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@sinnovrawriting
The Daughters of Sin
Some original characters I'm working on. They're sort of pseudo-vampires that suck the "black ether" out of demons. I don't feel like writing all their information here, but I plan on doing individual posts for each Daughter in the near future. In the meantime, you could stop by my DeviantArt to see info on them all
Ava’s Demon
Daughters of Sin
The new batch of designs for the story that is currently titled Daughters of Sin. I plan on doing a whole reboot on all of their designs, these lovely ladies included. Also, in case you're not up on your latin, Caedis means "murder" and Furia means "madness". At least, according to Google...
Working on a story idea I've had for awhile now. It's still nice and fantasy based, but it's not the fantasy I usually do.
If you want a hint, look up "Sisters of the Light" by Xandria
Daft Punk - 2013 VOGUE
I've set up a Deviantart exclusively for SIn Novra Writing purposes
it can be viewed here: Sin Novra Writing
(I'm still working on moving everything from my personal DA to this one)
Warriors of Fire
As much as Roaken hated it, the battlefield was one of the places where he felt natural. Because of his Oakranr blood and upbringing, Roaken was a true warrior, born to fight and, perhaps, die in battle. But he was no ordinary warrior – wielding two unique swords, Roaken had perfected an ability that proved him as a Master of Warring Steel. He was able to balance the Life, the energy, within two separate swords, essentially impossible for run-of-the-mill warriors. Strange markings that swirled about his arms from shoulder to fingers would identify Roaken as a Berserker, a warrior capable of wielding immense power, but the technique had become more legend than fact so no one recognized the marks. His sword lashed out and struck an enemy down – Roaken preferred striking men unconscious to killing them, leaving them to be taken prisoner later. Still, while his face was still, his eyes betrayed a sense of sadness and anger at his work. Looking about for a new opponent, Roaken noticed a light cut on his arm, probably from his previous opponent, ignored in the rush of battle. Shaking his arm to insure it wouldn’t hamper his abilities, Roaken returned his attention to the field. There. A short distance away, a female warrior scanned the warriors much like he had. Choosing her as his next opponent, Roaken made his way towards her, managing to catch her eye, and draw her to him. As they drew closer together, Roaken couldn’t help but notice how different their appearances were - Roaken stood about as tall as most people, his pale skin tanned by the sun, short cut red-colored hair, and a powerful yet friendly presence. The woman stood almost a full head taller than he, with dark bronze skin bearing strange, red markings, with long white hair falling to her shoulders, an air of power and grace about her. Both were sparsely dressed, Roaken in loose pants and high leather boots, the woman in similar pants with a strip of cloth wrapped around her breasts, and she wore nothing upon her feet. At last they reached each other, and the woman’s weapon, a staff, whipped around towards Roaken’s left side. Swearing softly, he had forgotten about a staff’s superior reach, Roaken turned and brought the sword in his left hand up to block the strike with the flat of the blade. The staff vanished, and Roaken immediately copied his earlier motion, but with the sword in his right hand, blocking a second staff strike. Seeing surprise in the woman’s eyes, Roaken allowed himself a small grin; he had only ever fought one other staff-fighter, yet he clearly remembered the broken ribs that had been a souvenir of this particular pair of strikes. The woman still stood frozen in surprise, so Roaken brought his left sword around, smacking her knee with the flat side. She yelled, disengaged, and stumbled back, limping. She glared savagely at Roaken, changing the grip on her staff. Quickly, it leapt into the air over Roaken’s head and descended upon him. His swords came up, crossing each other to best take the impact. The staff slammed into the blades, their positions diminishing the power of the strike on his body. But then, Roaken felt something he had not been expecting. Heat. Flames roared from the staff onto his blades, dangerously close to his face. Roaken disengaged and stepped back a few paces to gather himself. The woman twirled her staff rather theatrically, a smirk upon her face, evidently proud that she had surprised Roaken. He very nearly stopped fighting to lecture her on how to handle surprise in battle, to retreat momentarily, as he had done, rather than stare in shock at an armed opponent, as she had. