#cruor's art

[ruler-of-thorns]

Childhood

[vaders-georg]

remember the "galaxy of adventures outro, but make it oc" things i did a couple years ago? i redid it for my oc lasher (orange) and did one my friend @heartless-zabrak 's oc cruor (indigo)! z also did the textures on cruor's c:

[eternal-moss]

Hello! I’m just here to announce that I’ve released my first chapter for a fic I’ve written: ‘cruor in domu’!

The first chapter is out now on ao3 and this is a series I am heavily invested in, with over 15,000 words written in the draft of the work. It’s a lot darker than the fics I normally write, but the purpose is to explore the bonds between the Mondtadt characters, and explore each of their characters, especially Rosaria. (There is a comfort after the hurt, but it takes a while)

I do hope you like it, I’ll be planning to update it quite regularly at this rate!

(Art is also by me)

[gasotea]

Here's the cat Lin I talked about... Uh, ngl the second one is OOC but hey it's for my own indulgence. Art by me. Do not repost!

[atroppa-nightshade]

Sketch-y bust of my character Cruor while I figure out how to draw him (plus an alt because I can’t decide if i like it better with or without the irises).

[photogenicfirecracker]

Omg it them...

[tragedy-of-commons]

composition

aventurine x gn!reader | wc: ~1k

He needs to go before he decides that he needs to stay.

tags/warnings: cute domesticity, but since it's aven it has to be a little angsty, skin drawing/inking, mentioned topaz

notes: standalone but i'm thinking of expanding on this universe in the future :3c sdfsdfsdf not happy with how it turned out but fuck it

The ballpoint tip of your pen glides over his hand, leaving another trail of red in its wake.

Aventurine watches with rapt attention. The intricate patterns of swirling ink that you insist on marking him with definitely make it harder to color-match an outfit - but he indulges the habit anyway. Perhaps it’s the artificially sweet aroma that’s typical of such cheap writing utensils; he’s now accustomed to the smell of chemically-grown raspberries while you use him as your canvas.

It’s tolerable, seeing you poke out your tongue in concentration while doodling with no rhyme or reason. Some strokes are thick and jagged, wrapping around the myriad of thinner ones to create a picture he can’t discern. 

(However, when you usually finish, you beam in satisfaction. He doesn’t peg you as the abstract type, but he wonders what you see that he can’t.)

His phone vibrates twice in his free hand. The new messages that grace the screen are of no surprise:

Topaz The booking’s confirmed. I handled it and was able to score us better rooms ✨

Topaz Cruor V is too cold to skimp out on the suites with thermal heaters. Now if you could just be on time for once, that’d make my job a LOT easier.

You hum, sage. “Time to go?”

Aventurine makes a show of examining your handiwork after you pull away from him. “Unfortunately, the IPC’s gains take precedence. Although, I could argue that dedicating my time to the arts is much more valuable in the long run.”

“Hah,” you snap the cap back onto the pen. “If you argue much longer, you could make somebody mad. Don’t let my silly doodles keep you, okay?”

There’s a sad smile on your face, and though it doesn’t deter him from leaving right now, he knows that he’ll count each star separating you from him while he sleeps alone on business. He’ll do so with his gloves off, fingers tracing over the faded curves and dips of red - theorizing how many rainstorms it would take to wash you from his person completely.

He finds himself hoping that he’ll never reach a consensus. Aventurine really hasn’t gotten any better at fooling the wide-eyed child clawing at his insides. 

“Yes. That Topaz is probably wishing unspeakable curses upon me right about now,” he lilts, the beginning of the end on the horizon. “See me off?”

“Don’t make it sound so grim,” you complain, “I’m just gonna miss you. You’ll be back on the 24th, right?”

You say it so casually. If he had any less restraint (or any more courage), he would let out a breathy laugh and then chase it with a kiss to your lips. In the past, honey-trapping had come natural to him when he was on assignment; wrapping an arm around the ambassador of an indebted planet, using the bells and whistles of his disposition to make friends with the right people.

You’re not any of that. You’re not any of that, and he knows. It would be pathetic if you knew how much sway you hold over him - how much sway that this pantomime of a relationship holds over him.

Though the scales are forever tipped in his favor, Aventurine finds that it’s woefully unfair. You appear as nonplussed as him; wordlessly letting him into your home at any hour, always cooking for two, and always decorating his skin with that accursed red pen. 

