Portfolio @rc-stlouis - Tumblr Blog

Rhyan St. Louis is a Canadian artist and writer with a BFA from the University of Manitoba and BAH in Linguistics from the University of Winnipeg. They have interests in folklore, the neuroscience of language processing, and disability rights; as well as literature and fan studies. This portfolio contains examples of their work, with everything from formal academic writing and photography to fanart.

#illustration #digital #art #mist of avalon rebind cover design

#stickers!#illustration #art #digital

#comic strip #digital #art #illustration

#illustration #art #tattoo #design #digital

#art #traditional #pencil sketches #ink drawing

#art #traditional #block printing #linocut #annual christmas card

#linocut #block printing #art #traditional #annual Christmas card

#art #traditional #linocut #block printing

#art #traditional #oil on wood #painting

The forest, finally, has seemed to settle into something familiar, and the path to the meadow emerges in front of her. A trail she has walked too many times to count, from her house on the edge of the wood, to the small meadow in the middle of the forest, where a river that never freezes runs, and flowers are always in bloom.

It only takes them an hour or so to get there, but the sun is setting rapidly as they approach the boundary.

The meadow is clear, though something like a fog has rolled in around the them, the air wet and heavy, but so cold her face hurts with it, and then, as they step out from the trees and into the tall grass, the world turns bright and hot. The moon above them is nearly full, and shines directly into the small space, the sky clear and bright with stars, and the air is nearly tropical in its heat. Damp collecting in her hair and under her heavy wool coat almost instantly.

The woman doesn’t pause, heading straight for the edge of the river, where she toes off her shoes, and trudges over it’s bank, where, despite the heat and the steadily flowing river, a small boundary of ice and snow has collected.

She steps into the water, and for a moment, simply lets it rush around her ankles, before she begins plucking the the lavender from it’s stems, stepping slowly further and further into the shallow water to reach the longer ones.

Roisin approach the bank slowly, pausing when the woman, seeming to have decided she has enough, returns to the bank, and sinks to the ground with the lavender held carefully in her lap.

She begins weaving immediately, humming lowly under her breath. It’s too hard to hear, as quiet as it is, but something about it is eerily familiar.

“Please,” she says, and steps closer again, crouching to the ground in front of her, though the woman doesn’t look up from her weaving or stop her humming. The lavender stalks are already twisted into a square, the heavy blooming ends hanging down and bobbing as she carefully turns it and folds another end over.

“I just want it back, please. I just want to go home.”

The woman nods, still folding, and says, “Worry not, dear, you will.” And won’t say anything else until the intricately folding Brigid’s cross is done, nothing but the heat of the lavender left to folds. She pulls small ribbons from her hair. Simple torn strands of cloth, to tie the ends, before she holds the thing out for Roisin to take.

“This will guide you,” the woman says, and smiles. Tentatively, she reaches for it.

It happens so suddenly, it takes her breath away.

Where moments before the magic of this meadow— which had once been nearly suffocating in it’s enormous heaviness, in the importance she could feel for it pooling in her blood— had felt empty, it was once again teeming with life.

The little ones run, cackling past their feet, and through the trees, she can see the glowing, dancing circle of bodies, which she looks away from too quickly, the music, sweet and soft, the same tune the woman had been humming only moments ago. Fire flies dance by their heads, and she watches them with wonder as they flit past, they’re little bodies twisting to the rhythm of the music.

It’s so wonderful she feels as though she could cry.

And then, slowly, it all fades, once again.

“You know better than that, dear.” She says, with a kindness to her voice. As though this, too, pains her, and not just Roisin. “All magic comes at a price.” She tilts her head, “And not always just to the caster. What will you give me then, to pay for it?”

Roisin shakes her head, already aching for the familiarity of it, and the suddenness of the loss. “Anything,” she breathes, “Whatever you want.”

The woman smiles, and hums. “Anything?” She says, and laughs, that same tinkling silver things she’s been hearing for days. “Why, what a promise.” She pauses for a minute, watching something Roisin can’t quite see, something that flickers just in the corner of her eye. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me your name?” She asks.

#illustraintion #digital #art #happy Imbolc!#writing #prose #fiction