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked closely at her, focusing on the Life within her. Astoundingly, it was connected very heavily to the Life below her feet, as if she was a part of the earth they fought on – this meant that she was an Old Mage, according to the description Rinia, his soon-to-be wife, had given him. With this in mind, Roaken stepped forward quickly and brought his right hand sword up, then down, falling upon her shoulder. She brought her staff up to block the strike in a two-handed block, a good idea against a warrior bearing only one sword, hardly a good idea against a Master of Warring Steel. However, Roaken did not use his other sword; instead, his foot came up and slammed into her stomach, sending her tumbling backwards. With a shout, she at last stopped, having landed on her backside. Roaken waited patiently for her to pick herself back up, a courtesy few warriors would offer an enemy. He almost found it amusing how rage complicated her recovery – there was more of her to get back up than the average person and her mind was clouded. Finally upright again, scowling, she began to whirl her staff around her viciously, theatrics forsaken for speed and ferocity. Dark fire roared at each end of the staff, creating a great circle of fire spinning about her. Sparks danced at her feet and a pressure filled the air, causing the warriors near them to flinch visibly. Her eyes and the markings on her skin glowed softly, the scowl firm on her lips. The pressure did not faze Roaken as much as it did those around him; he had battled, and defeated, a warrior whose presence alone could crush mountains – the battle had been close, but Roaken had prevailed. He did, however, keep an eye on the staff, waiting for it to lash out at any moment. The glow worried him slightly, as he did not know the significance and origins of the marks, but his eyes remained on the staff. At length, the wood turned into a blur of fire, spinning faster than Roaken could follow. He was dimly aware of the fact that the battle around them had ceased, both from the immense pressure and the spectacle before him. The spinning halted, and with a grand flourish, the staff was at her side. In the same moment, great wings of fire unfolded from her back, both a terrifying and awesome sight. Though the wings faded after a short time, their effect on Roaken lingered, and was evident on his face. Of the many strange things Roaken had seen in battle, among them gods and warriors with the powers of gods, wings of fire had not been one of them. Shifting his feet to a firmer stance, Roaken waited for the strike he knew would come. She vanished, and reappeared in the air above Roaken’s head. She spun, aiming to slam the still fire-coated staff on Roaken’s skull. Swearing, he quickly stepped to the side, dodging the strike that might well have cracked his skull open. The woman slammed the staff into the ground, the tip burying itself into the dirt, but she nimbly flipped, freeing the staff and turning to face Roaken. Before she could attack again, Roaken advanced, striking with a fast-paced sword pattern, viciously slashing with both blades. Moving quickly for someone with such a long weapon, the woman solidly blocked each strike, to Roaken’s well-hidden surprise. She vanished again, and, for the first time in years, the hard wood of a staff slammed into Roaken’s ribs. With a shout, it was Roaken’s turn to tumble to the side, keeping such a grip on his blades as to not cut him to pieces. He then rose, and flinched, then he glanced at his left side – a great bruise blossomed, and he guessed he had at least one cracked rib. What he did not expect to see, despite the flurry, was the blackened skin of a terrible burn. Descended from one of the many gods of fire in their world, Roaken bore the title “Son of Pyrion”, which came with several small abilities that people called “trinkets”, nice to have but one doesn’t really need them. One such trinket from Pyrion was a resistance to, but not invincibility from, fire, be it natural or Magickal. To have burned Roaken as badly as it had, the fire was either incredibly powerful, or divine in origin; Roaken guessed the latter, as most Old Mages, for whatever Eternal reason, had very little of their own Life to draw on for Magick, preferring to use the Life around them. Roaken swore and wondered if a Healer would be able to treat this. He turned his attention back to the woman, who had given him time to inspect the wound. He charged and began a new pattern, careful to watch for another Shift, where she would vanish and then appear again. As such, when she Shifted again, Roaken was ready to block the strike, protecting his other side. But as soon as this strike was deflected, another slammed into his left shoulder where the two muscles met, a painful