If that makes you cruel, he cannot begin to imagine what it makes him.

“Keen memory,” he brings himself to stand, “Wonder what changed.”

“My memory is fine, thank you very much.”

He cocks an eyebrow.

You flip him off. “Forgetting a few deadlines isn’t substantial evidence!”

Aventurine chuckles, ambling over to the table by the door. On it rests his gloves, which he pulls over his hands. If the ink stains the fabric inside, no one will be able to tell. “Then I’ll make sure to amass a comprehensive portfolio of ‘evidence’ while I’m gone.”

He’s already dressed and presentable for this assignment. In truth, he could have spared Topaz the headache of his tardiness, but what’s the job of Director without a little challenge? He’s sure it will count towards her experience and character, and you get to scribble on him without the constraint of time.

You pad over, embracing him tentatively. Aventurine dithers between pulling you closer and pushing you away, before he settles on doing nothing. His heart isn’t racing, but it feels too small and too big and too full of you. 

“That better be a promise,” you murmur.

(He smells raspberries. He can’t decide if it’s therapeutic or noxious.)

If he were a more selfless person, maybe he’d tell you that promises never go over well for him - that you shouldn’t bother with any of this. After all, ruling a gambler’s heart only serves to turn you into a bargaining chip.

But Aventurine basks in your warmth anyway, letting his shoulders droop. “If you’re so hung up about it, then why not?” 

His phone buzzes somewhere again, and he’s cold as you pull away. “Perfect. Good luck on your.. uh, thing! Tell Numby I said hi.”

“What is it with you and that animal?” he heaves a martyred (fond) sigh. 

You huff. “Warp trotters are cool, Aven!”

“Not when they mercilessly chew up your clothes.” 

Your demands for more information fall on deaf ears, because it really has become time to go. Interastral travel is bothersome, but not so much anymore - meaning that if he’s not at least an hour early, he’s inconceivably behind schedule. His own reasoning tastes acrid.

That note of something has been with Aventurine ever since he woke by your side, searching your sleeping expression aimlessly. He’d chased the feeling with coffee in one of your stupid mugs, a conversation about your too-bright dreams, and letting you scrawl all over him when he desperately needs to go.

He’s ferried past the door, another farewell echoing behind him before he starts walking. The idle images that plague his mind are of stained gloves, the interior of your bedroom, and the calendar in your kitchen with the date of his return circled in red.

You wave to him from the window as he turns the corner. 

He wagers he'll be back on the 24th. 

taglist: @hanyi-writes, @karagatan02, @aphrodict, @nomazee

[thelearnedsoldiertoo]

Highlord Auridyce Rialla

A continuation of this post, fifteen years after witnessing her big sister's death in battle, Auridyce has made a name for herself as an experience Blood Knight and skilled Paladin Officer; through a somewhat complicated and bizarre series of coincidences, misunderstandings, and windfalls, she found herself asked to command an Order of Paladins tasked with reclaiming Duskwood from the dead that plague its forest eaves and the curse that afflicts its people on behalf of the Kingdom of Stormwind.

Seeing this as both a way to reinforce the peace after the Fourth War and to help her sister(who she believed at the start of the conflict was being controlled by the Banshee Necromancer, Sascha Cruor), Auridyce formed the Order of the New Dawn, an Argent Crusade-style organisation dedicated to reclaiming the darkened lands south of the river--metre by metre if necessary.

Huge kudos as always to @cadhla182 for the amazing work!!!

(Combination art of the two sisters, fifteen years since the previous one)

[twstfanblog]

*~*Midnight Chronicles*~*

A/N: I'm gonna start cross-posting and this is where my main story rewrite will be posted to at a later date. Until then enjoy my monster AU! Here's the link Midnight Chronicles on AO3

VIL 1

Pale hands clasped over a flat stomach, bright amethyst eyes staring at the flawless flesh with an unblinking gaze. To a normal person, there'd be nothing wrong with the young man standing in the ornate room. Silvery, wavy blonde hair curling just barely against his bare shoulders, nude and open to the chill of the open balcony doors.

But he wasn't normal. He was 'Vil Schoenheit', a name picked by his 'father', and he was a monster.

