Dec 16, 2022
I am the biggest fan of Kapono, ever since I first saw him years ago
gosh Kapono’s like one of my earliest ocs
it’s so cool seeing how far he’s come, heck his design’s has hardly changed
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from Canada
seen from Mexico
seen from China
seen from Iraq
seen from France
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from China
seen from Philippines
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
I am the biggest fan of Kapono, ever since I first saw him years ago
gosh Kapono’s like one of my earliest ocs
it’s so cool seeing how far he’s come, heck his design’s has hardly changed
Kaleo retelling his adventure's to a friend he met on the beach. Which he is keeping 100% factual and not at all exaggerated to make him seem cooler- Kapono belongs to Squidinu over on twitter!
A fun new edit I filmed of Cliff Kapono surfing all over Oahu last week.
The Black Bonzer ~ shaped by: Raynor Surfboards.
Another chapter of the Spirit story!!! @professionallydeadinside
Moa
Her love would not be coming back.
Moa knew that with everything she was. Her love was gone, and she was left alone in their small hut. She didn’t know what had happened to him, but she did know that he was gone, and that she was alone.
Well, not entirely alone.
There, not two feet from her bed, was a cradle made of red oak. Within it, her son rested. He was only two months old, and he had yet to smile at her. He had no name. That was something Moa had dreamed of doing with her love, but he was gone.
She couldn’t bear to name their child alone, without him. She feared she would pick the wrong one, and would doom her baby to a life of pain. She would not curse her son with a name of death, and she was terrified of naming him too ambitiously and the gods causing him suffering for her over ambition.
Her love would’ve known what to name him, but her love was gone.
The other’s in her village looked at her with pity, a sick form of sympathy born out of her anguish from losing the one she loved most, and being left to raise her son herself. It was not very uncommon within the Aradhana people, Avlyrra was a harsh land, no matter the small kindnesses the Spirits granted them. That was without counting the Therapon, whose relationship with the Aradhana flipped between friends and allies to enemies, seemingly at random. Even still, those left to raise a child alone were looked upon with great pity, despite the village’s attempts to help. The pain caused by the looks in the eyes of those around her was more than enough shame for Moa, let alone accepting help.
The hut was very dark, the new moon casting no light in from the window by Moa’s bed on which she sat. She had been unable to sleep that night in particular. Since her love had gone, her bed had been far too big, and, despite the crying infant, her hut was too quiet. That night, however, Moa was unable to fall into even a restless sleep. Instead, she curled up on her bed, her back against the wall, and watched her son sleep within his crib.
Her eyes were only glitters in the dark as she watched, counting the breaths of her child. Moa sat like that for a time, and her son did not awaken nor cry. She would have been concerned, if not for the fact her eyes were trained on his chest as it rose and fell.
He was beautiful, she knew. His hair was as silver as Spirit Purnama’s full moon, a white blond none in Moa’s Aradhana village had seen before, so unlike Moa’s own black, and her loves deep brown. Her son was destined to be beautiful. Perhaps she should name him a name of beauty? Spirit Lavanya was not one to be vain, or covet beauty. She had roamed with her brother for years, not just in Avlyrra, but throughout the entirety of Milomir, spreading beauty and music to the lands. She felt it was something for all. She would not scorn Moa’s son for a name of beauty.
Where beauty treads, death silently follows, Moa thought, and her idea was promptly abandoned. Spirit Lavanya’s husband, Athanasius, death, was not only her lover, but her protector. A silent follower that watched from the shadows. A name of life was also pushed aside; Spirit Taiwo was as closely connected to Athanasius as Lavanya was.
A man of music would bring war, Zimri and Guiomar connected not just in word, but in soul. A name of water would bring a sturdy stone to care for him, but it would also draw the sands, and their cruelty. A name of the moon would not suffice, as her son had no father. Winter brought cold and death, and it had claimed Moa’s love; she would not name him a winter name, despite his birth happening in the cold months. A name of thunder would make him mute, and a name of lightning would make him mad.
No, there was no name that would not doom her son.
As she sat and pondered, her hut’s little wooden door opened slowly, unnoticed by her. Through the opening crept the careful steps of one cloaked in black, a skeletal face hidden within a dark mist that always followed, no matter where its steps tread. It carried no weapon, and it brought no fire. Purnama’s new moon hid it in darkness, where it was born from, and where it would bring all others.