spot without the added burn of the fire. Gritting his teeth, Roaken began again, pain and anger adding ferocity to his movements. Some time later, Roaken stood, panting, a short distance away from the woman, burns of varying sizes dotting his body. Luckily, none touched his neck or head, strikes which could be deadly from even an average staff. The worst of the burns rested on the inside of his right forearm, his left knuckles, and the outside of his lower left thigh, a strike which had blessedly missed his knee, another lethal spot. Taking stock of all this, and the rare cut he had scored on the woman, Roaken realized that he was losing this battle. As if to assert this, the woman stood very relaxed, smirking confidently at him. As much as he did not want to do it, Roaken knew how to wipe the smirk from her face. But he had to – he had a longstanding promise with Rinia that he would always come back to her alive, and right now, the way to do that was to use the ability that had become the legacy of Davinika Zankuta. Calmly, making his breathing even, Roaken slid his two swords into their scabbards, soliciting a confused look from his opponent. His breathing slowed, remaining even, and he held his hands out before him, the markings on his own skin beginning to glow softly. In the back of his mind, he almost wished that his Life would cause wind to swirl around him or some such thing, for dramatic effect. But as Roaken was, in his own way, a fellow Old Mage, he had little of his own Life to draw power from, and so nothing overly dramatic happened. Roaken stood quietly for a moment, waiting for the Life beneath his feet to align itself just so. At last it did, and with a great roar, his hands balled into fists, and they slammed into each other as if to connect the markings on his first and third fingers. It was now that an incredible amount of energy poured out of him, swirling the dust at his feet and bringing forth great gusts of wind. Roaken could feel his body adjusting itself to the massive increase in power, always a strange sensation to him. With a very deep breath, Roaken set his breathing to an even slower pace, the even pacing one of the most necessary aspects to maintaining Berserker. Berserker was an interesting ability: it had been discovered eons ago by warriors who threw themselves so far into the heat of battle that they lost themselves and became nearly indestructible killing machines – it was only crafted into a true ability and skill by the God of Fire Pyrion, who wished to command great legions of Berserkers. In recent years, it had been learned that Berserker had a strange sort of conscious, not too surprising in a world where Magick was its own separate existence. What made Berserker unique and awesome was that it took something a warrior was poor at accomplishing, such as archery for a swordsman, and mastered it for them. Davinika, one of the greatest warriors in all of history, had a massively large amount of Life to draw upon, but had never learned to access and use it – his Berserker gave him access to it, with which he could perform marvelous Magickal feats, but instead he used it to further augment his already gargantuan strength. Roaken’s Berserker held a similar property: it granted him immense amounts of Life with which to perform High Magick, relying on the Life within a person, not his surroundings. But, as an Old Mage, Roaken could not use this kind of Magick. As such, the gift Berserker granted was instead used to increase Roaken’s natural abilities to the point where he might be called superhuman. This was another thing the two great Sons of Pyrion had in common. His body at last adjusted, Roaken took a new stance, arms and legs spread wide, as if he intended to wrestle the woman. She saw this, and took it as a sign that their battle had resumed. She Shifted again, and appeared above Roaken once more, her staff aimed for the point where shoulder met neck. To Roaken’s eyes, enhanced by Berserker, the woman appeared to move as slowly as his breathing. Even the instant action of Shifting appeared to take several moments to Roaken. And as he appeared to move at his regular rate, he had more than enough time to raise an arm in defense, solidly blocking the strike on his forearm. With his free hand, he created a new fist, and slammed it into the woman’s stomach. She flew backwards, colliding with a number of the soldiers around them, bringing out shouts of pain from them all. Her shouts and oaths as she rose again could be heard by the whole battlefield, though few understood her harsh and lilting tongue, and Roaken smiled in spite of himself. She Shifted again to cover the distance, three times, as if her Shifting had a range to it. Now before Roaken, she brought her staff up to strike. As Roaken brought