He looks up from his stomach, eyes meeting his own in the mirror. The faint thump of a new, tiny heart beating under his fingers. Blood splashed against the mirror's surface and his own body, the cooling gore painting his body in artful brush strokes. It was a messy meal, something he wasn't accustomed to doing. He was neat, precise, eating his meals in a proper manner that left no trace in the light of day. This meal, he could barely wait for the moment they were alone. The door closed and Vil was on the poor human. Claws sinking into flesh and pulling, tearing the meat from bone and spraying cruor in wild arches along the walls and against the polished floors. He ate the body, bones and all with nothing left to even use as an accessory or gift for his loved ones. But now he knows the reason for his beastly hunger. His little one was hungry too…he had a little one on the way…a child…with Him .

The green-eyed hunter that he let live. That Vil went back to willing. That he let… inside him .

Vil scoffs, walking away from the mirror but keeping a protective hand over his stomach as he opens the large bathroom door. A bath was needed, new clothes, and maybe a gift of bones from the woods for the hunter. His hunter, Rook.

Rook was a threat, Vil knew it from the moment their eyes met in the crowd of the festival all those months ago. He will admit he let his guard down briefly. The golden blonde was so… predatory , Vil simply thought he was also a monster, some manner of beast that could look past lies and masks. But he learned quickly. The hunter stalked, tracked him across towns and through his numerous disguises. He literally hunted him down like an animal through the wilds. And he did it all with a serene joy in his eyes.

He caught him one night. Vil had never tasted fear, not as strongly as he did seeing the glee in that man's eyes as he approached his trapped form. Only for his happiness to fade upon hearing his comrades coming closer. He worked quickly, cutting his bonds, and before Vil could so much as bite his nimble gloved fingers, he was gone.

Their next meeting sealed Vil's fate. He hunted the hunter in turn. Tracked him through the woods and cut him down with a furious swipe of his bladed claws. As he stood over the bleeding hunter he smiled, asking if he had a final wish. He had been such a stimulating hunt, Vil would feel like a reprobate to not grant him one wish on his dying breath.

Rook smiled, a hand grasping onto his gushing shoulder. He asked to see him. The true him. Not the ethereal flesh he cloaks himself in to lore his prey into his jaws. Vil granted him his wish. Bones snapped, flesh churned under and through the skin to take true shape. The horror was no longer hidden under a delicate mask. Vil felt a moment of anticipation, to see terror form over the hunter's face at seeing his true form.

Instead, green eyes widened in surprise. Almost shining, glittering in awe like falling stars. A blissful smile taking over his face, the trail of blood still somehow perfectly in place as he cried out in joy, "As I expected. You're beautiful …"

…

It's embarrassing, but he fled. He saw that stupid, handsome fool reach a hand out to his uncovered visage as though he were a bird coated in golden feathers and he ran.

Vil found him later. He disguised himself as a drunken tavern woman who whispered in the hunter's ear to take him upstairs, ravish him like he was his only love. If it weren't for the familiar smile Rook gives, Vil would have killed him for daring to sleep with someone else after calling him beautiful.

But Rook knew, he had always known. And he still saw him as beautiful, a being who was something to be gazed at in awe and kissed gently on his blood-stained hands. So Vil was kind in return and gave his hunter the prize of tasting his pleasurable flesh. Over and over and over and over .

Vil blows bubbles angrily in the water of the bath. Soap foaming under the faucet quickly turning pink from the blood. He rubbed his stomach, hoping to calm the excited beating of the new heart. He was paying for his actions sadly, paying for them by being with child from the very person who was supposed to be his killer. Or his dinner.

…

He wonders if this was all a trap somehow. To get him comfortable with his presence and actions, only to betray him in his moment of weakness. But, then he remembers how Rook looked at him. So soft, so cloyingly tender. His eyes showed his want, his need, to embrace him from their first meeting. The expressions made beautiful masks for his collection. And so far every time he used one, his prey fell into his arms easily.

Vil wonders if that is how Rook got him into his bed.

