Inspired by my brother's dream from last week.
Done in Procreate
Keni

pixel skylines
$LAYYYTER
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Not today Justin
trying on a metaphor
Sade Olutola
KIROKAZE
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Love Begins
noise dept.
NASA
Misplaced Lens Cap
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Mike Driver
art blog(derogatory)

Janaina Medeiros
will byers stan first human second

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@f-wyman
Inspired by my brother's dream from last week.
Done in Procreate
Day 13 - Seashore
Boots crunched on the stone-scattered seashore as Finnigan made his way through Howling Fjord. While his “mentor” was located towards the top of the highest mountain-- a sort of meditative peak-- the navyman enjoyed spending a little bit of time by the shore to reflect on previous sessions.
Today, though, nothing could lift his dreary mood.
He angled his travels towards a murky, fog-basted rockface that was supposed to house an item. Heading inside what felt like a shallow cave, he found the smooth gray teleportation stone nestled towards the back, marked with a single blue rune that matched the ones glimmering on Leviathan’s haft. Finn’s gloved hand reached forward and pressed against the stone-- which was surprisingly warm to the touch-- and then, he vanished.
--
Leviathan clanged tensely against Moonlight. Finn stared at his former sword in silence for a moment, then at the creature that wielded it.
His mentor was tall, clad in a long, midnight-hued cloak that glimmered with thousands of unknown constellations, constantly shifting. Black and red plate-and-leather armor hung around his skeletal body, preserved and mummified to withstand thousands of years of decay. Two glowing blue eyes peered out from the inky blackness of a Spartan-esque helmet, never blinking and always burning.
“You have yet to harness your emotion correctly,” it rasped. Finnigan was easily a foot shorter than the creature, who stood at an incredibly imposing height. “A weapon wields no strength unless the hand that holds it has mastery over themselves. You lack passion, you are reckless and unsteady, and you bend either too easily or not at all.” Sheathing Moonlight on his hip, the shade plodded several steps through the densely-packed snow and towards his protege.
The peak in which they trained was flattened, with a great dragon’s skeleton wrapped around the main arena. If Finn squinted hard enough, he was able to see three large pillars in the distance, although the sleet fell too quickly for him to make out much of anything.
Despite the freezing environment and the high altitude, the thaumaturge still managed to keep just enough air in his lungs and just enough heat in his body to keep going. It was like they were in a bubble; everything was dialed back just enough to allow him continued survival.
“Show me that you remember what I taught you before.” The giant man had to hunch, his undead figure clearly burdened by long-atrophied muscles. Finnigan wasted no time in repeating the move he’d practiced dozens of times: slam down the spear, then follow by throwing it viciously towards the heart of the target. As he slapped Leviathan’s blade against the dense-packed snow, a vicious rumble of earth made the massive undead lose his footing just long enough for Finnigan to line up a clean shot and throw.
Stabbed through the chest, the undead fell. He lay upon the sleet-soaked hills for some time before moving to his feet and drawing the polearm from his chest. “Good,” he praised simply, offering the spear back to his apprentice. “Now, let me show you something new...”
--
Finn appeared on the seashore again, eyes narrowed. Leviathan in hand, he moved towards the ocean, spinning the polearm in his hands as he began his diligent practice.
Day 2 - Outbreak
It was the first time Finnigan had been sick in a long, long time.
It was also the first time he had been told by Hamilton to sit down.
He rubbed his thumbs together idly, then began digging under the nails to remove small flecks of grime. Waiting was a process that was certainly not too difficult for him, but a public outburst of concern was one of the last things he wanted.
People worrying about his health only made him feel more panicked.
“Did you eat any grain?” Aredin had asked him.
Well-aware of the history of bad grain, Finnigan had said yes.
When Olivier finally broke into the room with several others, it was all he could do to remain calm. He hoped that he was not a patient zero. As he was fretted over, a nervous thought entered his mind:
Only time will tell.
Day 1 - Revenge
“Don’t you want revenge? For what they did to you? To your family?”
Finnigan’s half-lidded brown eyes flitted towards the man seated to his right, ruminating on the question for several long, drawn-out moments.
He did want revenge. Every molecule of his body cried out for justice. The former Theramore navyman wanted every last guilty individual to pay for what they’d done. The Horde had never truly answered for Theramore. They’d let the new Warchief dole out ‘justice’ for Kor’kron who had so brutally killed innocent women and children. Now, the next Warchief would undoubtably dole out ‘justice’ for those who had directly aided Sylvanas in her more heinous crimes.
But would they answer for Teldrassil? For Brennadam? For any of it?
His gaze slid down to stare listlessly at his mug. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t want to think about it. The Horde would likely never really pay for everything they’d done, hurling Alliance injustices as a counterargument instead of sitting down and absorbing the wrong that they had participated in. It made him sick to his stomach-- and suddenly, the alcohol didn’t interest him anymore.
For Finn, rebellion had never been an option. Conditioning from a young age had told him that dissension would be punished, and the thaumaturge hated punishment. Even thinking about going against the High King put a wary knot in his stomach. Still, though, it was hard not to think about perpetuating the cycle of hatred. The Horde would never answer for their crimes until every battle-ready participant was dead or gone.
Realizing that he’d been too quiet for too long, the navyman raised his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. He would always be half-hearted and empty. There was a hole in his soul that only family could fill, and he would never be able to reunite with them. Not in this life, not in the next.
But the Horde didn’t care. The Horde would never care. Things would go back to normal and he would be forced to make peace with those who had wronged him, just like he had been doing every day for the majority of his life. He didn’t have the fight in him to resist it any longer.
“No,” he muttered-- and that was all.