up an arm to block it, she Shifted again, and even in his slowed vision, this caught him by surprise. He turned to where she appeared, another strike ready. But again, as he blocked it, she Shifted, and appeared in a different spot. She Shifted around Roaken a number of times, never appearing in precisely the same place twice, and forcing him to turn, ready for the strike. The Shifts became so rapid that Roaken lost focus on the slowed vision, and time returned to its normal progression. Miraculously, though, his breathing stayed even, though his mind was racing, trying to guess from where she might finally strike him. At last, she appeared before his face, high above his head. She tumbled dangerously rapidly for a brief moment, and the staff came down, slamming into the arms Roaken had crossed to block. An inferno of dark flames roared out of the staff, rising high into the air above the both of them, the woman mystically staying balanced in the air, trying to force the staff through Roaken’s defense. The pressure that had been a constant during the fight, which had been further amplified by Roaken’s Berserker, now intensified, forcing itself down onto Roaken as if a mountain rested on his shoulders. To his horror, this pressure disrupted his breathing for but an instant, something that must not happen while a warrior was in Berserker. If he were to lose control of his breathing, his own Life and the massive Life of his Berserker would become imbalanced, and the imbalance would cause an enormous outflow of energy that would lead to a horrible explosion, capable of wiping everything in a ten league distance from existence. This was something Roaken would much rather avoid. Very nearly out of options, Roaken remembered a failsafe his teacher, Féroki, had taught him – Supernova. A small explosion that negated all energy within a short distance from the user, Supernova would be beneficial to Roaken in this situation, though it would also rid him of Berserker. But as he had no other option, he let a new, different pitched roar slip from his mouth, and a blue orb of fire erupted from his core, expanding to pass over his body and the woman. His markings instantly turned dark, and at the same moment, the inferno vanished, and the woman’s markings also darkened. The orb vanished, and the woman started to fall to the ground, her grip still on the staff, so Roaken took hold of the end near him, turned his body just so, and the woman flew in an arc over his head, slamming into the ground a moment later, thrown there by Roaken. The great pressure faded from the air around them, and Roaken’s breathing returned to normal. Despite the anger and terror he had felt during the battle, he was pleased to see that the woman was still breathing, though she was still, most likely unconscious. With a deep sigh, Roaken glanced at the terrified faces around him and thought a joke was in order. Panting heavily, he asked dryly, “Who’s…who’s next...?” As no enemy soldier wanted to risk fighting Roaken, he had essentially won the battle by defeating the woman. As prisoners were taken, Roaken asked that the woman be taken as well, though some of his fellow soldiers wished to kill “the damned demon woman” before she could wake and exact revenge upon the warrior that had beaten her. So, she was taken prisoner and taken to their Healers, where Roaken waited for her to awake, as he had a desire to speak to her. Deep in a murky darkness, Rishka heard unfamiliar voices speaking in hushed tones near her. A little frightened, she struggled to escape the darkness, but all she managed to accomplish was a small groan. The voices silenced, and at last the darkness faded, giving way to the filtered light of a tent. A few breaths later, and her eyes were fully opened. She looked up at the cloth ceiling of the tent – the strong smell of herbs and the minute pressure of Magick told her that she was in a Healers’ tent. After ignoring the dull ache in her body – Healings always tired her, for some eternal reason – she turned her attention to the figures at the foot of her cot. There were two people: one a rather pretty woman with long black hair, wearing the tanned leather vest of an archer; the other was a seated man, with a bare chest and red hair. Her temper flared and she struggled to sit up, fighting the heavy blanket designed for just such a situation. While she struggled, the woman stepped between the man and the cot. To Rishka’s surprise, she spoke in Rishka’s native tongue, saying, “Please lady, do not struggle. We are here before you in peace.” The surprise stopped her struggles, and she looked at the woman, asking in the Common Tongue, “How can you speak my tongue?” The woman seemed surprised as well, to hear someone such as Rishka speak in Common; she then answered in Common, “I am a Mage with a bit of a language-gift. We have a few Uruk’sen in our army, and they recognized your markings. They allowed me to learn your tongue from them. I thought you might wish to wake up to a familiar tongue – I was unaware you spoke Common.” Rishka nodded, understanding, then turned to glare at the warrior. Before she could say anything, he held up his hands in a peaceful gesture and said, “I merely wished to speak with you. I have never met another Old Mage, so I thought it might be nice to chat.” Rishka’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not an Old Mage. You are a warrior.