So as a little fun project I did yesterday and today, I made an inspiration board for the new character that was created this year that I’m happy received a lot of positive feed back on. So here are some of the main things I could think of that helped inspire me as I created Father Runeflame!
Names of all the insp under readmore!
The board from left row to right row: Jareth the Goblin King from Labyrinth, The Fallen Angel (1847) by Alexandre Cabanel/General Lucifer inspiration, Papa Emeritus/Ghost, Count Vladislaus III Dracula and his Brides from Van Helsing, Lucifier Morningstar from Lucifier, General Catholic inspiration in the form of symbolism, style and aesthetics. I also include the crest of the Shadowmoon Clan, because a lot of what they were are still what shaped him. I was going to put Ner’zhul, but I think the foundation of his people was more instrumental in shaping him, not one figure.
A short story about a certain orc warlock who once loved his life as a shaman, and how he found his choice to ascend into something more desirable and take flight upon golden wings.
(Under Read more)
█ █ ’ █ █ █ was over come with white hot rage. He tried to brutally torture his captive more, but he was over come with a violent coughing fit. He fell to the floor and clutched his abdomen as his body decided to torture him instead with a cough that was borderline asphyxiating.
This wasn’t living. He was hardly happy anymore. Nothing brought him joy. He has lost... everything. Now... he can not even torture the orc who made him lose everything.
His hope at being a shaman again
His hope at ever seeing his Starlight. His mate. His love.
His labored, shaky breath was ragged and furious as he attempted to keep his vision from blurring while nails grated on damp stone creating lines of anguish. The world twisted and turned with only the sound of whips and screams to ground him as his eyes barely adjusted to the torch light. Each cry of pain and lash of whip sounded distant, like a dream. He turned his head to try and look around. Everything was moving to the speed of sap and the only other thing he could hear was his heartbeat.
He looked up , his visions still taking in the world as if it was in slow motion to see one of his succubus run over to the chained orc, a fanged smile on her face. Torch light illuminated her fair and curvaceous form and danced off the wet splatters of blood that painted her leather armor and soft skin. Her pleasure was as obvious as it could be seen while she gleefully laughed and mockingly moaned to every scream their prisoner managed to make. They were beings of pure torture...pure delight and pure...desire.
The fallen shaman looked down at his hands and saw that they shook from exhaustion. The fel only kept him strong for so long in his condition. His determination and desire for revenge will only get him so far until it kills him. Now he was reaching that point. There was no more road. No more chances. No more life or love or hope for a campfire dinner. No more ceremonies or smiling with pride as a youngling loses his first tooth or kills his first talbulk, ready for his Om’riggor.
He had become what he despised. There was nothing left but to embrace it and that idea felt right. It felt... empowering, even. His succubus , they were beautiful. Warm. They delighted in torture, lived for it. He must admit, finally, that he too lived for it. The crack of the whip, the laughter.
To laugh again....
To delight.
To... please.
It was a generous lifestyle, to be an entity of what people want and yet be poison in their very soul. It sent a tingle up his spine. A pulse to his brain. There was a choice now. He had a choice.
Yes. He knew what he had to do now. Or...to be. He will not be fallen anymore, not to his knees from his body killing itself and not to those who look down on him. His wings will not smolder in pain but will unfurl anew. He will become something people will be desperate for. It will only be after will they see the reflection of who they are. How wicked their soul had become. His thirst for pain and punishment will only be quenched if the whip is hit on the skin of those who truly, truly deserve it. Chains behind him rattle, still distant, but more clear.
His heart fluttered. Not from exhaustion or from a coughing fit but...but from excitement! Real, true excitement!
Slowly, he dragged himself up to his feet, the bones and bangles that hung from his waist clunked and swayed as he rose with new purpose. He felt reborn. A new Warmth had been bestowed upon his head. The wings of his mind shook free the ashes of his descent from paradise to show what was hidden. A golden radiant future.
He turned to the chained orc and moved to him with fevered purpose who , he too, was at the end of his own rope. The look in this warrior's eyes knew what was coming. He held no more pride , no more quick wit. He was thoroughly, and undoubtedly , broken.
The warlock gripped each side of the blooded orc's head and roared like he had never roared before as he siphoned everything this warrior had left. Every bit of life that lingered he drew into himself until he was a shriveled, skeletal, body. A warrior no more. In quick motion, the warlock dug his claws into the now dead orc’s head and snapped it off his withered body. The warlock held the skull in his hands and held it close to his face.
No orc, ogre or demon will tell him how his powers are to be used. His life was now paved in his own choices.
For this skull marked the day, the first day, of his ascension.
