lexorandi

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My Star Wars oc Ezra! He’s for a ttrpg and I love how the lighting turned out!

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I haven’t drawn like this in a while so we’ll see how it does here

Posting this a bit late

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Happy Shuake breakup day!

I decided to try my hand at animation, and I referenced two shots from Arcane and Teen Titans! I'm still trying to learn more frame by frame animation, so this was good practice :3

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Inspired by that one picture. You know the one.

(Reupload with tweaks)

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MARUKI NATION HOW ARE WE FEELING???

Maruki as Viktor cause there are WAY too many parallels between them

@smolstarthief it’s finished :3

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Screenshot redraw of the glove scene I did! Completely forgot to post this here :3

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Oh god the brainrot the BRAINROT-

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In the beginning he was already forsaken, for he was never to be made in the image of the Lord. He was without form and refused to mold, too liquid to be shaped as if he were clay.

Instead of being sculpted by the loving hands of his creator, he was casted and tossed into the fire, relentlessly beaten and struck into shape. There was momentary relief from the strikes before the inferno softened his structure, once again malleable enough to hammer.

He suffered even before his creation, not because he was born from original sin, but because he was created to suffer. From fire was he born, and to fire he shall return.

But the Lord granted him mercy, dousing him in the cold water. He no longer melted, his body crying out from relief as it began to maintain its form. He stood tall and rigid, repurposed as his weapon against his own kind.

Crimson stains him, his skin, and his soul. It rusted him, his luster wearing down. He bore the sins of his master, aiding in taking away the enemies' lives.

He was weary, yet never cursed the name of the Father.

For what is a weapon with no purpose?

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Reblog if it's OK for other artists to draw your OCs

Sometimes I get too timid to send asks to ask. I want to see how many people are ok with artists drawing their OCs!

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It was just a nightmare.

It was just a nightmare. The same one that had been plaguing him from the dawn of his birth to what seemed to stretch on to his inevitable death. The blazing inferno stretched its arms out, its wispy limbs deceivingly loving as it seduced him with its warmth. Fire was what he was born from, and fire was what took his parents away from him.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

His mother practiced the dark arts from what the clergy had told him. His father was a nocturnal being, one that preyed upon the holy people of the village. Their relationship resulted in a bastard son, one that was impure and unclean.

One that was to be cleansed from the Earth.

The church had shown him mercy. They showed mercy to an animal like him. They could have put him down just like a rabid dog, but they had given him a home. Everything his poor mother couldn't provide, they had granted him. All they asked for in return was his strength.

And how could he refuse?

Gazing down at his feet, he could only blankly stare at the flesh of the vampire he had just slaughtered in front of him. All he could hear was the short quickened beats of his heart and his trembling breaths. He himself could feel blood trickling down his forehead, obscuring his vision in his left eye. Acacius’s eyes glazed over to the face of his unsuspecting victim. Desperate. Horrified. A hint of guilt overcame him as he stepped back from the corpse. He kneeled down, his cold and pale fingers shutting the eyelids of the body. Hesitating to pull his hand back, Acacius’s irises found the glowing moon.

She was so beautiful. She was his light, for he has never seen the sun. He has not felt her warm rays hitting his skin, blessing and purifying him. It brought him to tears almost. It was the only way he would ever be able to see the sun’s rays: through the moon’s protection.

Murmuring a small prayer, Acacius crossed himself. He adjusted the veil over his face, the black intricate and blood-stained lace cascading down to cover his features.

In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti…

Turning towards the empty street, he walked the cobblestone path. The night was quiet, save his footsteps, the groaning of the pebbles underneath his worn black boots, and the whistling of the midnight breeze. No one sane thinks to step foot outside of their home past dusk. They all tell hushed stories of who they call the Gargoyle.

A being, they say, with monstrous strength and speed. A being who feast on the flesh of people who dare to cross their path. They whisper about how he mocks the dead the way he mutters curses towards the body after he ruthlessly murders them in cold blood.

One day, he thought. One day, he will walk among the people. He knew their faces, painted them countlessly on his walls until his fingers were stained with paint, just *hoping* that one day, he could be among them.

But now he walked along the deserted town, with nothing but the moon accompanying him. She was his best friend, but even there were times where she seemed to shrink away from him. There were nights where he fought, not knowing if the moon would watch over him as he took his last dying breaths.

Did she think of him as a monster as well?

His fingertips danced along the rough stone of the buildings he passed by. He memorized these sensations, careful to trace each bump and etched them in his mind. Most were worn and weathered, and he took great care in keeping them as pristine as he could. Acacius pondered for a moment on how he would be able to recreate smaller miniatures of these buildings. Perhaps clay would be of good use.

He pulled his hand with a start when he realized he had stained the rock red with his blood. Rubbing furiously on the smear, he sighed as he realized his effort was futile.

The walk back to the church was an uneventful one. Acacius swore he could sleep walk - that is, if he could sleep- his way back with absolutely no effort. He occupied himself by checking if there were any interesting things he could grind up into paint, or if anything he had looted from the dead body had any use to him. Countless journals filled the small makeshift bookshelf he had made out of loose floorboards as a child. He read about the world outside, about the corruption, the love, the pain of it all. It had inspired him to write as well. He wrote about his pain, his sorrow, all of his melancholy laments. But no matter how different each journal was, every single one of them convinced him more and more to leave his tower and to live his dream.

But he cannot. He was leashed, chained to the gothic twisting cathedral that had lovingly opened its arms to him.

How beautiful was Christ’s grace. How beautiful was the embrace of it all. The mercy that was shown to him. If he were to leave, it would be rejecting the people that had given him a second chance.

How could he ever betray the people who had spared his unholy life?

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"For dust you are, and to dust you shall return."

So the curse of the first man goes. Amadeus wondered if Adam held the ruby red fruit in his hand, trembling as if it weighed as heavily as the decision in his mind. The nights he wasted away praying, on his knees to rid himself of the guilt that plagued his soul, would it all have been for naught?

Redemption. The hope of redemption. The absolute yearning and the desperation! How it tormented him so! Like demons, how it tempted him and grasped at him until he wished he could succumb to their words!

How it all... tore him apart.

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