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Well, yes and no,” he said. “I have the base abilities of an Old Mage, but I use them more as a warrior.” He held up both of his hands as if to show her something. “Old Magick is all about balance, with yourself and the things around you. With the way I fight, I need all the balance I can get.” Rishka was silent for many breaths, and then looked at the both of them, asking, “Who are you?” The warrior answered first: “I am Roaken Oakranr; I am the Son of Pyrion, a Master of Warring Steel, and I bear the Novra Hiénk’tor.” He smiled at the woman. “This is my bride, Rinia Kyok’oro, an archer in our army.” He turned back to Rishka, the smile still on his face, though a small amount of the warmth faded from it. “And who are you?” he asked. Rishka continued to glare at him, masking her surprise – he had shown her great trust by revealing information such as that; as an Old Mage, Rishka could now work Magick, malevolent or benign, on them from the other side of the world. So, she decided to show them similar trust, giving her full name, but not the title she had recently been given, which she had been told to keep to herself for the time being. She replied, “I am Shi-Kurish’kaarna Orak’aale, though I prefer to go by Rishka. To the Uruk’sen tribes, I am known as an Oracle, a Mage who wields the power of a god.” This seemed to pique Rinia’s interest, as she asked, “Really? Which one?” “Kuraashra. He is my people’s God of Fire and one of the Lords of Light.” While Roaken’s brows lifted in surprise, the name looked to mean nothing to Rinia. “Kuraashra…?” she mumbled. Roaken looked up to her. He said, “Hiénk’tor told me about him once. He’s very old and well respected among the gods.” He turned back to respond to Rishka’s surprised look. “Like I said, my Sin Novra is Hiénk’tor, who is the King of the End. He’s one of the oldest gods, and he knows just about everything about almost all the gods and goddesses.” He smiled a little. “Some of his information is a little dated, but he gets it right a lot.” Rishka smiled back, but then it faded as a realization hit her. “You beat me,” she said simply. Roaken coughed into his hand and shrugged his shoulders, as if he were embarrassed. “Yes…I did. I’m sorry…” She sat quietly for a moment, and then she burst out laughing. “You’re…you’re sorry?” she managed to ask. She laughed for another moment, then asked, “Could…could you help me sit up?” Rinia stepped forward to pull the blanket back, allowing Rishka to sit up; she noticed that, due to her height, her head was still above Roaken’s. When Rinia went back to stand behind him, he rose and offered her the chair, which she took. Now he stood over Rishka, but she saw that wasn’t his intent, he just wanted Rinia to sit down. “You are a warrior,” Rishka said. “And, you’re sorry that you beat me in battle?” She chuckled and shook her head. “I knew you Elk’torians were insane, but this is new.” Rinia tilted her head to the side. “How could you tell we were Elk’torian?” Rishka laughed again. “Well, for starters, we’re in Elk’toria, and we’re both in Elk’torian armies.” “But you’re not Elk’torian,” Roaken interjected, a confused look in his eyes. “True,” Rishka said, as if she were a teacher speaking to a student.. “However, this strange warrior here fights in a distinctly Elk’torian manner. He is very quick and precise. Saihok like to drag a kill out, have fun with it. Idóni warriors wear too much armor and carry swords that are too big for them.” She pointed to Rinia. “But the most obvious clue was how he treats you. Elk’torian men are the only ones who act like women are more than walking baby-makers. Even the Uruk’sen prefer women to stay in the home, Magick or no.” She crossed her arms. “A lot of the more traditional Uruk’sen did not like me. I didn’t want to follow some of their customs, and they demanded I should.” Roaken saw anger tinge her eyes, so he blurted out, “I’d guess you’re hungry after that Healing, Rishka. Would you like something to eat?” Rishka looked back to him, her anger fading. “Yes, that would be great,” she replied. As if she had heard them, a Healer walked over to the