From underneath the cloaks hood, it say the red oak cradle where a child lay, content in peaceful slumber. It noticed the mother, too, for no shadow could hide anything from the Spirit, but paid her no mind.
No mortal could stop Athanasius, the Spirit of death, from claiming those meant to be his.
The figure had taken but a few steps into Moa’s hut when she noticed it, and fear gripped her, digging it’s icy fingers into her heart. She had never seen the Spirit, but she knew that the shape before her was Athanasius, and that someone was going to meet their end. None could escape his grasp, not without his love Lavanya there to free them.
The Spirit of beauty was not in Moa’s hut.
Moa sat still on her bed, gripped and frozen by the icy fear, and watched as Athanasius came farther and farther into her home. Shock kept her still until Athanasius’s bony hand brushed the red oak crib, causing it to rock her baby.
Her baby.
Her baby.
Moa’s baby.
The fire’s of anger burned away the cold grip of fear and drove her from her bed, though she could not stand. She collapsed to her knees, her dark hair falling from her shoulders to hang around her face and neck. Her eyes and throat burned, and she could feel anguish already clawing its way through her. If she lost her son, if she lost the last thing she had in her life, her life would be no more. She would pray and plead for Athanasius to take her, too, if he must, and if he refused, Moa would walk to Ananta Ocean and never stop. She wouldn’t have to, though, because her son wouldn’t be taken from her. She would not allow it.
Athanasius slowly turned his head from the sleeping babe to the woman collapsed and gazed at her with empty eyes. His face had no skin, nor did the rest of him have any, either. He was a skeleton, a walking embodiment of what would become of every creature, large or small.
“No!” Moa cried, her voice thick with too many emotions to name, “No! You will not take my son! You will not!”
Athanasius gave no reply; he simply tilted his head, like a cat wondering why its master smelled differently.
Moa heaved through breaths on the floor, her chest and back falling and rising violently and sporadically. She swallowed audibly, her thoughts racing a mile a minute.
Her love was dead, and her son would be dead soon, too, if she didn’t do anything to stop it. Her son had a whole life to live. He hadn’t smiled yet. He didn’t even have a name. Moa, however, Moa had lived a good life, short as it was. She had loved and been loved in return. Her death would not be a waste. . .
“Leave my son, and let him live! Claim my life as yours instead!”
The deep and dark voice of Athanasius replied, “you would do such a thing? Give up your own life for another?”
“If you took him from me, claimed him as yours, you might as well hand me a blade,” Moa’s heart raced as Athanasius studied her, his unseeing eyes somehow piercing her soul with the sharpness of a warriors blade. His gaze made every part of her uneasy, but she met his eyes without hesitation, and refused to back down. After a long moment, he glided towards her, his cloak hiding each step he took.
As Moa knelt in her hut, Athanasius reaching out her touch her face with one cold, bony hand, she watched her son as he breathed evenly, deep in sleep. He would never know his mother, Moa knew. He would never know her face, perhaps not even her name.
That was all right, Moa thought. At least he will live, and I will live on, too, through him.
That was Moa’s last thought, that night, and forever.
❂
The woman lay slumped and dead, her dark hair an unholy halo and pillow. The child slept on, though not in the red oak cradle. No, it slept in the arms of winter, the arms of Amihan.
Amihan was a tall woman, with hair a piercing blue same as her eyes, and great antlers emerging from her head. Crystals and icicles dangled and hung from the bone. The child looked exceptionally small in her pale arms.
“Veasna wishes for him. Speaks of a destiny he is to fulfil,” Amihan stated with the emotionlessness all Avlyrra mortals had come to associate with winter.
“Does she wish to see all of us?” Athanasius asked, her voice the sound of an underwater volcano erupting. Amihan walked back towards the barren trees that surrounded the Aradhana village, where her great moose waited. With both arms still supporting the child, she mounted the great beast.
“Yes, she does. She wishes to explain his destiny, to my understanding. Oh, and a last thing,” Amihan said, as she directed the animal to turn and prepare to venture through the wood.
“Yes?”
“The boys name is Kapono.”
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Kapono aka Kap
He works for Ludolf McDevil at the newspaper. He’s responsible for the advert section and the puzzle for the day. Adverts aren’t that common so normally he’ll just fill it with reminders for everyone to recycle and not to litter. Most ducks who talk to him leave the conversation feeling good about themselves and thinking “That’s a good duck”
Художественная пластика от Chris Kapono, полимерная глина
http://itanalytics.info
Художественная пластика от Chris Kapono, полимерная глина