seen from Malaysia
seen from India
seen from France
seen from Türkiye
seen from Germany
seen from Sweden
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Germany
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1995's Preacher Vol.1 #3 (turning 30 today, feel old yet ?) cover by cover artist Glenn Fabry.
Ruth Hawking, Hanāɂ Sufīr and Ɂeebbisee Mäbratee model/expression sheets.
Hanāɂ's is actually from more than a year ago, but never posted it here. The other ones are new. I'd like to make more of these, specially for characters whose designs and pallettes are almost stablished for me, or at least to settle them finally lol. I already sketched Ruri's, let's see how many can I do hehe.
Also, since it's trend now, these characters are mine and cannot be used to train an AI under any circumstance.
(OC 🏒) AM I THE ASSHOLE (AITA)
Throwaway account because the lads on the team follow my main and I’ll never hear the end of it if they see me pouring my heart out on Reddit.
So, I (26M) play hockey. I’m not saying I’m the next big thing, but I’m handy enough on the ice and I’ve managed to pick up a bit of a following lately. Usually, it’s grand—just people showing up to support the club.
I’m a pretty low-key fella outside of the rink. I like to grab a coffee, keep my head down, and rot my brain watching absolute pure shite on the telly to unwind. I don't look for drama, like.
But there’s this one girl who’s been at every single match lately. I don't know her name, but "obsessed" would be putting it mildly. At first, I thought it was sweet, a bit of a laugh, you know? But it’s started getting properly head-wrecking.
When I’m in the middle of a play, I need to focus. Meanwhile, she’s in the stands screaming my name at the top of her lungs—not even cheering for the team, just shrieking at me specifically. It’s distracting as hell when you’re trying to read the game.
Anyway, we’re mid-match the other night, high intensity, and she starts up again. It was piercing. Without even thinking, I looked over and shouted, "Will you just buzz off and shut your mouth!" It wasn't my finest moment, and I definitely used a bit more "colourful" language than that, to be fair.
The look on her face was pure shock, and now I’m feeling like a bit of a gombeen. She was being loud as fuck, man, but did I go too far by snapping at a fan while I was on the clock?
AITA for losing my cool?
Rawr. My art, the sleeping form of my wolfwalker oc ^^
Uggo ass mug of his regular shmegular self
He remembered the cold best.
From the moment he gained conciousness until far beyond death.
The kind that bites skin, that seeps into your bones when you know you’re unwanted. It settled in him young, that quiet certainty: that he wasn’t like the other children. That the world had made space for them—but not for him.
He wasn’t sure where he ended and the world began.
What did it matter who’d sired him, what town he’d crawled out of, or what name someone might’ve whispered when he was born?
He never understood why people clung so tightly to those things. People talked about 'roots' like they meant something. They traced their ancestors and their places of birth, spoke of prized surnames and old families—as if knowing where you came from gave you safety.
Ireland was a vast place, proud of its names, its sons, its saints.
It clung to roots, to stories passed down through blood and bone. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when the English took and twisted so much of it.
But what good was a bloodline in your veins when it cant stop the bruises and scars from forming in your skin?
He had no such things.
No stories, no family, no parchment proof of birth. Just a name sharp on the tongue, like something someone once called him and he kept because no one else gave him another. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn’t.
But it was his.
His blood ran red like everyone else's.
Rowan drifted from place to place. Sometimes there was a shelter, sometimes a cot, sometimes food if he was lucky. But most nights were spent curled beneath stairwells or inside hollowed-out bins behind pubs, trying to stay small and unseen.
His short frame was all bone, a constant reminder of the harsh streets he called home, his ribs sharp under the thin layer of dirt that clung to his skin, so ingrained that it seemed to live there, like part of him.
People didn’t look at him. And when they did, it was never kindly. Some clutched their bags tighter. Others spat nearby, never at him—but close enough that he knew. He became something between a smudge and a threat, a living inconvenience. A stain on their perfect mornings and late nights.
He’d watch families pass, warm and loud and full of too much color. Laughter he could feel in his ribs. It wasn’t anger he felt watching them. It was distance. Like they were behind glass. Like they belonged to a different world entirely.
Rowan stopped trying to be like them a long time ago.
Normal people had rules. They had routines. They had doors that opened for them and homes that waited. Rowan had none of that. His routine was survival. His rules were silence, speed, and invisibility. And his home—if it could be called that—was whatever patch of concrete didn’t have broken glass on it that night.
He used to wonder if he was even human.
But animals never seemed afraid of him. Especially the cats. And most especially the black ones.
People threw rocks at those cats. Chased them. Blamed them when something went wrong. Called them cursed, unlucky, wrong. Rowan saw the way their yellow eyes narrowed in the dark, the way they slipped past cruelty with silent grace, the way they endured without ever asking for permission to exist.
He admired that. He envied it.
He felt it in his bones: they were like him. Maybe more like him than any person ever was. They didn’t ask to be born with bad luck. They just were.
There were nights—long, bitter ones—when Rowan imagined what it would be like to become one of them. To trade his human body for fur and claw. To move through the world even more unnoticed than he already was. To leave behind the hunger, the bruises, the constant, gnawing ache of being a burden.
Sometimes he dreamed of paws instead of feet. Of soft-footed freedom. Of vanishing under moonlight, with no one left to remember a unknow copper-haired street kid.
His hair was the one thing that set him apart. Where he got his name. It burned like fire against the ugly greys of the city streets. He didn’t know why it made him feel so disconnected, so wrong, but it did. Maybe it was because it made him stand out, and standing out was dangerous. It made him visible when all he wanted was to fade into the shadows.