three of them, a tray bearing bowls of something steaming upon her hand and shoulder. She handed a bowl to each of them, then walked away to serve more patients. As he sipped at the bowl, Roaken walked over to the large tent flap and dropped a few coins into a small metal cup nailed to one of the shafts supporting the tent – food and services from Healers was free, but the supplies they used were not, so donations were appreciated, though they did not “request” them with the ferocity of temples; as most soldiers sent their money home, they had little to spare. He returned to the women, and found Rishka making a face at the contents of her bowl while Rinia chuckled into hers. “What’s wrong?” he asked. Rinia turned to him, smiling softly. “It seems Rishka doesn’t like mushrooms. And this is a broth of mushrooms, venison, and herbs.” Roaken smiled as well, then looked to Rishka. “You should finish that. It’ll help a lot.” Rishka groaned audibly. “I hate mushrooms…Why in the world do I have to eat this…?” Again, a Healer was nearby to respond – a middle-aged woman with grey-touched black hair pulled into a bun was helping someone in a cot next to them, the air of a mother about her. When she heard Rishka’s complaint, she looked sharply at the Mage and used a very common phrase to respond: “What would yer own mother say if she saw yeh disobeyin’ a Healer’s words?” Rishka glared at the woman over the lip of the bowl. “My mother is dead, so I doubt she would say much.” A tension filled the air between the Healer and Rishka. The nurse looked away awkwardly, then coughed nervously into her hand. “Aye’m…Aye’m sorry to hear that, dear…” Rishka sighed and the glare vanished. She shook her head. “No, no…I’m sorry. That was very rude of me. You’re only doing your job, and I’m being the spoiled child.” She offered a smile to the Healer. “My mother would not be happy if I were disobeying a Healer. She would probably have a few choice words for me that shouldn’t be said in polite company.” Rishka laughed, and the others joined her. After it died down, the Healer asked, “Would yeh like me to prepare something else? We have other herbs that work just as well as them mushrooms.” Rishka shook her head again. “No, I’ll eat this. It’s fine.” She smiled and bowed her head in thanks. The Healer did the same, smiled at Rinia and Roaken, then went back to caring for the man. Frowning, Rishka upended the bowl and drank the contents in a continuous gulp, much to the others’ surprise, as the broth was still steaming. Rishka set the bowl down, shivered while making a face, and then smiled at them. “I’d almost rather have some ísilar juice,” she said with a laugh. Now it was Roaken’s turn to make a face. Ísilar juice was made from the ísilar fruit, a small, incredibly sour orb grown in the nation of Lwokai, a very cold and harsh environment. While the fruit and juice were very sour, wine brewed from ísilar was among the sweetest in Monrichaia. Roaken would rather drink several Healers’ broths before ísilar juice. As such, he replied, “You must be insane, then.” Rishka laughed at him, and answered, “I must have been, to think I could beat one such as you.” They all shared a laugh at her expense, then Rishka lifted her blankets from her body, turning to plant her feet on the ground. She rose, and her head nearly touched the roof of the tent. She smiled at Roaken and Rinia and nodded to them. “It was a pleasure meeting you two, but I have to go and figure out what is to become of me.” She walked towards the tent flap, but was blocked by a Healer, one much smaller than she. Roaken cleared his throat. “Um…Rishka, in a way, you are our prisoner, and…I’m not sure what that means to you, but…” Rishka chuckled and looked back at him. “Do not worry, I’m aware of what it means. But there are ways of getting out of situations such as this. Is it not said ‘warriors should not trifle with Mages’?” She turned back to the Healer, having to look down at her. “Please excuse me.” The Healer shook her head; though she stared up at Rishka in shock, her eyes were level with Rishka’s breasts, she held her ground. “Um…” she began, searching for words. “You cannot leave yet. We have to make sure you’re well enough.” “Let her go, Liria,” the motherly Healer from earlier said from the cot she aided. “If she can stand after a Healing from that beatin’, Aye thinks she’s well enough.” Rishka smiled at the woman, and the Healer stepped to the side. Rishka pulled the flap aside, then looked back to Roaken and Rinia a final time. Smiling broadly, she declared, “I hope that one day we can meet under less trying circumstances.” The two smiled, and Rinia nodded, saying, “That would be lovely.” Rishka bowed slightly to them, then stepped through the tent flap, letting it fall closed behind her.
