no exception of the excitement and hope of an excellent debut - and at the end of that afternoon, after a wild and vicious display of his special abilities granted to him by sacrifice and hard work; he walked to his new home knowing who he would be sleeping next to that night.

Miseria would spend the next few years of his life abiding by every single dark desire of his family. Being powerful and feared, now even more so when paired with his mate whom flaunted a strange control of his powers, he earned quite a reputation of being a "fixer" - someone sent about to repair any perceived slights against a family likely to gain notoriety. One day, he received the orders to retrieve his rogue half-brother that had fled the family in disgrace, and now spent his time gallivanting about covens and spreading lies about dearly kept Van Yorke secrets.

Once out in the world for the first time, Miseria was faced with the harsh realization that his suspicions about his family and his life were true. He wasn’t stupid, of course, he knew what the Van Yorkes were and what set them apart from all other witches. After all, for all these generations since the discovery of magic, the Van Yorke coven had only grown in power and wealth solely because of these less than savory traits. They were, as his mother put it to him one rainy afternoon, the sacrifice they must all make in order to be the most powerful family in the world. Of course, she had tried to drown him in the family fountain just hours prior to that conversation, but she had her own cross to bear. No, Miseria met with his half brother Moros - and when the time came that unfolded the perfect opportunity to kill the man that had struck such confused turmoil in his perfectly ordinary life…he turned the tides of the battle and fled with him instead.

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Miseria's Character Page

It was far better than he expected. A very practiced look of delicately raised eyebrows and narrowed eyelids washed over him. His sharp eyes wandered to his half-sister, who mirrored his look of absolute scandal.

"You want us to find Moros? There must be someone far more expendable-" she began.

"Not says your grandfather." Their father looked right through them. "You leave tomorrow."

Miseria lead his sister out of the sitting room. The situation had been decided after all - clearly, there is no argument. When he finally released her hand, her touch had left bright red indentations in his palms that made him feel lightheaded.

"Oh, honestly, stop your crying." he droned, unlocking their home's front door. The idea of tracking down Moros (his half brother) filled him with delight and fear. The excitement of leaving the Van Yorke coven made his heart throb in his chest, screaming for release.

When he turned back to her, she stood inches from his face - pupils narrowed to pinholes, almost unfocused. He could feel his body react to the familiar look by habit; she drew out of him a deep electric hum, the feeling of his energy seeping into the soil all around him as she flaunted her absolute control over his powers.

"If I didn't know any better." she whispered, her breath hot and far too close. "I would think you're excited to leave."

With his face utterly expressionless in the wake of her insanity, Miseria said the words he so knew she desperately wanted to hear. "Why on earth would I want to leave, if it meant leaving you behind?"