#ifsahan

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

Thinketh

[redsixwing]

9 and or 11 for the art game

9. show us a finished piece right alongside the original sketch

OH OH OH I even have a good one for this. I'm so proud of this piece and it took me four (4!!) different sketches to get to the final piece.

I usually ink straight over my original pencils, so that's fairly unusual for me.

11. show us the last thing you drew, be it a finished piece or a small doodle

hee hee hoo hoo Souls OCs

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

What if Elite Knight was more medieval?

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

With apologies to Popeye.

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

Knight's hospitality

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

👤+ Anastacia!

Ifsahan goes still for a moment. No flutter of pulse, no breath, no blink of a dark eye. "She was terribly sweet. I thought for a while that we could be friends, the way she'd creep closer when I'd rest by her gate. But that's when I still thought the bars were to protect her, not-"

They shake their head, swallow horrors. "-not to confine her. I didn't realize at first that she'd been treated with such needless cruelty."

Maimed; silenced. (Not just her; one drowned alongside her ward, another was trapped in a horrid oubliette, guarded by vicious dogs. It did not have to be so.)

"Her faith was beyond my understanding. How she's stayed sane at all-" For she had, for who knows how long. Holy woman for a sacred fire.

"I tried to be kind to her. It was the only way I could make her burden easier, her soul lighter."

And what a soul she had, impossibly rich with humanity, impossibly bright despite everything. What undead could fail to sense it? What hungry soul could fail to crave it?

"Her killer will pay." It's a promise, whispered to a black orb, raised as an offering over a glinting silver ring.

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

👤+ Gwyndolin

That gets a rare smile - fleeting and tender, not meant for the asker. Here in Anor Londo itself, it doesn't feel like a trespass to speak his name. "Gwyndolin is--" The last light of divinity, pale and distant. The voice that beckons, the rustle of soft fabric; the veil that must remain drawn. The sight denied, but the presence deeply felt. Not the unblinking eye of the moon, but rather the last crescent in the rapidly darkening sky. "-the best piece of Anor Londo. If not for his voice at the right moment, I fear for where I'd be now."

They'd have been lost, they mean - one more hollow, wandering hostile through the golden city, prey to the silver archers.

"I would call him friend, if I could. If he permitted such intimacy. I think that he is very lonely."

But not all is ease and candlelight. Gwyndolin accepts their offerings with fleeting praise. Also he sends them to hunt, again and again, unexpected and often unprepared. The invaders of the eye, at least, choose when they go.

"The human followers of the Darkwraiths, I understand. Those who've offended him - well, I must trust Gwyndolin himself on those. He has taken the light itself from those hunts, and I must pursue them in the dark." Not that it matters, when the eyes flash blue and one is drawn, instead, by the beacon of a sinner's soul.

"But... some of his targets have placed themselves on the list. Some of them use it to entrap us Blades, and to toy with us. Sometimes, only sometimes, I get to surprise them." A thin, grim smile; their eyes sparkle, relishing the fight. "The rest? I won't say I often come out on top when I am sent into a trap. Why, if his goal is justice, does he permit it?"

And the real question, the pointed one, sharp enough to pierce their own heart:

"And what, if the goal is justice, does it do to simply slay the undead?"

[anorlondoarcheryclub]

@yellowfingcr

Heysel knows this place. 

She likes to think so, at least. More than once she’s ended up here, caught between the tectonic shifts of time, one second earlier on the prowl between the Farron thickets, one second later among different leaves under her boot, branches over her head. This somewhere so recalls her home but is not it. It’s like a childhood memory of it, the vibrant bright-colored ones blurred with age but still close to the heart, though it’s easier to call forth that vibrancy when Farron did use to be a place of beauty and green and life. 

She knows the name of this somewhere, too: Darkroot Garden. But she can’t say she knows well where she’s going, on the other side, and so boldly she moves forward, across stone and glade, until the surface of a lake, still as velvet, presents itself before her. 

And, waiting on top of an elevated part of the mossy terrain, a familiar face.

This person she’s seen before, she’s sure. Draped in Blade blue, called to punish, as Blades do- but she recalls them specifically for their exceptionally rare trait of courtesy. She has struck them with her pick, burnt them with her spells, and yet whenever it was their turn to prevail they never did so with sadistic glee or self-righteous malice. Darkmoon Blades have set their heels upon her head as they cut through the cloth of her hat to reach the ears; have boasted upon her corpse; have done all she does to her victims, with the insufferable idea that they, somehow, were performing an act of grand justice. Well, not them.

“Me indeed! I am she,” she says with a theatrical deep bow, her crown tilting down. Her dominant hand veers towards the pick at her side. From where they stand, they possess territorial advantage; her best hope would be launching spells at them. “I remember you! You’ll forgive me if I can’t quite remember your name. It started with I, right? Puckish sort that I am, I’ve been hunted by quite a lot of Blades. All that bright cerulean tends to mix a little together. We don’t even speak of the effects of my many concussions.”

No bite in her words. Not exactly amiability, either, despite the humor.

“Look. I’m not invading,” she continues. “If you want to strike, do so! But I’m not here to kill. Surprising! I know! I’m just lost in time for a moment. You know how it can be. Time and its twisting paths. Today, before you, I’m just a scholar. A nice xanthous scholar, taking a nice stroll until I’m returned home. Now the question is- given that unless I’m somehow mistaken you’re not all glowing blue as well… who are you, today?”

She fervently hoped they, too, were someone nice, today before her. If those occasional fights with them have taught her something is that they might have been courteous, but they absolutely weren’t someone to trifle with.

"Ah. So you are." Guarded, the Blade sweeps a bow in return, over one extended arm. They step down - sideways, not taking an eye off the yellow-clad figure. Despite the cheery color, she is not one to take lightly. So thin, the things that keep hostilities from springing forth then and there - the flutter of yellow fabric, and the tired want of peace.

Her questions ring sincere. Puckish sort - that's a word for a dedicated and skillful invader, whose name has been howled in indignation and gasped in final breaths, all in hearing of the Darkmoon, all translated into a deep-dyed entry in the Book of the Guilty. None of that makes their hands any less bloody than hers. None of it is even relevant at the moment. Now, the only thing the Blade hears is a request for mercy.

"No, I'll not strike you now." Not when there is no reason to do so. "Found yourself out of time and place?" No pity, but curiosity; no real expectation of an answer can be found in the words. The voice is slower than hers, words carefully formed - but precise. "My name is Ifsahan. But that's not what you asked, is it?" Who are you today? "Today I am a weary parishioner, here to walk the shady paths and admire the waters." The low voice eases, some, an offering of peace. "This is one of my favorite places." "Pray tell, what does a xanthous scholar study?" Her order, if order it is, is unfamiliar.