-
I had written this for a scholarship, but after i mailed it, they never came to pick it up from the post office. So, I decided to share it with the internet instead. Hope at least someone reads it and likes it.
Have a nice day
"There is some misconception as to what the 'Sin Novra' is, And even the Sins of the Kingdom or of the Sinhok perpetuate this misconception.
Often, the Sin Novra is used to refer to the powerful souls that cohabit a Sin's body alongside the Sin. This is not entirely accurate. While it is known that the Sin Novra does come from these spirits, they are not themselves Novras.
The Sin Novra is instead the phenomenon that occurs with the powers granted by these spirits. It is officially described within Kingdom Records as 'an enormous release of power and strength accompanied by a glow of the eyes'. This is the literal translation, but some scholars, including the illustrious Lady Bishop Kaylania, argue that the translation is more along the lines of "a massive release of the potential possessed by the union of a Sin and his Unimak (the more accurate name for the spirits within the Sins)'.
As a mere human, I cannot say which translation is more accurate - it is said that even the translations of ancient Sin texts are impossible for humans to read. But I hope that I was able to capably respond to some of the questions posed to me by my readers.
Safe journeys, my friends, and gods bless."
Otorak'sen, scholar, on the subject of the "Sin Novra"
I'm gonna do some character designs, and I'm actually gonna do something a little different
I'm gonna let my imagination go, and make some crazy outfits. In the past, even for my big fantasy stories, I've tried to keep the outfits believable and not too outrageous like you see in some video games or comics (*cough* Final Fantasy *cough), but this story is (hopefully) going to be really visual, so might as well get some nice and pretty designs for poeple to look at
Last night I decided to draw some of the characters from Attack on Titan in my mediocre style.
Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman, Armin Artlet
Sasha Braus, Connie Springer, Jean Kirschtein
Ymir, Christa Renz, Annie Leonhardt
Hanji Zoe, Levi
Titan Eren
The Man with the Plasma Gun and the Armored Behemoth
Isaac Clarke's armored foot slammed into the ground, further devastating the body of an infected human. Two other gory masses lay behind him, other necromorphs that had run towards him.
Scanning his surroundings, Isaac turned down a small path, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. His weapon at the ready, Isaac took stock of himself - he was growing weary and hunger grumbled through his belly. Soon he would have to find a place to rest and eat, to prevent some fatal error that would get him killed.
The path led to a sort of natural courtyard between towering rocks, the entire court filled with snow. A bad feeling in his gut, Isaac stepped forward.
The snow in the center erupted upwards, a great form rearing up back and roaring in some alien noise. While Isaac was not that surprised by this, it had happened to him several times already, he still allowed himself a brief "Shit!" before he aimed at the beast.
It rose up nearly twenty feet, was roughly elliptical in shape, and stood on six, insect-like legs. A giant, tooth-filled mouth roared at Isaac beneath five, glowing yellow eyes.
Isaac fired a small burst at one of the thing's leg joints, hoping to immobilize it more than kill it, for the moment. However, he had to do this while dodging the beast as it tried to step on him and spear his body with one of the pointed legs. Finally, the leg was severed, and the thing roared in pain. Isaac smiled harshly, and turned to fire on another leg.
