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Whenever I was young, however long ago that was, I had an imaginary friend.

In the absence of another, I spoke aloud to the other.

We walked hand in hand under twilight skies and tossed stones upon winding streams, waiting for the day that the night would never end.

When I'd grown a little older, whatever that might mean, I still had an imaginary friend.

I spoke aloud to wind and rain, and its echo would laugh once, thrice, and again.

It taught me many secrets; whispered many awful tales. Lead me through twisting trails, to rising swells, to where water had never fell.

But I was still young then, it's words still yet foreign to my ears, but young I'd be for not much longer, soon I'd weather toiling years.

When I began to feel I was old, after many suns and moons had passed, I spoke to my acquaintance, now a relic from the past.

It told me it remembered me and the games we once had played. It told me of our winding trails, and a promise I had made.

It left me then, alone at last, yet I'd never asked its name.

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[n-3-k-0-ma]

An Idea

Chapter One

One hundred and seventy-one days, a little less than half a year. A lot can happen, and change, within a man’s mind over the course of five and a half months. Especially if he is left painfully, rigorously cognizant of each passing second; tumultuously fixated upon agony as minutes stretch into days, months, and—God forbid— years. Thoughts, hopes, ideals……... all reveal themselves to be nothing more than sandy shelters before the vast oceans of change. What was once beautiful, now sneers with an ugly, wretched maw, threatening at any one moment to overtake a man’s sanity at the slightest hint of weakness. Putridity reveals itself to be perfection, a foul savior in the darkest hours of an endless night. In the face of real crisis, morality quickly becomes a figment of a madman’s imagination, capitulating before the twisted might of a damaged Logos. Truly, when the hounds of hell begin baying wildly and circling with heinous laughter, no man can be rightfully judged upon his actions. For just as the hounds themselves, man becomes an animal, a repugnant creature, offensive to all higher inclinations. Forever chasing one singular goal: survival at the cost of all else. The philosophies of the once sophisticated mind become faint echoes ringing within the subconscious of the beastly self when the pangs of hunger rip into the abdomen, tearing the stomach apart with vicious claws.  

I’d always considered myself a good man, a moral man, strong in my convictions of truth and justice. Spending my days in search of ways to be of service to those less fortunate than myself. Oh, how much joy I had delighted myself upon as I spoke words of solace to the sick and dying. What an indulgent happiness I’d experienced professing my faith to an ever-attentive flock. I was a shepherd, a guide, a mentor, a shining light burning brightly to lead my fellow men out of darkness.  Now, I see that it had all been nothing more than a cheap charade to satiate my own egotistical tendencies.

 It took little more than half a month without any food to reduce me to the lowest form of sinner. How foolish I had been to believe that faith alone would deliver one so apparently low as I into the bosom of heavenly delight. How idiotic I had been to think that I could hide my dirty, black soul from the omniscient powers above, as if the folly of my ways would be so easily forgiven. It is one thing to expect the Father to forgive an unscrupulous beggar turned repentant, but it is of an different matter to suggest forgiveness for those who dare to directly challenge his might.

You see, I have found myself in disaster after embarking on pilgrimage—a holy journey—to the furthest regions of the north to pay homage to the divine, accompanied by my dearest compatriot, Chaplain McDougall, and a weathered old navigator by the name of Vincent Noakes. We had planned to make haste to the Basilica of the Holy Mother, a distant cathedral that sat far to the north at the very edges of civilization. From there, we would embark on a long, arduous journey penetrating the cold tundra in search of the Lost Chapel of St. Bartholomew, a forgotten sect that had been abandoned for nearly one-hundred years. There had been rumors of a saintly relic forgotten within its reliquaries, and—when a bishop had informed me of its approximate location far beyond the reaches of most men’s abilities—I had daringly suggested that I take the mantle of duty upon myself. I would make the journey, retrieve the precious symbols of our Lord’s grace, and return a hero. It appears now my destiny is to lay my bones to rest a martyr.