[galderthefuzzy]

The Blood Mender

The Brigade's war on the Cruor Sanguis Blood cult has been going on for more than a decade now. While undeniably costly and with mounting casualties on both sides, it has not come without its benefits. One of them is understanding of the Blood magic and various rituals that can be used both to cause harm and mend even the most grievous injuries. The Brigade has captured a few cultists at the very beginning of the conflict and managed to free them from the cult's influence. Some of them left, never to be heard of again, but some stayed and joined in the fight against their former captors. One of them is Borgia, the veteran leader of the Brigade's Blood priests. A small, secretive unit comprised mostly of former cultists who seek redemption and some of them most likely revenge. While not as formidable as Octavian or Alanna Vex, the feared Blood Countess, Borgia is a powerful spellcaster in her own right. Over the years, she has managed to mend injuries that resisted the efforts of the more conventional healers at the Brigade hospital, and has proven to be an invaluable instructor to those few who attempt to master the crimson arts. I have finished this piece some time ago, in an attempt to bring back Borgia in a more stylish and 'modern' fashion - opting for the stained glass I've recently fallen in love with. The last piece I've done of her was back in 2017.. 6 whole years, unbelievable.

[ruler-of-thorns]

My son//my father

[11vein]

hello again, ever since I found out you where the one behind the art in rbb & ewn I’ve become a big fan of yours and have figuratively inhaled your art. Anyway I have 2 questions

Where/how do you get art inspo

how did you come up with ‘cruormor’ as your username?

thank u!!! 1. augh i get my inspiration from everywhere... someday ill have to compile a list of some of my biggest inspirations

2. cruormor is the word cruor and the prefix mor stuck together. originally my username was ichor mor (and honestly ichor mor is cooler but cruormor is what im known for now so i feel kinda forced to keep that) but i had to jump ship from that cause i had a paranoid breakdown my family found my stuff lMAOO as a side note, i just completely made up the name mors one day and only found out later the meaning but it was cool and i kept it. i extended it to be a nickname for morris though so it im not trying to seem too edgy

[bewitchingbooktours]

Release Day Blitz The Holy Man’s Sinner by T. M. Smith

The Holy Man’s Sinner

Blood Coven World 

Book Three

T. M. Smith

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Publisher: Evernight Publishing

Date of Publication: April 2, 2024

ISBN: 978-0-3695-0982-6

ASIN: B0CZ18QJRN

Number of pages: 79

Word Count: 1597

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Tagline: An unlikely heart seeks redemption

Book Description:

In an opposites-attract story, the vampire Elisabeta is searching for more than just pleasure and the bludfrenzy. 

When she crosses paths with Nelo, a holy man with a rebellious streak, her world is turned upside down. 

As she navigates a new path filled with self-discovery, romance, and redemption, she must confront the challenges that threaten to tear them apart. 

Will their love transcend the judgment of others and the shadows of their pasts?

Amazon      BN       Kobo     Apple      Books2Read  

Excerpt:

“Tell me about these selfless acts which will heal me.” Her lips caressed the glass as she sipped her drink.

Nelo’s breath caught at the sight. Remembering the conversation, he puzzled his chin with forefinger. “Good deeds will fill your days and contemplation your nights. At the end of your healing, a worthy, seductive male awaits your recovery.” He patted his chest. “The male would be me.”

“Cruor, you lack humility.”

“It is a flaw I work on.”

“In the meantime, you’ll assign me to a soup kitchen until I feel better about myself?”

“To something. Not a soup kitchen.” He tilted his glass, swallowing a sip and noticing how Elisabeta watched him.

“How do you know your solution will work?” she asked.

He rolled the amber liquid in the tumbler. “I am the Cruor, a male wise beyond his years.”

“With only a small flaw.”

“So tiny. Not worth mentioning.” He threw back his drink, rose, and shoved out his hand.

About the Author:

After retiring from her career in education, T. M. Smith settled in to write something more creative than lesson plans on split infinitives and inner-school memos on noise in the hallway.

Taking great interest in the lives of vampires, demons, elves, mages, and other magical beings, she began a paranormal romance series of five books with alpha males who aren't always nice and females who have no problem keeping them in line. The Blood Coven Series is complete. Her new project is a series of stand-alone, short novellas set in the Blood Coven World. In the meantime, she is working on a longer surprise project.

Here are more orts, scraps, and fragments from her life. (a homage to Virginia Wolf and Shakespeare.) She moved from sunny Las Vegas to the less-than-sunny Pacific Northwest. Here she has adventures with her daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters who also moved to the area. She also enjoys a membership at Bainbridge Artisan Resource Network (BARN), a local organization that supports the arts and offers classes and events in eleven different studios. It was at BARN where her critique group began. With equal time given to in-depth comments on each other's works, snarky remarks, and laughter, they have now been together nearly eight years.