A flash of light drew his attention - necromorphs liked to surprise him, so Isaac's reflexes had become lightning quick. Looking up, the flash looked to be a meteor scraping against the planet's atmosphere. Since it wasn't a threat, he looked back to the alien before him.
One of the legs slammed into Isaac's torso, throwing him back to smash into one of the rocks bordering the court. The wind knocked out of him, he could only look up as the monster lumbered towards him, mouth agape to swallow him whole. Behind his helmet, Isaac stared in horror, thinking that, at last, his time had come.
A horrible roar, worse than any of the beast's, and a new bright flash of light. The meteor Isaac had seen earlier slammed into the body of the monster, punching through it and causing most of it to blast apart with a final strangled screech. A tremor shook the ground and bits of rock and snow leapt up into the air, sprinkling on Isaac's armor a moment later.
Once his wind was back, Isaac rose and steadied himself, then fired a short burst into what remained of the beast's head, for safety. Now, he cautiously approached the lip of the fresh impact crater, his gun at the ready.
In the center of the pit was a mass of what appeared to be dull green metal, battered and scorched. Tendrils of smoke floated into the air, evidence of the heat of entering a planets atmosphere - nearly twice as much steam rose with the smoke, the cold air biting into the metal.
It moved.
Isaac flinched and just barely held his trigger finger back - with luck, it wouldn't be hostile, and considering his circumstances, Isaac thought himself rather lucky, having stayed alive this long.
The mass unfolded itself and rose, standing very tall on two legs - it looked to be a man, but on a much larger scale than Isaac was familiar with. He looked to stand about seven feet tall, and his shoulders were broader than Isaac's outstretched arm. A massive, amber-visor helmet rested on the massive shoulders, and it began to rotate, taking in its surroundings. It wasn't long before the visor faced Isaac.
Moving much more fluidly than Isaac would expect of someone his size, the man turned to face Isaac full on. In a deep, powerful voice of authority, the man asked, "Who are you? And where am I?"
Isaac stayed motionless for a moment, then called over the wind, "Tell me who you are first!"
The man was motionless for his own moment, then he gave a curt nod and said, "Call me Chief."
Favourite bleach quotes.
Inspirations
Just for kicks, I thought I'd list a handful of my inspirations for various things
Bleach
Naruto
Linkin Park
Two Steps From Hell
Song of the Lioness
foreign languages
The Inheritance Cycle
Five Finger Death Punch
Three Days Grace
Kingdom Hearts
Skillet
I have so many other things listed, because whenever I need inspiration, it really helps me to look at other people's creations, and that tends to get the creative juices flowing in my brain. Plus, there are times when I look at what they've done, and I think to myself, "But what if - " and got from there.
I drew one of my OCs, Roaken, in the uniform of the Attack on Titan training corps. I'll scan it tomorrow and post it, but I warn you, it's not great
I'm trying to make this blog relatively professional looking, but then I have my picture as a dude wearing a flower crown.
I also use terms like dude...
darkness and l i g h t
we all know of the darkness it waits behind us watching waiting for us to reach our weakest so that it can keep us weak may we never be strong it wants to hold us in its c o l d embrace away from the w a r m t h whispering to us lies and truths that hurt more than physical pain and we allow ourselves to enjoy any embrace however c o l d but in this embrace we forget that darkness can only be made in the presence of l i g h t and w a r m t h the light waits for us to heal us in a kind embrace loving and w a r m it knows the darkness has a hold of us but the light fights for us l i g h t wants us to be ours not for us to be the lights l i g h t wants us to be strong be greater than the last time the l i g h t held us and for us to create our own l i g h t so that darkness cannot have us anymore
Alyks Smith
A drawing I did awhile ago for an idea I had had, but it's kinda fallen into nonexistence now. Her name came from an idea about people spelling their names "wrong". Another example is her sister, Bekuh (more commonly written as Becca).