At the time of my proposal, I was laughed away as if I were a comedian, not a priest. When it became clear that I was adamant in my convictions, as I had managed to find another fool daring enough to join my expedition, the laughter turned into worried pleas. They had begged me to reconsider, to see the madness of my plans, but I had swatted their criticisms away- with the meaningless assurances of blind faith. McDougall, being one of my closest companions, had hesitantly agreed to join me, if only to see that I did not plunge myself into a certain, suicidal end at the hands of naivety. He had made pilgrimage once before to a similarly isolated region and had learned a great many things during his time abroad. Namely, as he once so succinctly put to my ear, that the challenges against a man’s faith are at their greatest when he is alone with nothing but the Lord’s creation to offer comfort. To be completely honest, I was beyond delighted to hear of McDougall’s accompaniment. He was a good man, stout in his vows and ever diligent in his worship. Most of his life had been spent in the service of others by the light of the church, and he was certainly no scholarly slouch either. It was good to have someone with brawn to help beat back the dangers of the winter tundra. Having never been married, as is common amongst men of faith, he travelled far in missions and had likewise learned the ways of self-sufficiency when isolated from the temptations of his fellow human. Stockily built at a towering six-foot-two-inches, he towered over most everyone that made his acquaintance. He was the type of man you’d expect to break out into revelrous tales of wrestling bears and taming lions at first glance, but McDougall was of quite the opposite composure. Often, he would sit silently within his garden studying the holy word through his favorite pair of thick reading glasses. Surely, he was of the introverted species, and rarely did his voice exceed that of a whisper.

My other companion on this expedition, really nothing more than a passing acquaintance, was a local man well versed in navigating the harsh winter landscapes we would be galivanting into. Vincent, rather humorously, was diametrically the opposite of my dear McDougall. Boisterous to a fault and with a rollicking attitude, it was no surprise he had jumped at the possibility to trek with us deep into rather unknown territory. He was an adventurer at heart and, even as I explained the intricacies of our mission, his eyes lit up with a devious glimmer at the thought of returning a hero, of braving the wild once more. Vincent was a short man, only standing about five-feet-seven inches, and often wore a gaudy grin upon rosy cheeks. He dressed as a hunter, or perhaps a beggar, and bore a full, red beard upon his face. Keen blue eyes gazed past a crooked, broken nose, and betrayed a quick wit with an eagle-eyed perception.

We met by chance at the local tavern. I had been engaging with the only sinful vice allowed myself, and he had been in business with the owner selling furs he had recently harvested in exchange for a taste of the good drink. He had made my acquaintance with a humorous jab at having found a holy man in a most unholy establishment. I’d replied with my usual excuse that the forgiveness of the Lord knew no bounds, and a pint of drink would certainly not meet the threshold to be disbarred from the heavenly grace. He’d taken a liking to my answer and, as drunken men often do, we’d exchanged uproarious conversation before finding ourselves exchanging humorous blows with each other as snow fell upon our cheeks outside. He was a hot head, and I was a priest with a short temper, though I am quick to forgive many transgressions. We’d fallen upon ourselves in our stupor and had leaned upon each other as we slowly trudged through thick snow into my monastery. I’d given him a warm bed to sleep upon, and he helped prepare for the coming challenges.

As such, our merry band of stooges was completed, and we spent two months procuring supplies for the task ahead. We would each ride upon our own sled, pulled onward by dogs, and laden with enough supplies to last us the entire trip. Food, fire-making supplies, a rifle each, cooking utensils, a tent, and gear to keep the biting winter cold at bay. We had surmised the trip would last approximately a month and a half but decided to bring along enough rations for two in case we ran into any trouble. If only we had known then how our foolish venture would turn out, we’d have packed enough for a year, if we even had it in us to steel ourselves enough to face the coming hardships.

I suppose at this point, I should directly address the heinous circumstances we had fallen upon. At the present moment, it is only I and McDougall, though now he is resting wearily in the corner of our impromptu shelter, curled unconscious into a fetal ball of rags and fur. I haven’t the faintest inclination as to the current fate of our navigator, Vincent. It is only by a miraculous intervention that McDougall and I find ourselves within the comforting walls of an abandoned hunter’s lodge. Or perhaps it’s a devilish curse, a prison to prolong our suffering as death slowly encroaches upon the threshold of our hearts. No matter, I will continue my prayers, I still have faith in deliverance. Father would not leave even his most wretched sheep for the slaughter.

I will bare it all for you, and perhaps my confessions will fall upon angelic ears who would have pity upon a pair of poor souls. Though, before I begin, I should say my recollection of the exact memories at this moment is hazy, as disaster had struck us like a bolt of lightning during a particularly horrid blizzard. I will tell no lie even as delirium threatens to rattle my senses as I lay here at the mercy of the one above. I will try my best to regale you with the truth, the facts upon which my current fate has been laid upon like a cruel foundation. Forgive me, and I pray you do not cast judgement too harshly.