Website: https://www.tmsmith.net

Contact Me Form: https://bit.ly/43AUMjA

Newsletter sign-up: http://eepurl.com/h8rQVL

Instagram: https://instagram.com/tmsmith12 

TikTok: http://www.tiktok.com/@tmsmifun2ju

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/tmsmithauthor

[gasotea]

ʟɪɴ ᴄʀᴜᴏʀ

{ REDACTED } Kira Tsunami

🪞 I actually went ahead and changed her name~ Her info is still planning. Have this art first! 🪞

[atroppa-nightshade]

Artsy thing number 2- I finished Cruor’s ref! TH link TBA I’m currently working on a proper bio for him.

Square Hammer lookin’ motherfucker

[vvasilisa]

"If you would indulge my curiosity, what is the meaning behind your paint? Does it represent something? Someone?"

curiosity often slains the cat, that's how the story goes: a single yet swift drop, like a waterlogged corpse breaking through the surface of a still seahead. yes, a deadly region to poke & prod where dirty little fingers do not belong ―― they are digging into skin, no, beneath the skin, digging into the hallow gaps of marrow ―that ivory husk that stirs with horror, terror etched into the pitted walls that bubble against blood - ah, curiosity will rot you entirely― a budding rot that now takes shape, a shape so cruel - curiosity, she is cruel ― but in this case, the cat takes its name & eats her whole―& swat at the tail ―― temping a new found-forged curiosity.

& she blooms like posies in the winter's harshest storm, it is true, it is the most beautiful thing to witness, but it is meant to die / wither away against the cold's breath. how it eats at the soil, gasping for warmth - for purpose. HOLDING ON. WAITING. SLIPPING AWAY & before long, it will die ― DIE ― DIE ――― DIE AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN & AGAIN&AGAAAAINAGAINAGAINNNNAGAINNN―breathe.

curiosity, is it worth it?

it never has been for you.

' a dangerous thing, curiosity. but- ' you lose your words as swiftly as they come [collect them]― you lose yourself again. hm. & you bite at nails, you bite anxiously at uneven grooves, how fast you become stales― your nerves are set afire, they ache & twist like buried roots; coiling over anatomy, coiling within your thin veins. & the futtering of a cage / your heart gives you away. this simple query has now soured your stomach, & you have yet to even ponder it ― yet to even dare. so don't ponder too long.

' someone. ' someone. yes. someone. someone that was held once, held so near, so dear ― long ago, held within your fingers / hands that felt more than flesh ― you know her― her name― her eyes, & her shapes & forms. the freckles that matched the skies, the stars that only dreamed to be so bright. & most of all, so so so so often, the shallow grave you find her in ― the cycle, it repeats. rebirth, reunion, death ― repeat. [is she even alive now?] ' someone i loved. ' loved? [as in no longer? or till you find her again. how do you weigh love? a heartbeat? a body? what is it?]

the pigment of hues, they once meant love / life, the sweet reds of roses & hair, lips & cherries ―――now, visceral rust / gore / war-stuck limbs, it sticks to a brush like honey, seeping into the teeth / clogging your instrument with cruor. each stroke made, it is full of sorrows / full of nothingness ― nothing is the same. that passion that stirs a gullet, it is smothering up your throat. a thick & hot ash coats airways [your other muse doesn't deserves notice.] for now, you bury her deep inside that chest / hide her away / hide her far from eyes.

' or rather, they once were for someone. ' yes. once. now you paint without refinement, a crude imagery - how many restless nights are accounted for? this image, horrors one could not even comprehend. these horrors, recite your sorrows, little artist, recite them to canvas ― like skin, you draw over such tender texture / yanking / stretching / pulling till it fits your frame [reorganize your bones, they need a nicer shape.] splatter colour onto it [ripe out your organs, a pretty vermilion will suit it well.] all you have. is art. & art, it is a process of giving, & giving, give till you are no more. else, what would be left of you? the husk of a woman? [ an unused paint] a husk & no art at that. ' maybe that's why i have not painted in months. '

&, & you could sit & ponder this for many lifetimes, more than maybe even you have. ' it's sad. now, i feel it lacks any meaning. truly, how should an artist cope when they have lost their muse? ' you don't. ' hm - no matter, i hope that satisfied your curiosity ― '

〈 *   &. RANDOM.  -/-  @dracourge