Bruce and his grandbabies~ just a few seconds before one of them openes their mouth and starts a war ^^
Listen, I may never look at Bruce and see him as an objectively good father, BUT I am absolutely convinced that he would be one of those parents who do a complete 180 and become practically perfect grandparents.
CW: Violence, Death, Familial Violence
“Today is the day it all changes! We are taking these noble scumbags down, and if we’re lucky, some of them will stay that way.” Big talk from a small man, but I’d already forgotten the rest of the speech. The others were already busy either leveling shmucks or getting turned into powder themselves, all in the name of their glorious anti-rich-asshole revolution.
I only had one rich jerk on my mind though, and as I strode through the flames of a burning tent and past a half-crushed guardsman, I couldn’t help but offer the dying man a grin and a line: “Terrible day for a fair, isn’t it?” He didn’t laugh.
A shopkeep of some sort, a chubby old fool wearing some poor, presumably now-bald walrus’ mustache, rushed towards me with a hand outstretched. “Ma’am,” He shouts, pitiful ‘concern’ saturating his voice “You must get away from here, there are dissidents-” He grabbed my wrist, presumably well-meaning, but my gut reaction was to punch a glowing magenta hole in his sternum with a bolt of eldritch energy.
I made sure not to step in anything he just spit out and remarked “Somebody should really clean that up.” Another joke, but I either need to work on my timing or I need to get better material, because the crowd out here clearly didn’t enjoy my brand of comedy.
A couple of heavily armed goons began stomping in my direction right away, weapons drawn. I guess they saw that. I turned halfway on my heel and readied my quarterstaff, a wicked arcane blade crackling into existence near the tip. At that, both of the soldiers seemed to regain some of their good sense and slowed down to weigh their options.
Spent a moment too long mulling it over, as Arnie the minotaur bowled the two over with his enormous frame less than ten seconds later. “Good to see that you’re still up-and-at-em, Rexie!” His deep, cheerful baritone rang out through the square, barely exceeding the sound of battle. He was one of the revolutionaries I met with before this whole disaster was allowed to unfold, and he seemed to take more of a liking to me than I cared to reciprocate. I rolled my eyes and stood down, then took off past him. “Kill stealer,” was the only barb that I had the spare energy and focus to lob at him as I continued on my way.
---
A pillar of flame erupts just ahead. ”Finally,” I think. “This’ll all be over soon.” A tall, broad-shouldered tiefling nobleman, skin red as a tomato and horns curved around like a geriatric ram, is swinging a pair of oversized, flaming gauntlets at anyone who makes the mistake of getting near him. I point my halberd towards him, letting the energy build in my hateful heart and surge from its tip like Sekhmet’s own flame.
The curling, elegant bolt screams through the air towards him, and the screaming part is unfortunately quite literal. He swings around at the racket and crosses his armored fists in front of his face. The weapons carve an x-shaped gash in the rapidly approaching energy, and what remains is barely enough to singe the briar patch he calls a beard.
He locks eyes with me, his brows furrowing with calculation, then bats aside another of my ‘compatriots’ absentmindedly as he walks my way. “Who are you,” he calls “so skilled in the craft of war-making? You know, this rabble was beginning to bore me terribly, but you nearly knocked me off my feet with a single blow!”
Cheerful. He sounds cheerful at my assassination attempt, and not because it failed, but because it almost worked. I charge another blast, but he’s ready before it launches. He moves quickly despite the size of his figure and I can feel my aim failing immediately, so I switch tactics. I shoot ahead of him just as he nears, dropping my other hand to a hidden dagger. The shot whizzes by and his perfect, pearly-white smile turns pink in the light, and although it missed the mark, it did force him to lunge into a more vulnerable position. I duck under an enflamed punch, so near to my face that I think I got a sunburn from it, and dash under his arm, leaving a long, shallow gash on his ribs. “Gotcha fucker,” is the only thought I have time to enjoy before he goes on the offensive again.
I dive, dash, and duck, but he knocks away both of my weapons and puts my back to the wall with ease. That, and he never, never stops smiling. He takes the opportunity to drill me with pointless gloating questions again. “You’re in big trouble for all this, but I’d still like a name. You impressed me.”
I cough from the exhaustion, my lungs aching and face flushed, parts of my outfit singed. I consider his words with what little spite-fueled energy I have left to muster, “If I’m going to die anyway, I may as well lay it all out.” I answer him quietly, “I’m your daughter.”
His expression goes deadpan, and for a second I think there’s a crack in his flawless, cocky facade. He looks around, his eyes hunting for witnesses and eavesdroppers. There is a feeling of victory borne off the back of his concern. My exhausted smile, however, disintegrates as his expression goes cold and he says, “I noticed. Get in line, kid.”
---
Posting another short story, this one was written as a sort-of gift for @daisy-todd
It’s mostly an excuse to write an interaction between her edgy-as-fuck DND OC Rexana and Rexana’s Noble father Sigmund, both of whom I love dearly~
23. what’s something you hope people notice when looking at your art?
This is a tough one. Probably the emotion that in trying to convey! I've been told that my expressions are strong since I really want emotion to come across in characters since that's what really makes them alive I think.