Rowan knew the old stories better than most street children. The ones whispered in back rooms and scribbled in the margins of crumpled books he’d stolen or found. Tales of changelings swapped at birth, of children taken by fairies because they were too strange or too bright for the human world. Of thin places where reality stretched and bent, and something older looked through.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew they were just stories.
And dreams remained dreams.
But sometimes, when his breath fogged in the air and the frost clung to his eyelashes, it felt easier to believe he was one of those children. That he had been swapped. That he didn’t belong here because he was never meant to.
Maybe he was a changeling, as the old stories said — out of place, too strange to be human.
The idea wasn’t entirely comforting, but it gave him a strange sense of purpose.
That someone—or something—was supposed to come back for him.
They never did.
The truth was uglier and simpler. He was just a weird, unwanted homeless kid with too many sharp thoughts and nowhere to put them.
But imagination made it hurt less. Just a little.
Food was a constant struggle. The days when he didn’t eat were more common than the ones when he did. But when hunger gnawed at his belly, he didn’t hesitate. He knew where the rats hid, knew how to catch them, and knew how to survive off whatever scraps he could scrounge.
Sometimes he ate them raw, tearing into their flesh like an animal, sometimes barely cooked over a small fire he’d built with old twigs. His stomach would churn in protest, but it didn’t matter. Survival didn’t care about comfort or pride. It cared about getting by, about keeping the hunger at bay, even if it was just for a few hours.
He never belonged anywhere after all.
But the black cats—they never belonged either. Not like the pampered house cats with well brushed fur and warm laps to curl up in. The black ones were seen as omens, misfortune wrapped in flesh. People flinched at them, threw rocks, whispered curses. Just like Rowan. He wasn't a normal child, not one with schoolbooks and new shoes, not one with a name people said kindly. He didn’t belong to any home or anyone. He was a stray, and the world treated him as such. But the black cats—they kept going, one silent paw in front of the other, never waiting for love, never expecting rescue. Maybe that was what survival really meant. Maybe that was the only lesson he ever learned.
When people hissed at black cats or crossed themselves at the sight of one, Rowan would crouch low and look the creature in the eye. “I know how it feels,” he’d whisper. “They think we bring bad luck. But they’re the ones who curse everything.”
He never touched them—they didn’t always like that—but they stayed close. As if they recognized something in him. Something wild, but not dangerous.
Alone, but not desperate.
Just surviving.
A kindred spirit.
He watched people every day, hurrying past him like he was part of the pavement. Their umbrellas, their clean shoes, their complaints about the rain. He wanted to scream sometimes—just to see if they’d look. Just to prove he was still there.
But he never did.
Because even if they looked, he knew what they’d see.
A street urchin. A bad omen. A black cat in the shape of a boy.
The streets were cruel. Colder than the frost on his fingertips, colder than the stare of a old priest who once told him he had the devil in his eyes. Hunger became a dull ache he carried like a second spine. Some nights he imagined he was hollowing out. That soon, he’d vanish entirely. No death. No drama. Just… forgotten.
Maybe thats why he didn’t noticed when he died.
No one came looking. No one screamed or wept or said his name. No one buried him. The alley was quieter than usual, the rain soaking everything, even the parts of him already numb.
Then came the stillness. Not peace—never peace—but stillness. Like holding your breath and never letting it go.
He died somewhere between a boy and a man, far too old for that kind of life.
Rowan still isn't sure of what.
Maybe it was the hunger that finally did it. Or a sickness creeping in. Maybe it was a untreated wound or a bad meal he ate early. Maybe someone thought he was a thief again and shot him. Maybe it the ever persistent cold, the way it gnawed at his bones until they shattered.
And when it came, there was no sudden awareness. No light at the end of a tunnel or an echoing voice calling his name. It was just an absence, a space where there used to be him. And then, nothing.
When he woke—if it could be called waking—he wasn’t sure when the shift happened. One moment, he was there, a cold, aching body on corner, and the next, there was nothing but an odd, detached feeling. He didn’t feel the hunger anymore, nor the sharp pains. He wasn’t sure what he was anymore, just that he was no longer what he had been.
In the beginning, he hadn’t understood. The world felt like a strange limbo. Yet, as time passed, he began to feel an odd freedom in this new form. His body was no longer weighed down by hunger, by fatigue, by pain. He could move effortlessly, slipping through walls, drifting between spaces, untethered.
It came naturally, the way his form slipped between human and animal. A cat—slender, sleek, dark. The first time it happened, it felt like something he had always been, something hidden under the skin of his past life. He would curl up in the shadows, watching the world pass by, invisible, unnoticed. It felt good, like the weight of everything was gone, like he could breathe in ways he hadn’t been able to when he was alive.
Shifting between forms came like second nature now, his soul settling in a familiarity. Sometimes a youth, more often a black cat. His soul found comfort in what it knew: the edges of things, the in-between.
He crossed people’s paths uncaring.
Even when he walked on two feet, in a coat too long and clothes all black, no one quite saw a boy. Not really. His hair was still that copper red, wild and wind-tangled, a spark that didn’t belong in the dark. His posture too loose, his grin too wide, slit eyes too green.
A smile with too many teeth.
The Ghost Zone didn’t mean much to him. Not the laws, not the rules, not the territories. It was just another place to roam. And finally, he could wander freely—tail flicking, ears twitching, claws soft on the floor of the world.
I made a new Sona:D
He's a protogen, his name is meaisín (yes, that's machine in Irish, sue me) and he's adorable
I may or may not have had a ton of fun making Lorcan Regal's Pinterest board– 😐🤣
(based on the original characters created by @bajingo @welcome-to-ratterrock and @suzie-guru)
📌 FULL PINTEREST BOARD HERE: https://pin.it/1bGAvjXPW