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I haven't the faintest inkling as to when truth was unceremoniously disrobed of its beating life, nor when the lies sprang forth as if in jubilant springtime rejoicement.

I will bury both in the same grave and close this wretched chapter in chronicles of my Self with an abhorrent enthusiasm. Never to be reopened.

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I started taking Welbutrin, and apparently, the way I was feeling wasn't normal. It's been kind of a weird week or so... I'm so used to always having that dark little voice whispering to me. Always telling me what to do, what to think, how to be. It promised so much.

"Give into suffering, shun happiness, and I will make you colossus." It spoke. "Tear down your world. Embrace your meanness. I will make you strong." It was always so cunning, so intelligent, so seemingly wise. It was always right, in a wretched way. The ideals of putrid malice were worming their way into every cell of my body.

Now, at least for the time being, it's gone. Replaced by an almost unnerving calm. It's not like I can't think, and it's not like I have brain fog. It's just the trains of thought that used plague my every waking existence are gone. No longer do I find solace in that awful, cold feeling working its way up my spine; chilling the very fibers of my heart with a wicked touch.

My only fear is that my mental correspondent isn't gone, but rather silenced. Watching, waiting, biding its time for the perfect moment to slip its silver tongue past my guard, tearing me down once more.

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I had a dream of a man named Salazar and his brother who had been locked inside of a prison/institution for creating something they shouldn't have.

They were both brilliant scientists. Though, I got the impression something had happened to them, causing their mental faculties to be reduced.

Salazar seemed to be relatively cognizant, but his brother seemed to have a severe cognitive development. The brother loved Salazar very much, and wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his days peacefully biding their time together.

Salazar had other plans, it seems. In a sudden moment of clarity he climbed out of a window, fell to the ground, and began running. His brother saw this, and quickly followed suit. The brother wasn't cautious, though, and attracted the attention of a guardswoman.

The guards gave relentless pursuit, eventually catching up to the brother. Salazar, without a single thought for his brother's wellbeing, used the ruckus he'd created to muddy his tracks and keep pushing forward to freedom.

Salazar, alone, then encountered a house. He let himself inside, and quickly began looking for a place to hide himself. Every place he thought of seemed too obvious. Until, he noticed the attic.

Unfortunately, the attic had no string attached to the door. When he tried to open it with a tool, the door pushed itself further into the room above, becoming impossible to reach.

The noise had caused some residents within the house to stir, a young boy began to call out. Salazar, recognizing he could no longer stay there, fled the area.

He ran outside, jumped a fence in the backyard, and continued running. He was in an open field now, running past a barn full of freshly chopped firewood.

The boy had followed him outside and, upon seeing who had intruded upon his house, recognized Salazar, and began to call after him.

It seemed, by some strange twist of luck, that the boy knew who Salazar was. He began to call after him, telling him he believed his theories, and saying he hadn't done anything wrong.

Salazar kept running, until he came over a hill, and jumped.

Below him, a seemingly endless field of spring flowers joyously unfurled their petals for a bright sky above. Violets, daisies, and poppies sprang up and swayed in a gentle summer's wind while Salazar fearlessly soared high above them.

His short flight would not last, though, and he soon descended rather painlessly to the ground, rolling down a hill of flowers.

As he approached the bottom, the flowers shriveled and died. The earth beneath him became cold and hard. Ahead, a bubbling swamp of fetid odor and primordial slime revealed itself from a hazy mist.

Inside, terrible creatures swarmed like ants on a hill. Slimy tentacles reached out, searching for anything to grasp onto and pull below the rolling inky surface.

Salazar recognized the creatures, and labeled them, "Toxibungles." The area they resided was known as a, "Bungle Bog."

The boy behind him called out, pointing out the horrendous creatures. He made a comment that he knew they could be harvested for valuable materials, but Salazar retorted that there were far too many.

Salazar kept running, never looking back. Never stopping. His heart set on finding permanent freedom.

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Aquarium :p

[n-3-k-0-ma]

It's amazing what Birria tacos for lunch do for your motivation. I kind of like how it came out.

Requests are open (I need prectice). Just DM me, I can try my best so long as the request isn't too out there lol.

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Why are mornings so... abrasive? Who the hell wakes up this early?

Anyways, just a quick morning sketch and some cube practice. Lemme know if there's anything I should draw next.